“Coach!” I call out once the serve goes over the net.
He turns around at my voice and I’m knocked sideways. There’s recognition in his face and the corners of his eyes crinkle as he narrows his gaze. I know this man. I’vekissedthis man. How in the world is the man from the bar also Emma’steacher? He comes toward me, his free hand cupping the back of his neck.
With a quizzical brow, he stammers, “Uh, hi.”
I stand there, the loss of words going both ways, until a kid yells, “Coach! Is the line in or out?”
“In!” he responds without glancing back. “I’m sorry, but how did you find out where I work?”
“How areyoumy kid’s P.E. teacher?”
He blinks. “What?”
“I’m Emma Adler’s mom.” I stretch out a hand and he shakes it, not breaking eye contact.
“You’re kidding.” He shakes his head fast, like he’s removing the memory of the last time we met from his mind. “Um, I mean, Emma’s great. A pleasure to have in class.” He’s rambling, embarrassed, confused. It’s kind of cute, not as self-assured as the last time we saw each other. “Is there something I can help you with . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Nola,” I say with what I hope appears to be a professional smile and not a I’ve-been-thinking-about-you-too-much-and-never-thought-I’d-see-you-again, daydreaming grin. Collecting myself, I launch into my prepared request. “I’m sure you are aware Emma was out of town last week for a wedding. Principal Bennett gave us permission for her to make up everything this week that she was unable to turn in online and her P.E. grade this morning caused a little panic on her end.”
He goes back to the stance I found him in a minute ago. Legs shoulder-width apart, arms crossed over the clipboard pressed against his chest. “Getting a B is nothing to be upset about.”
“Sure, but Emma’s a straight-A student and she said missing the mile run is what dropped her down from the Ashe carried all quarter. I was just wondering if she could run it after school and we could get that grade updated—assuming she earns it, of course.”
Coach studies me long enough that I become self-conscious. Is he attempting to intimidate me? I smooth out my blazer and slide my hands into my pockets while I wait. Patiently.
He turns to face the volleyball game. “You made an interesting Ben Franklin and you don’t strike me as a Nola.”
“What?” I chuckle. “What do I look like to you?” This is not at all what I’m here for but now I’m curious.
“I don’t know.” He offers a single shoulder shrug. “Maybe a Rachel or a Jen?”
Without thinking, I reach out and playfully shove him. “That’s just mean. You’ve met Jen, right? Ruler of the PTO? I’m nothing like her and you need to take it back.”
A loud laugh erupts from him, bouncing off the walls of the gym and causing a pause in play. He motions for a student to pick up the dropped volleyball and they start back up. Then he leans in toward me, conspiratorially, like somebody may overhear us. “She is the worst, right? It’s not just me thinking that?”
“What are you going to do about Emma?” This man keeps derailing the reason I came to talk to him and I’m over it.
The smirk is wiped from his face and his brow furrows. “I’m sorry, but grades are in. Principal Bennett said changing them is a whole process and I mean, it’s just a lousy P.E. grade. In the long run, she’ll get an A for the semester and it won’t matter, right?”
“Coach—”
“Max,” he says.
“Coach,” I emphasize, because we may have briefly lockedlips in an impulsive moment but we’re not friends, and he’s not earning points by being difficult about a simple ask.
“Just let her run and I’ll go through the process of getting the grade changed. It’s educational computer software. You’re not hacking into the CIA mainframe. Her quarter grades affect her overall GPA, so this actually is a bigger deal than you maybe realize. Emma’s a great kid?—”
“And a B is a fair grade. It was a low A to start with, I think around a 91 percent if I’m recalling right. She is a great kid, like I already said, but she really isn’t on the same level as some of her other peers in class . . .”
He lets that hang and my mama bear comes out of hibernation. “Are you saying that she deserves a B, not because you’re too lazy to resubmit grades, but because she isn’t athletically inclined? Because STEM is more her thing, she can’t get an A in P.E. too? What, do you have a finite amount of As you’re saving for the jocks? Huh?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then I’d like you to explain it to me like I’m five-years-old before I set up a meeting with Lisa”—I use this moment to leverage my (very casual) friendship with the principal as a warning—“and you can tell her how you’re refusing to put your student’s best interest at heart.”
“Lying to Emma about her athleticism to boost her self-esteem isn’t in her best interest.”
I fume and before I can retort, he adds, “You know why the Armadillos lost the playoffs last week?”
