Desperate to respond, I say, “Thank you. For the coffee.”
“You’re welcome.” Sadie smiles, turning to leave, glancing back at the last minute. “Try not to fall off the ladder, Coach.”
twenty
Sadie
Thegymisclosedfor the Fourth of July, but the building doesn’t care about holidays. Neither does the weather.
Rain pounds against the roof hard enough that I can hear it even over the echo of my footsteps on the court. It’s been coming down for hours now—steady, relentless—and the forecast says it’s not letting up anytime soon.
I stand barely inside the doors, keys still in my hand, watching water drip from a seam near the far corner. Not a flood. Not yet. Just enough to make my stomach twist. I know there will be a similar situation in the storage closet. That’s how it’s always been when we get lots of rain, like we are right now.
In my dream world, we’d have permanently fixed it, but that hasn’t been in the budget. The center has been operating on razor-thin margins ever since I took over.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I grab a bucket from the storage closet and slide it under the leak—the one I was right about—the sound changing pitch as the water hits plastic instead of hardwood. The room smells damp, the kind of air that settles in when rain finds a way inside. Finding the other buckets, I grab them and head out to the gym to catch the others.
Maren’s out of town. Birdie’s husband, the one other person I’d usually call for help, texted back saying they were a few hours away. I scroll through my contacts anyway, knowing it won’t change anything.
Colson.He’s next door and could probably lend a hand. My finger hovers over his contact before I decide against it, putting my phone back down on the bleachers.
I don’t want to push him. Not after everything. Not after I showed up to his home, with coffee and a snack, asking him to give up even more of his time to help coach for the tournament.
This I can figure out on my own.
My gaze drifts to the court, to the painted lines and empty bleachers, and my mind slips back without asking permission to when the kids found out he’d be coaching the summer tournament.
The way the room exploded—cheers, disbelief, kids jumping up and down. Colson stood there with his hands in his pockets, trying to play it cool. He didn’t want it to be a big deal but the kids were so excited.
“Settle down. It’s only for now,” he’d said, shrugging like he wasn’t lighting the whole place up just by being there.
But I saw it. The way he softened when they crowded around him. The way he smiled when he thought no one was looking. Like the game still had its hooks in him in a way he may not have thought about.
I don’t want to be the reason he feels obligated. I don’t want to ask for more than he’s already given. Even as part of me wishes that he’d walk through the doors anyway, like he belongs here.
And if I’m busy thinking about him with the kids, then at least I’m not spiraling over the almost kiss. Me, standing in the middle of his driveway, basically holding his hand hostage so he couldn’t deal with that rogue crumb. Honestly, I couldn’t have planned it better if I’d tried.
There was nothing else at that moment. Just me. Colson. My thumb brushing past his lip. The way he dragged it through his teeth right after, like he was trying to ground himself. I swear he could hear the way I swallowed—past the nerves, past the anxiety—trying to hold on to it all.
Now, is this the first timeI’ve thought about kissing Colson? No. Not really.
But those thoughts usually belong to my dreams, where he has a habit of showing up unexpectedly—sometimes with a shirt on, sometimes very much without. Apparently, my subconscious spends a lot more time thinking about Colson than my awake, supposedly reasonable self, ever admits.
It wasn’t even thealmostkiss. It was the wave of disappointment that hit me as I walked away—the tightness in my chest, as if something was pulling and pressing all at once, mirroring the drop in my stomach. The walk home along the trails was spent wondering what it would feel like to give in.
Something slams against the outside of the gym—probably a rogue branch—and snaps me back to the present. The rain hammers harder against the roof now, wind howling around the building.
I exhale and grab another bucket.
This is part of the job, I know that. Facilities. Maintenance. The unglamorous stuff that never makes it into the highlight reel. Still, standing here alone, watching the building fight the weather, the quiet presses in a little heavier than usual.
I need tarps. The realization hits me and I’m annoyed I didn’t think about it in the first place. The issue is that the tarps are outside in the tiny storage shed. Reluctantly, I go to my office, grab my rain coat and zip it up.
Maybe the forecast has changed.
That’s the hopeful—and slightly delusional—thought I have as I open the weather app for probably the tenth time today.
