Being short a coach due to Stan’s bout of flu hadn’t helped either.
Mitch rubbed the back of his neck, thinking, while Dorset tore the kid a new one, no doubt mired in guilt for having screwed up.
Simon sat quietly, accepting the verbal beatdown, but the look he shot Mitch told him the kid knew he was right.
Damn.
Mitch cut in before Dorset lost it completely. “Hey, Dorset, can I say something else?” Yeah, the kid was out of line for criticizing his coach in front of the team, but they both knew the boy had a point. Dorset wouldn’t have been so defensive otherwise.
“Sure, Flash.” Dorset shut up. Hell, they all did. Mitch knew most of them held him in awe. Twelve years in the NFL and two Super Bowl rings had earned him respect.
Yet he, a two-time MVP, stood in the stinky locker room of a 2A high school football team in a town of maybe 30,000.How did I get here, again?
He met Deacon’s gaze and tried to pull back his agitation. They had four more games and a chance to go to the playoffs, if they could get it together. Time to act like a mentor and not a pissy loser. “Look, guys. Everybody makes mistakes. Now we learn from them. Pointing fingers doesn’t help.” He didn’t look at Simon. He didn’t need to. The kid was ignoring everyone, focused on his feet. “Next game is where we make a difference. We’re going up against Mountain Top, and we need to be ready. We can’t afford another loss if we want to make the playoffs.”
The boys nodded, on board with winning once more.
“Your coaches will figure out how to fix this mess so it doesn’t happen again. I’m just the hired help.” Who wasn’t getting paid a dime, and they all knew it. “I offer suggestions, but Coaches Deacon, Dorset, Stan, and Paglitelli are the ones who make the final decisions. Youwillrespect them.” He focused on Simon this time, met the kid’s gaze, then glanced over the group. “Because if you try talking shit to your coach in the pros, your ass is gone. Nobody has time for a prima donna…unless you’re that good. And none of you is a J.J. Watt, Aaron Rogers, or—”
“Flash Flashman,” Deacon cut in. “Am I right?”
The kids grinned.
Mitch flipped him off. Everyone laughed.
Deacon continued, “You worked hard, guys. Go enjoy the dance.Afteryou clean up.”
Dorset made a face. “Yeah, you guys stink.”
“Thanks a lot, Coach,” one kid yelled.
Others followed suit with some good-natured insults, and the mood changed from defeated to anticipatory. For the dance or the next game, Mitch didn’t know.
He watched them leave, turned to go as well, and ran into Paglitelli, who wore an earnest look on his homely face.
“Sorry. I just wanted to thank you again. You’re helping the kids more than you know.”
Mitch didn’t feel comfortable with the constant praise and overwhelming attention. He’d never been into football for the glory, but for the game. Fame hadn’t gone to his head. Well, not as badly as Deacon seemed to think.
“What else would I do with my time? Ask my brother. I’m boring unless I’m holding a football or talking about football.”
“That’s the truth.” Deacon steered the coaches toward the office and arranged tomorrow’s meeting, where they’d go over the game’s film and strategies for Sunday’s meeting with the team, at his place. The crew seemed to be a tight bunch of guys with or without football, and since everyone loved Deacon, Mitch knew he’d end up joining them.
Him? He was cold, hungry, and had a headache growing at the thought of the many people outside who would want to talk to him. He knew it came with the territory, but man, he’d love to just be average Mitch Flashman again. A simple guy who wanted nothing more than a cold beer and a plate of warm nachos to end the week.
Davey Madison popped his head around the lockers. “Hey, Coach? My mom wants to talk to you.”
Mitch contained a groan. “I’ll be out in a few minutes. I’ll meet her by the concession stand, okay?”
Davey nodded and left.
Mitch rubbed his face, suddenly bone-tired.
“She just wants in your pants.”
He spun to see Simon smirking at him.
“Mrs. Madison. She’s got a thing for you, like half the other moms out there.” Simon shoved his hands in his pockets, a tall kid swimming in a man’s coat a few sizes too large for his build. His light-brown hair needed a cut but seemed to fit the typical teenage style of too long and too shaggy. “Apparently you’re rich and handsome. I think I heard one of them call you sexy too.”
