Grinning, I shake my head. “It was such a last-minute transfer that I haven’t looked at much other than a map to know where I’m supposed to go.”
“Understandable. I swear I don’t drool over everyone. They’re not objects to drool over. They’re good at their jobs. We have a pretty good soccer team. Wait, why do you have practice today? Term doesn’t officially begin until tomorrow.”
I shrug. “Dunno. For a lot of sports, it’s not unusual for practice and camps to happen before school begins.”
“Huh,” he says. “Good to know. Obviously, I don’t play any.”
“We’ll forgive you,” I say.
He gives me a wide smile. “Thanks, man. Catch you later.”
I wave him off and turn to my brother once he’s gone. “You’re right. Not Trevor.”
“Wouldn’t you know,” he says, turning back into my room.
We get through most of my boxes before I have to head to practice. I stuff clean clothes into a gym bag and my cleats. Lix takes all the empty, broken down boxes on his way out, and I promise to send him a text when I’m off the field and headed for the shower so he can come back to grab me for dinner.
I haven’t texted Alka and Oscar much at all today. Between the long drive that I spent talking to my brother about Kala and my guys, unloading Lix’s car into my room, unpacking, and generally running around, I haven’t had a chance. So I send them a quick text that I’m heading to practice and I’ll call after.
Responses come back immediately.
Oscar
Can’t wait. I want to hear all about it. Miss you.
Alka
Same. I can’t wait to hear your voice again. Have a good practice. Miss you.
Me
Miss you so much!
I sigh and pocket my phone as I approach the sports complex where I’ll supposedly find the locker room. It’s not too hard since I can follow the voices. There’s a note of excitement mixing with nervousness for a new school year. Maybe, like me, there are other new players, so those nerves cover being on a new team, surrounded by brand new people.
As I step into the locker room, the first thing I notice is a lot of chatter. There are rainbows all over the place here, too. I haven’t spent a lot of time looking around campus, but it’s not hard to see that this is the U.N. of queerness. The locker room is no different. Rainbows, like, everywhere. What’s more, the mascot is a unicorn, but it doesn’t look like the image that we’re all used to—innocent, sweet, pure, magical. This thing looks mean.
My locker has my last name on it—R. Kipler. For a minute, I stand in front of it with a smile. There’s no doubt in my mind that Gabe had something to do with me making it onto the team. Was it his endorsement that helped my transfer go through? Between a pro hockey player and a pro soccer player singing my praise, I bet the school gave me unfair consideration that they wouldn’t have extended to others, which means I need to do exactly what Lix says. This year, I focus on what I should be. No abusive boyfriends. No constantly looking over my shoulder.
Taking a breath, I decide that I’m going to dedicate as much of my energy as I can to making this school year great. My grades and my game. I’m going to make both Lix and Gabe proud.
“Coach Lennon said two minutes,” someone calls.
I open my locker and stuff my bag inside. I arrived alreadydressed for practice. Just need to get my cleats on, so I sit on the bench and listen to everyone talk as I lace up.
I’m regretting not taking a minute to look up my teammates on the school website now as my teammates who clearly returned from last year talk about the coaching staff and what they think we’ll be doing today. I enjoy their banter and teasing as much as the information I’m gleaning from their conversation.
Once my cleats are on, I get to my feet and follow the crowd. However, a photograph on the wall makes me freeze in my tracks as my eyes home in on a single man in the group picture. A smile that I’ve memorized, dreamed of, since meeting him.
I get closer to stare at the picture. It’s clear by what he’s wearing—not the unicorns uniform—that he’s the coach.
“That’s last year’s team,” someone says, stopping at my side. He points at the different people. “Assistant Coach Harper, and that’s one of the athletic trainers, Declan Whitaker—he’s so fucking hot, man. Coach Alka.”
My heart stops, and I don’t hear anything he says after that. His finger continues to move around the picture, but it’s blurred. All I see is one man. Coach Alka. “Alka Lennon,” I murmur, remembering what Booker had called my coach back in our dorm.
“Yep,” he says and claps my shoulder. “Hurry up. He’ll make you do laps if you’re late.”
I nod, but I can’t convince my feet to move as I stare at Alka. Alka Lennon.MyAlka Lennon. College soccer coach, which I already knew.
