Rainbow Dorset is more than just a safe place. It’s home. Every time I imagined coaching in the NFL with all the cameras on me and attention pointed my way, when I thought about the kinds of headlines I’d be making for all the wrong reasons just for being me, I decided I didn’t want that life.
The outside of the administration building is probably one of the most profound of the entire school. The facade changes yearly with a new installation from art majors in the current graduating class. It’s always moving in some way. This past year’s artwork might be one of my favorites to date. I can feel the emotion in it.
Maybe because the tears are as big as my entire body.
Pushing open the doors, I take a breath of the cool air that brushes my skin. It’s still early August so the temperature and humidity outside are disgusting. The woman at the desk gives me a pinched smile. I’m familiar with the look—I receive it often.
“Amelia,” I greet as I stop in front of her desk. “That’s a very pretty top.”
Her eyes narrow. What I don’t tell her is I have the same one and it looks far better on me.
“What can I do for you, Coach?” she asks.
“I need to speak with Dean Devaroe,” I tell her.
“Do you have an appointment?”
This is why receptionists irritate me. If I had one, she’d not be asking me that question.
“You and I both know I don’t,” I say and slap my papers onto her desk, keeping my hand over them. “This is sudden and time sensitive since my team will be here next week.”
She presses her lips together and stares at me before looking at her computer and clicking around. If not for the fact she’s constantly barring my way to the people I need to speak to, I’d probably really like Amelia. Her amount of petty is exactly the kind I appreciate.
“Have a seat, Coach. I’ll see if Mr. Devaroe is available for a few minutes.”
Because I’m fairly confident Amelia is as petty as I am, I don’t think she even tells the dean I’m here until twenty minutes later.Just long enough that I’m fuming further. I end up sitting there for almost forty minutes before Amelia tells me he’ll see me.
At least she didn’t wait that long just to tell me the dean couldn’t see me.
When I walk in, I see it’s not just Dean Devaroe in his office, but two others from his team are there as well, one of whom is Zarek Weaver. It takes a lot for me not to scowl at him. Especially when he doesn’t even look up as I enter.
He’s always frustrated me because he’s not actually part of the administrative team; he’s a tenured faculty member. But apparently, he’s something special because he’s always included in email chains concerning money. More times than not, I get redirected to him for purchasing, which truly pisses me off. What does he know about sports? He should not be the one deciding whether something is necessary or not.
It's like an insurance company deciding what tests and treatments are necessary based on their infinite education!
Pfft.
“Good morning, Coach,” Dean Devaroe greets with a wide smile. “How’s the team looking this year?”
He’s a football fan—something that usually works in my favor. I nod as I take a seat and cross my legs at the ankles. “They look good on paper,” I tell him. “As always, I’m eager to see what they can do on the field. I’ll have a better idea next week for you.”
“Wonderful. What can I do for you?”
“There’s been a mistake in my budget,” I say. I don’t miss the way Zarek rolls his eyes, even though he still hasn’t looked up. Yep, I hate that guy.
“Has there?” Dean asks as Zarek hands him a piece of paper. I watch as he reads it and then shakes his head. “There’s no mistake, Coach.”
I frown. “That’s a great deal less than usual,” I explain.
“It is. As stated in previous emails, we are moving around some money within the athletic department to accommodate more talent. Our football team is the star, but we have other teams that we’d like to be just as impressive.”
I’m speechless as I stare at him. “But why football? I produce stars every year!”
Zarek huffs. He finally looks up at me. While I think his expression is pretty indifferent, I know he doesn’t like me. “The finance department sent emails throughout the last school year—September 8th, November 1st, January 11th, with your individual budgets on January 19th, February 10th, April 22nd, May 18th, June 3rd, July 24th, and just last week concerning budgets and ordering, as well as the changes we’re making to the school.” His eyes touch on the papers pointedly in my hands before meeting my eyes again. “It’s clear that your email is working, so you must have read all this in the ten emails that address your concerns, Coach.”
There are a lot of things I want to say right now. Such as the fact that obviously my previous work-study student wasn’t doing what I needed them to and telling me the important things in my email, like my damn budget being cut. Or that I have better things to do than read every single email that comes through.
“More professional athletes leave my field each year than in all of California!” I demand. “Surely I’m allowed some reward because of that.”
