He looks away. “Nothing, just, thanks. For breakfast. And you know.” He gestures toward my phone.
We don’t do the mushy crap, but I get it, so I give him a clap on the shoulder, and he gets it too.
“Hey, are you wearing eyeliner?” I point out, breaking the moment before it moves into emotional territory.
“Oh my god,” he groans, opening the door and getting out of my truck, but I roll down the passenger window to shout, “You steal that from Liz?”
Alex doesn’t turn back around as he lifts a middle finger in the air, but I’m laughing all the way to the faculty parking lot.
The weight room smells like sweat and enough Axe body spray to kill a small animal, meaning everything’s just as it should be.
I push the door open with my shoulder, half-drunk coffee in one hand and a clipboard tucked under my arm.
Somebody, probably Cam, already has their phone hooked up to the Bluetooth speaker, playing a country-rap song so loud I consider leaving the room entirely.
Music nowadays, I think to myself, shaking my head before I realize I’m starting to sound like my dad.
I take a sip of coffee before squaring my shoulders. “Y’all better be warming up, or I swear on my momma’s grave you’ll be jazzercisin’ from now on.”
Jake sits up from the bench press. “Coach, what even is jazzercisin’?”
“Don’t test me or you’ll find out.”
I’ve got no idea.
That gets most of the guys moving, though, stretching, loading plates, the clang of metal, and chatter between them filling the room. And despite the god-awful music and the early hour, I smile. There’s something special about mornings like this. Just the boys, the weights, being a real team.
Taking a break from whatever’s out there in the real world.
I walk around the room, calling out corrections when needed. “Cole, you’d better straighten your back, or you’re gonna look like a question mark by thirty.”
“You jealous I’m lifting more than you?”
“I could deadlift your ego and still have enough energy left to drag your sorry ass across the field.”
At the bench press, I spot Jason, our captain, sitting on the edge of the bench, hands loose between his knees, staring down at the floor.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen that look, and honestly, I’m starting to worry about the kid. That maybe the pressure of being captain is too much for him.
Or maybe it’s his dad. Guy seems like a dick.
I walk over and squat next to him. “You alright, J?”
He startles, looking up. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m not pushing, but I’m not buying it either. “You sleep at all last night, or were you up playing the Call of Duty?”
“That’s not what it’s—” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t playing anything. Just… couldn’t sleep.”
“Listen, man. You know I care about you boys. If something’s going on at home, if anything’s bothering you, you know you can talk to me about it.”
I try to get him to meet my eyes, but he doesn’t.
“Sure thing, coach.” I frown at his lackluster response, wishing the kid would open up, but I stand up and pat him on the back.
“Alright. Get to work. You’re gonna start getting flabby if you keep sitting there twiddling your thumbs.”
At the far end of the room, Mikey is flexing in the mirror while Cam narrates, “And here we see the gym bro in his natural habitat, unaware his calves are tragically underdeveloped—”
