“Do you need dinner?” I asked, knowing full well I wasn’t the best at the home-cooking thing. Brendan and I rarely cooked. We either gotsomething out, ate leftovers, or had one of those already-made meals we just had to heat up.
Cutter grimaced.
I didn’t fault him one bit for the look.
“Right. How about something from the snack bar at the game?” Something told me this wouldn’t be enough for him.
“There’s a sub shop in town. If we leave now, I’ll still make it to school on time.” Cutter sounded hopeful.
I nodded, fully in agreement. “Nova, grab your coat and make sure you have all your stuff for the game.” I spoke loudly enough for her to hear me in the other room. She let out a resounding “Yes.”
“Where’s Brendan?” Cutter asked. The two of them had an okay relationship, especially when it came to sports. For Cutter’s fourteenth birthday, Brendan had taken him to see the Celtics. They had courtside seats, and I think LeBron James was there or something.
“He’s working. It didn’t make much sense for him to come up if this is just a quick trip for me.”
Cutter nodded. “It’s too bad he isn’t here. We’re playing our rival tonight. It’s going to be a good game.”
“I’ll send him some videos and your stats. Come on, let’s go get some food and head to your game.” He let me put my arm around him for a brief moment. It was something, at least.
Chapter 4
Weston
The varsity team needed to be in the stands, supporting the junior varsity team, by tip-off. I also expected my boys to come to the game dressed in a professional but casual way. I believed appearances were important and hoped to set a standard for those boys when they were older. I’d noticed that a few of the boys couldn’t afford the luxury of a nice pair of slacks or a button-down shirt, and I made concessions.
Never excuses.
It was my duty as their coach, teacher, and role model to set an example. During the baseball season, I wore a full uniform. This was standard among all coaches in every league. But during basketball season, I opted for slacks and a pullover, or something equally comfortable. The team got off lucky. They were only dressed up during a bus ride to the game or until halftime, when they left the JV game to get ready for their own, and then it was uniform time. I, on the other hand, had to wear this getup the entire night.
During the JV game, I stood along the wall next to the admission table, which afforded me the ability to acknowledge each player who walked in. I enjoyed greeting the parents and shooting the shit with some of the dads.
I had never taken the stance as a coach that I should be unapproachable or that my time was off limits. The one thing I wouldn’t discuss with parents was their sons’ playing time. If it was a question, it was something the players needed to discuss with me after practice or during my office hours. Never before or after a game. Emotions ran much too high to have a serious conversation about playing time, especially after a game.
Most of the parents respected my decision, but there was always one in the group who thought their son was the next Michael Jordan. All I could do most days was nod, listen, and store the conversation for later.
Every sport had the parents who scouted other teams for you, whether you’d asked them to or not. It made them feel useful, when in reality, they were living out the dream they’d had when they’d started coaching their sons in rec league.
In the end, it was all good. Anytime a parent came forth with information on another team or player, I took it. I’d be remiss not to.
I nodded at the players as they entered the gym. Some came over to chat, but most went and sat with their team and classmates. When Cutter came in, I was momentarily stunned by the woman who followed behind him. He said something to her and then went to the stands to sit down. The woman stood at the table to pay and then walked to the end of the gym, which was the visitors’ section, and sat on the bottom bleacher with Cutter’s little sister.
Something about this woman made me lose focus for a moment. I tried to recall if I’d seen her before, but my mind came up blank. I watched the doorway for Cutter’s mom, knowing she’d stop over to say hi and thank me for always looking out for her son.
Throughout the JV game, I found myself watching the woman. Cutter’s sister seemed very fond of her, and instead of watching the action on the court, they were coloring together.
After halftime, my team made their way to the locker room. I used this time to walk to the other end of the gym to talk to the athletic director about absolutely nothing. In hindsight, I wished I hadn’t.
“Hi, Coach,” Cutter’s sister called out. She gave me a little wave, and when I smiled, her cheeks blushed. I hated that I didn’t know her name, or I would’ve stopped and chatted, asked her how school was, and found out who was with her.
But instead, I made eye contact with the woman and then stumbled over my feet, almost falling face-first onto the court. If people saw, they said nothing, and I didn’t hear any audible laughing. I was afraid to look behind me, though, out of genuine fear she ... this woman ... had seen everything.
From my new vantage point, I could stare without getting caught. She sat there, with her legs crossed, wearing jeans and a sweater. Half her dark-brown hair was pinned up, exposing her high cheekbones, while the rest flowed down her back in soft waves. She was polished and more put together than most of the parents in the stands, and she definitely stood out as someone who wasn’t from Grove Hill.
Every so often, she pulled her phone from her purse, typed, and then either put it away or brought the little girl toward her and snapped a photo. It made me wonder who she’d sent the picture to. Was it to Cutter’s mom?
Was it for her husband?
I angled myself to see if I could spot a ring and then chided myself for doing so. What did I care? Why did I care?
