I’m grinning ear to ear, heart pounding from pride.
Jamal tackles Evan in a bear hug, and Cam jumps on someone’s back; everybody’s going wild. It’s the best damn feeling in the world, winning a game with the whole town here supporting us.
I walk around, clapping shoulders, giving them a mix of praise and teasing words. “Don’t let that win go to your head, Cam. We still got the rest of the season to go.”
“C’mon, coach, we destroyed them.”
“Hell yeah, we did, now let’s see if we can do it again next week.”
For this moment in time, everything’s perfect, the drama of the week floating away as I celebrate with my boys.
The only thing that would make it better is if Alex were here.
I scan the field, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He said he wasn’t coming, but part of me was thinking he’d change his mind. That he’d show up in his all-black get-up, earbuds in and his arms crossed, pretending not to care while secretly keeping track of every play.
While I’m scanning the field, I realize someone else ismissing.
Jason.
He should be celebrating with the team. He kicked ass out there today, played like a pro. That kid’s gonna have scouts all over looking at him.
And he’s nowhere to be found.
“Anybody seen Jason?” I ask a couple of players jogging past me.
“No clue, Coach. He dipped, I think.”
“Already?”
Cam nods. “He was actin’ kinda weird.”
“Weird how?” I ask, but he’s already been pulled back into the celebration, hugging somebody’s momma.
This is what I live for, the team, their excitement, but this time, I can’t shake the nagging feeling of wrong in my chest.
Iris
Layla pulls me through her house like she’s on a mission.
Her heels click against the hardwood as she leads me into the white kitchen with a dozen trays and dishes crowding the marble island.
She takes the cookie-filled Tupperware from my hands and peels back the foil, sliding it into a small open spot, squeezed between brownies and what looks like mini key lime pies.
“You’ve been busy,” I acknowledge.
She blows a curl out of her face, planting her hands on her hips. “Oh, girl, this is nothing. You should see the fridge. Grant said I was overdoing it, but…” She shrugs, grinning, “What can I say? I stress bake.”
“It looks great,” I offer.
The space is clean and stylish, a lot of white.
But not the kind of place I imagined Layla living. She’s so energetic and fun, but that’s not what’s reflected here, with the white kitchen and stainless steel appliances.
The vanilla candles.
It’s all verysafe.
“I swear, I love a good party, but it gets me all frazzled, making sure everything is perfect,” she continues, frantically going through the cabinets and pulling out various items.
