I blinked, startled that the answer wasn’t at the tip of my tongue. “To win games sounds too obvious.”
She flashed a quick grin. “I’m sure that’s at least a subgoal.”
Gripping the back of my neck, I sighed. “I got into coaching to help develop strong players who were decent humans. Winning games takes time, dedication, and teamwork, and this group of players is missing the drive. I don’t… I lost it somewhere.”
My stomach ached with the fact that this was on me. I was the head coach. Admitting the issue to her, saying it out loud to the world, freed me of the weight I’d carried around alone. I couldn’t stop. “I’m sure you’ve heard rumors. This could very well be my last season as the head coach. But you and the girls… you were all a family. I was jealous at how close you were.”
“Jealous? Of me?” She snorted, her brown eyes widening. “I don’t think those words have ever been said in the universe. I’m not someone to envy.”
“I’m sure they have, Becca.” I put our food on the plates and added some seasoning from the cupboard. “Look at you. You’re living the life you want with a huge smile. You have a house full of young women who respect you. That’s cause for jealousy.”
She frowned and sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, her forehead furrowing as she studied me. I would’ve given any amount of money to know what was going through her head.
“Harrison,” she said, softly. Her fingers tapped on the table in a pattern, like she was nervous.
“Hmm?”
“You can fix this, you know.” She smiled.
I tilted my head. “What do you mean?”
“Leading a house full of women isn’t easy, nor is it something that just comes naturally. I studied and read about leadership. A lot, actually.” She sat up straighter. “We start every family meeting with our why, our purpose. Do you?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“You should. Everything we do reflects on our goal, to be better citizens and the best versions of ourselves.” She held up her fingers, counting. “That means being good students and setting a GPA expectation. That means volunteering in the community. That means setting personal goals and reflecting. That means being healthy. Even if we design a matching shirt that takes way too much time, it’s about unity, about feeling like you belong.”
Could I do that? Would the guys buy into it? Grimacing, I ran a hand over my face. It couldn’t hurt to try, right? Reflecting on how I lead the team didn’t paint the best picture. We worked hard, but was working hard as individuals the same as working hard together? My mind raced, grasping the different pieces of my job. The players, the game plays, the opponents, scouting, winning. When did I forget the core of coaching was shaping them into men?
I was often comfortable sitting in silence but the loudness of my thoughts distracted me. There was one simple answer from Becca’s statement. “I need a team vision.”
“That is more than just winning.”
“Yes.”
Her answering smile knocked the wind out of me. Her eyes filled with pride, and the warm sensation brewing in my chest grew. I liked seeing that look on her face. “I can work on that. You,” I pointed at her, “are amazing.”
Her smile grew. “That might be the nicest thing someone could say to me. I get mocked constantly for what I do.”
Irritation flushed through me. This thoughtful, intelligent woman was mocked for her career? Unacceptable.
She took a bite of food and moaned.
Damn, that sound was a distraction. I forced myself to focus on the topic of conversation.
“It’s easy to assume a lot about me in my role as a house mom,” she continued. “Some think I’m not very bright, or that I’m easy. My least favorite assumption is that I’m an old party girl and use my job to sleep around with frat guys.”
“People say this to you… on dates?” My skin heated with anger. “Seriously?”
“Um, yes.” She shrugged. “Sometimes not in so many words. It’s hinted, and I don’t bite so they push harder. The guys my mom sets me up with are a little better than the winners I’ve found on dating apps, but they aren’t the right ones for me, either. It’s exhausting, if I’m honest. My mom had a bad first marriage and credits my dad for giving her the life she’d always wanted. She has that hope for me—that finding my guy is the answer. What she doesn’t understand, though, is that I’m happy with my life. You know? Dating or having a partner doesn’t equate to being happier.”
A million questions ran through my mind.Did she punch these dudes in the face? Who is the right guy for her? Can I make her happy?
I cleared my throat and shoved eggs into my mouth before I said anything stupid, but I was consumed with guilt. I’d called her high-maintenance. I took her beauty and friendliness as meaning she’d be too much work. Even in the short time we’d spent together, I grew to enjoy how well she communicated, how she made her stories come to life. I’d made assumptions, just like the others, and I regretted it.
“Listen, Becca, I hope you know you’re not high-maintenance. I’m sorry I assumed.”
“You’ve apologized, and I’ve decided to forgive you.”
