Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Every so often, she pulled her phone from her purse, typed, and then either put it away or brought the little girl toward her and snapped a photo. It made me wonder who she’d sent the picture to. Was it to Cutter’s mom?
Was it for her husband?
I angled myself to see if I could spot a ring and then chided myself for doing so. What did I care? Why did I care?
Every answer failed me because I was attracted to her and didn’t even know her.
It was like she’d heard my thoughts and looked up. Our gazes met and held. We were maybe two or three feet from each other, and it was like no one else existed around us. There was something raw and real about her presence. It was like we were meant to meet in this moment, and yet I had to maintain my professionalism. I couldn’t ask her what her name was, and there wasn’t a chance in hell I could ask Cutter.
This woman, someone who had my thoughts jumbled and my heart doing things I hadn’t felt in years, smiled. My knees knocked together, and I forced myself to rest against the wall for stability.
“You okay?” the athletic director asked.
“Yeah, a little lightheaded.” This wasn’t exactly a lie, but it also wasn’t the truth. It was more like I had lost the ability to think or function like a human.
“Do you need some water?”
I nodded and accepted the bottle from him. After twisting the cap, I took a big swig, drinking most of it down.
In a flash, the buzzer sounded, and the JV game was over. I shook my head to clear my stupor and made my way toward the locker room, already late for the pregame pep talk. How could I preach to my team about punctuality when I couldn’t even hold myself to the same standard?
When I reached the boys, they were all sitting in their chairs, waiting for me. “Sorry I’m late, gentlemen.” I proceeded to go over the game plan, which honestly hadn’t changed from the previous games. We discussed our defensive strategy and reminded ourselves to block out the fans and to have fun. At the end of the night, it was a game. Someone had to win, and someone had to lose.
As a team, we walked together and waited for the warm-up music to start. Once it did, Malik led the team out and into formation. Before I’d even entered the gym again, I told myself I wasn’t going to look across the court and into the stands. Yet, as soon as I made it through the doorway, I did, and she was still there. Only now, she had her phone out, and it looked like she was taking videos of Cutter.
It struck me then that I couldn’t recall a time when Cutter’s mom, Miriam, had ever missed a game. She was his number one fan, always in the stands, cheering for him. Cheering for all the boys. Most of the parents were like that, which I appreciated. As a coach, it was important for the boys to see sportsmanship among the parents. When they won, we all won.
“Wes, are you good, man?” my assistant coach and coworker, Jerome Levy, asked.
I nodded and ran my hand over my face, letting out a shallow groan. “Yeah, just . . .” What was I doing? I glanced across the court again and saw Cutter’s sister cheering, even though the boys were still in warm-ups. “Yeah, just thinking,” I told him.
Jerome and I were good friends outside of work. We rarely ever disagreed on game strategy, whether on the court or the field, and we often balanced each other out. Where Jerome preferred structure, I was more laid back. Our styles complemented each other and never confused the kids.
The horn sounded at the one-minute mark, and the boys ran toward the sideline. Jerome and I high-fived each of the guys. Our starters sat on the bench while I crouched in front of them with my whiteboard, where I’d listed who each of them would guard, and went over my half-assed game plan.
When our announcer began introducing the visitors, I handed my board to Jerome, left the rest of the pregame chat to him, and went to greet each player at half-court.
And then it was our turn. While the fans were loud for our opponent, the noise reached a body-vibrating decibel level when our announcer said, “And now your starting lineup for the Grove Hill Timberwooooooooolves.”
The boys made two lines—a tunnel of sorts—for their five teammates. Jerome and I stood at the front of the line and held our hands out for each of the boys to slap as they ran by. One by one, each player was announced. They ran through our line, met one of their teammates at the end for a choreographed celebration dance, and then shook hands with the officials and the opposing coach.