“Morning,” I say, taking the nearly empty pot from the coffee maker, then dumping the remnants in the small utility sink and rinsing it to make a fresh brew. I’m not drinking that sludge.
This room serves a lot of purposes—break room, meeting room, interview space, and until my office was ready,my office.To be fair, this room is still nicer than my office, which I’m prettycertain was transformed from an old utility closet.Gotta love minor league ball.
The room is strangely quiet, and when I turn back around to take my seat, I can’t help but observe the way nobody is looking in my direction. Rather, they’re all staring down at their pencils and papers, iPads and phones. My armpits are starting to sweat. It’s actually a race between my pits and my hands. I rub my palms on my pants, over my thighs, as I take my seat, the trickle of the next round of coffee bubbling behind me. Coach Shuster clears his throat again as he shuffles a few papers at the head of the table.
I knew I would feel like an outsider, but something about the charged atmosphere feels specific. My mind keeps rewinding back eight hours, to me sitting in row eighteen next to Jayden. My hand on his. Our fingers clearly threaded together. Every time I tried to pull my hand away, to let go, I just . . . couldn’t. Everything about that indiscretion was my choice. Not his. But it stopped there. The cab driver dropped me at the hotel before taking Jayden to his apartment. We went our separate ways, and neither of us mentioned holding hands. But maybe someone was on our flight somehow. A social media post? A rogue phone video?
Nah, Jayden isn’t that famous.
But his brother is.
“I’d like to show you something, Coach Kessler. And I’m sorry for doing this in front of the rest of the staff, but I felt something at this level needed to be discussed with everyone.”
I can’t feel my face. And my arms feel heavy. Also, I taste bile on the back of my tongue.
“Yes, sir,” I croak.
Coach Shuster switches on the digital screen, and for a single heartbeat, the muscle keeping me alive flexes so hard I fear it might burst.
It’s . . . stats.
I squint as I read through the metrics:
.287 team average
17 runs
31 base hits
5 home runs
9 extra-base hits
“That’s all you, Coach. Those numbers . . . we’ve never had a weekend performance at the plate like that. We set a Mavericks record this weekend, and you are the Texas system Coach of the Week.” Coach Shuster slides a certificate from underneath his stack of papers, and the rest of the room erupts into applause and whistles.
“Oh, my God!” I tap my palms against my cheeks, my grin so large it’s making my jaw sore. Also, I feel as if I’ve died and been brought back to life in this room. That was a wild mental swing, and it’s left me feeling overwhelmed.
“Well, get on up here, Colby!” Coach Shuster waves me to the head of the table, and I shuffle toward him, not certain if I’m quite ready to handle walking. I still feel light-headed from my panic attack.
“I called everyone in early today to make sure we did this right. I hope you don’t mind,” he says as he passes the certificate to me and shakes my hand.
“I minded,” Coach Bastion mutters. He’s been in Sweetwater for years, and he’s always been an assistant. He made it pretty clear when I got this job that he didn’t think this clubhouse was a place for a lady.
I ignore his bite, focusing instead on Coach Shuster’s warm smile.
“We’re lucky to have you. Keep this up and you’ll be moving up. You’re making a lot of people pay attention. Good for you.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I say, my voice still faint.
“You know who deserves an award? Vargas,” Coach Bastion pipes in. The other coaches nod, delving into the nitty-gritty of Jayden’s stats from this weekend as I head back to my seat. And just like that, my moment of greatness is over. No matter. I still had it.
I pour myself a fresh cup of coffee while Coach Shuster pulls up video of Jayden’s best swings, pausing at his points of contact. I glance over my shoulder and smirk when I see him catching the ball exactly where he should, out front, his strong leg injecting extra power. Just like I taught him.
“Hey, sugar. Mind passing the creamer along with that?” Coach Bastion snaps his fingers at the steaming mug in my hands. I halt my steps and scan the room, foolishly expecting to see another incredulous expression in the mix. But not a single other set of eyes has moved from Jayden’s video. Nobody speaks up. And Coach Bastion hasn’t even bothered to fully look at me, despite the sneer pulling up one side of his mouth.
I take a deep breath, and for a moment, I consider taking the easy route—serving himmycoffee and then going back to fetch him creamer. A year ago, I might have. But I fought hard to get here, and if I’ve been reminded of anything in visiting my father, it’s that I have worth.
I’m the Coach of the Week. So instead of crumbling under pressure and giving in to the misogyny I was warned about when I took this job, I take my seat and blow across the surface of my coffee while my gaze settles on the good ole boy who doesn’t think I belong here. When he finally meets my stare, I take my first sip, capping it off with a very audible, “Ahh.”
