“Everyone starts from zero!” I shout through my glass window. A collection of groans, yells, and curses are said in response. “Thank your teammates!”
Everyone gasps and stumbles back to the starting line, plowing through the sprints faster than the first time. I join Bill on the side of the turf and watch the boys sprint back and forth. Devon Johnson finishes first and throws himself on the ground at the far end. He’s followed by Zane, my starting receiver, Marshall, our kicker, and Travis Van, my running back. One by one, they plow through the last sprint, cheering on their slower teammates and hounding the ones who should’ve finished faster.
Being the head coach for three years can be the bane of my existence some days, even if I do enjoy torturing some of these hotheads. But this team pulls me down memory lane far too often because, as much as I hate to admit it, they remind me of myself. I was a hothead not too long ago. And the only family I had were the guys in my unit. For years, nothing else mattered to me but the mission and those guys. When you’re young, it’s easy to forget that life can end in a moment.
Until you actually lose someone. Then it all changes.
One of the hardest damn lessons I’ve had to learn is accepting that life has to go on without some people.
The final player heaves himself past the rest of the team and hurls into the trash can. “Shake it off, Tim!” I yell, reviewing the roster from the doorway. “Strong work, but tomorrow let’s try to do what I have planned, alright?”
Mumbled responses agree, and I dismiss them with a wave.
“Yo, Coach! When will the camp roster be out?” Travis Van runs up to me, his crooked nose from the brawl he had with Devon last fall still an eyesore.
“End of the week. Camp is in three. You have plenty of time to prepare if that’s what you’re asking.” I head toward the door, leaving the mess for tomorrow and flipping the lights.
“So I actually get to—”
“Mr. Van,” I cut him off, “you are my top running back. The best in this district, according to some people. And I told you if you made improvements in your grades and stayed consistent with practice, the likelihood of attending this year was probable, correct?” He nods.
“Have you missed any practices?”
“No, sir.”
“Have your grades improved?”
“Yes, sir,” he says with pride.
“And those were the stipulations, correct?” He nods emphatically. “Without the roster being made, I cannot confirm nor deny your attendance.” His eyes begin to fall at this. “But…” I say quickly, and he perks back up, “seeing that I am a man of my word, maybe you can put two and two together, huh?” I meet his eyes, a hopeful gleam to them. “Now please, go home.”
He smiles and races out the front door, hopping into a bright-red sports car blaring some derogatory music as he peels out of the parking lot. Gravel sprays at my feet from the spin of his tires.
I sure hope I don’t regret this decision.
I get to the diner at the worst possible time—peak after-school hours. Everyone is here, stuffing their faces with waffles, the post-class rush of students swarming the counter to order and hogging the good seats by the window. I rub the sore spot between my neck and shoulder as I scope out a place to sit when a soft, delicate hand bursts into the air, beckoning me.
“Had to fight off a pack of wildlings for our spot, but I got it.” Kate beams at me with pride as I make my way into the booth seat across from her, a mug of black coffee on the table waiting for me. It’s these little deeds Kate does that tug at my heart. I wish I could hate it.
“My hero,” I say, chugging the coffee when a waiter I haven’t seen before approaches the table with two plates loaded with food.
“Vegan special. And pancakes.” His voice lingers on his words in confusion. Yes, I’m a freak for wanting pancakes from their waffle establishment. He stares at my plate, and I clear my throat. I have been ordering pancakes from this place for five years, and I refuse to fall into peer pressure to order their waffle special. Pancakes are superior, end of discussion.
“I got your usual,” she says behind fluffy lashes, fighting back a fit of giggles as the waiter finally leaves the table.
“You are too kind.” Her cheeks go pink as I hold her gaze.
She breaks eye contact first and focuses on her food. I resist the urge to keep staring at her like some kind of psychopath. I don’t know what it is about Kate Stanley that has me so damn fixated, but since the first day I laid eyes on her, I’ve been nothing but a fool.
Clearing my throat, I start working on my pancakes, doing my best to pretend I don’t notice her fidgeting fingers as she attempts to cut into her waffle.
My pancakes are practically gone by the time she meets my eyes again. “So…” she begins confidently, but then, as if someone just whispered in her ear to be quiet, she cuts herself off and presses her lips into a thin line. A pulse trembles up her jaw as she fights the urge to talk.
“Yes?” I ask with a mouth full of pancakes.
“I’m sorry about earlier.” She says it so fast I almost miss it. Fidgeting, she plucks at the prongs on her fork, and it sends a faint ringing reverberating in my ears. I roll my neck at the chill it sends down my spine.
“It’s alright.” Wiping my jaw and beard with my napkin, I smile. It really is alright. Was her behavior in our meeting weird? Yes. But that’s Kate in a nutshell: weird. I watch as her shoulders deflate in relief, then she straightens the salt and pepper shakers, hums a soft tune, and waves the fork around like she’s conducting a concert. She is lost in her own magical thoughts for a moment, one of those momentary daydreams she tends to fall into. I think they happen more often than she realizes. Another weird quirk of hers. Blinking back to the conversation, she blushes when she realizes I’m still watching her, and the pink of her cheeks sends a spark right into the center of my chest.
