Hey man, saw your highlight reel. You still playing?
If you’re in the city, come to a workout. Could use someone like you.
Playing?
Me?
My eyes widen. I was thinking about coaching someday.
Not this.
I ping him back saying I have considered coaching, and he responds immediately, with an address. Even says he’s there right now.
The response ignites something something electric inside me. My body feels like it’s got new life suddenly.
“Ma, I’m gonna head out.”
“Where are you going?”
“Eh, it’s probably nothing,” I respond, vaguely.
I grab my jacket, an old workout bag that still has my cleats in it, and head out before I can overthink it.
The facility is tucked under a bridge on the west side. It’s got a turf field, metal bleachers, the whole thing lit with buzzing floodlights.
The head coach sees me walk in and his eyebrows shoot up.
“Evans? From the reels?”
“That’s me,” I say.
He nods. “Good. You warm? Good. Let’s get to it.”
“Little warmup would be good.”
“Let’s go, then. Hop to it.”
After a brief warmup, I’m running routes again.
I’m catching passes, dodging tackles, and feeling my cleats grip the turf as if no time has passed at all.
My lungs burn, my ribs ache, my heart feels like it’s breaking out of my chest.
God, it’sperfect.
After an hour, the coach blows his whistle and walks over with the look of a man seeing a ghost.
“So. You only want to coach?” he asks.
I shrug, out of breath.
“I mean…that’s what I figured.”
He points at me like I’m an obvious solution.
“Evans, you could play. Hell… youshouldplay. If you want a spot, we’ll take you.”
I blink at him.
