I smirk. Natalie Warner is my team captain this year. She’s strong and talented. She reminds me a lot of myself when I was in high school. Which is why I need to make sure she knows that she’s not the one calling the shots, as much as I appreciate her leadership.
I cup my hands around my mouth. “Seniors, get on the field.”
Landon’s head snaps to me. “Hey, Coach.”
I offer him a tight smile, ignoring the bite in his words, and slide my sunglasses onto my nose. The less he can see my facial expressions, the better. “Gather ‘round, everyone. Let’s bring it in before we start our day.”
The girls waiting in line after Landon’s instructions glance to him before circling us.
His assistant coach, Quinn Whitaker, stands beside him. She’s a good partner for Landon. Quinn knows her stuff; I learned that working alongside her when I coached JV. She’ll help Landon’s team get into shape for the season.
As much as I hate to admit it, and never would out loud where anyone could hear and quote me on it later, Landon is a good fit for this coaching position. He’ll teach the girls and refine their skills, something they’ll need if they want a chance at playing on varsity one day.
Just because I want to run him over with my Jeep like a speed-bump doesn’t mean I can’t acknowledge that he’s a good athlete.
“I figured we could start with transitions,” Landon says.
Is that what you figured?I want to bite his head off, but I bite my tongue instead. “We can. I just want to start by addressing them first.”
He takes a step back, and doesn’t dispute it.
My shoulders relax a fraction of an inch as I turn to face the group. “We had a great day yesterday. Today is your last chance to show us what you’ve got and make an impression. Push yourselves, and make the corrections we point out. You all have the potential to be great, but that’s not enough. You need to convince us that you deserve a spot on our teams.”
I raise my hands to clap, but catch myself before I do. “Uh, Coach Fletcher,” I clear my throat, fumbling over my words, “do you...have anything you’d like to add?”
God, I sound so fake it makes my skin crawl.
“Nope, I think we’re ready.” He claps twice. “Good luck, ladies.”
While everyone moves into lines, I lean in close. “Don’t call them ladies.”
Landon’s chin jerks back. “What? Why?”
“Just don’t.” I cross my arms over my chest. “They’re players. People. Don’t make it a gender thing.”
His head tilts, his eyes boring into my sunglasses before he speaks. “Understood.”
I clench my jaw to stop it from dropping open.
Really? That’s it? No argument? No sardonic laughter?
The newbies are waiting, so I don’t have time to question him. But it’s hard not to look a gift horse in the mouth when that horse is always dressed like a Trojan.
Tryouts go smoother than they did yesterday, mostly because Landon lets me call the shots.
But this is the calm before the storm.
We have to deliberate over our teams next, and decide who to cut. It’s not easy, knowing someone’s dream of making the team will be cut short, being the one responsible for it. Emotions run high in the deliberation room, and that’s when the coacheslikeeach other.
I’m pretty sure that’s why Landon and I are dragging our feet after tryouts end, taking our time collecting the equipment, prolonging the inevitable. At least Raymond and Quinn will be there with us to make sure we don’t kill each other.
The four of us settle into Danbury’s office, utilizing his small conference table. The school outside the athletic office has gone silent. No lockers slamming. No late buses idling. Just the low hum of the nearby vending machine.
Landon pushes up the sleeves of his Breakwater hoodie, and sets up three different color highlighters next to his clipboard,positioning everything just so. A rainbow of tabs stick to his notes.
I lean forward to get a better look. “You color-coded them?”
“I have a system.” Landon clasps his hands on top of his clipboard to cover them. “Where are your notes?”
