CHAPTER TWENTY
Stella- Somehwere in late October
I know I’m being summoned before Coach even says my name.
There’s a certain look assistants get when they’re sent to fetch you. A mix of urgency and pity, like they’ve been told not to smile. That’s the face Heather gives me from the doorway of the locker room, still holding her clipboard against her chest.
“Coach wants to see you.”
A few of the girls glance up.
I keep my expression blank, like I’m not immediately replaying every missed pass, every sluggish pivot, every second I was half a beat off at practice.
“Now?” I ask, tugging the elastic out of my ponytail and redoing it tighter.
Heather gives me a look. “No, next Tuesday.”
I glare at her.
She shrugs. “Yes, now.”
Great.
I peel the athletic tape off my wrist as I walk down the hall, wincing when it takes a few arm hairs with it. My shoulder aches. My left knee’s been barking at me for a week. There’sstill a strip of tape wrapped around two fingers on my right hand because apparently my body has decided to start collecting minor injuries like souvenirs.
Normal.
Fine.
Whatever.
This is what happens when playoffs are coming and everyone suddenly gets religion about effort.
Coach’s office door is cracked. I knock once.
“Come in.”
Her office always smells like dry-erase marker and coffee that’s been sitting too long on a burner. Film notes are spread across her desk. The whiteboard behind her is covered in rotations, defensive sets, and a to-do list that somehow makes me feel guilty just looking at it.
She gestures to the chair in front of her desk.
I sit.
That’s when I know this isn’t about a missed rotation.
If it were, she’d keep standing and rip me apart in ninety seconds or less.
Instead, Coach leans back in her chair and studies me for a second too long.
I hate that.
“What?” I say, because apparently I’d rather be rude than nervous.
One side of her mouth twitches. “You always this charming after practice?”
“Only when I think I’m about to get yelled at.”
“If I was going to yell at you, Cortez, you’d know.”
