“Don’t fail anything,” I warn.
His grin is huge. “Never, Coach. I’m always good.”
I swear, there’s an innuendo there based on the smirk and the way his eyes crinkle. This is his third year at Rainbow Dorset, so I’ve had plenty of opportunities to study this young man and I’m quite confident that I’m right.
He leaves when I raise a brow in his direction. I’m not sure if he’s testing the waters, or he’s just comfortable with me. I’m not even sure whether I’m flattered or annoyed.
It’s quite possible everything annoys me right now.
I called my sister last night for some money stream ideas. She’s good at that stuff. Not necessarily sympathizing with me when I think she should, but still. Sugar is an excellent source of corporate knowledge. Part of her job has been maximizing income streams, so if anyone was going to tell me how to get things moving, it would be her.
“You have a massive number of bodies at your disposal,” she pointed out, referring to my team of 112 athletes. “That presents you with a unique opportunity. You don’t have to focus only twenty or so students on a single task, you can split them between two or three. Three times the effort in a fraction of the time it would take one team an entire year to pull off.”
I like this idea, remembering it as I pull out my roster. There are the obvious things like car washes or candy sales, but theyall seem rather… mundane. Besides, who cares about college car washes?
To which my sister countered, “But you have athletes. Play that up. Think about the cliché bikini car washes that cheer teams often put on.”
“You want my guys in bikinis?” I asked, already imagining proposing this to them.
Sugar laughed. “No, Lem. But men’s bathing suits—or whatever they’re comfortable in—is an option.”
This brought on the idea of all the things my players could do in a bathing suit. Sell candy. Walk dogs. Sell baked goods. And yes, wash cars.
“Okay, good,” I said. “But that’s all piddly money. What else? I need twenty thousand!”
We must have brainstormed for over an hour and came up with a competition. A tournament of sorts. I have more than a hundred athletes. Why not use that to my advantage while asking people for money?
Then I was watching television last night and ended up losing my remote, so when a movie came on about a celebrity auction for money, I’ve started toying with ideas on how to use that. When? How? Is it ethical to ask my kids to auction themselves?
An email pops up and I glance down, ignoring it. My new work-study students will begin soon. Thank gawd. I need help with these 400+ emails. They just keep coming in!
Maybe I can hire one of them to make these money things happen. That’s an idea.
Getting to my feet, I move toward my door. I catch my reflection in the mirror and grin. In my personal opinion, more men should wear spandex. It’s the male version of showing off cleavage. Hot. I mean, look at the shape of my ass! Shifting, I flex my glutes and smile appreciatively. Today, I’m not wearing askirt to cover said ass, so it’s all out there. With my crop top tank, my glutes are full on display.
I need someone to throw these ideas around with. Someone who can expand upon them in a way that I’m not good at. I consider the student body, but come up short on ideas. I’m not exactly friends with any of them.
I could try my coaches. The least they could do is pitch in by elaborating the ideas that they didn’t bother to come up with.
Stepping into the hall, I shut the door behind me and smile at the greens and blues on the wall, painted like the gay pride flag—the male-male flag. I’m rather happy that this is the flag in my hallway. While I generally prefer pinks and yellows, this is my flag, so it makes me smile every time I see it.
That is, until my eyes hone in on the large bulletin board that’s right down the hall. From here, I can see a set of hockey sticks. Immediately, my blood boils. He doesn’t belong here! This is my hall. The nerve of him posting something about hockey inmyhall!
Stomping to the board, I reach to grab the paper and freeze. It’s a flyer for a dodgeball tournament encouraging athletes to put together a team and sign up for the friendly competition.
How dare he? How fucking dare he do this to me? This was my idea! Mine. And he stole it!
Ripping it from the pin, I storm out of the building, clutching it in my hand.
“Hey, Coach,” Hillary greets as I stomp by.
She was a work-study student last year. “Hello, Hillary,” I answer as I breeze past.
“Coach!” another student calls and I glance his way. He waves, so I wave back.
Damn these kids. Don’t they know I’m not in the mood right now? Another half dozen wave to me or say hi on my way to the hockey rink. Some of them are my players, but some arestudents I’ve met in other capacities. I try not to be frustrated. How can they not see that I’m preoccupied?
I throw open the doors to the arena and look around. There’s a man with a book in his hand, heading my way.
