Page 137 of On His Team

I send it to Rowan under the desk.

Me: This is about you.

His answer comes six minutes later.

Rowan: How?

Me: It was foreseeable.

Rowan: What was?

I smile down at the screen.

Me: Everything that happened in your kitchen.

There’s a longer pause.

Rowan: Stop texting me from class.

Me: You’re in class too.

Rowan: Yeah.

I stare at the message.

Then type:

Me: Your thumbs ups and yeahs are emotionally hostile.

Rowan: Sure.

I press my lips together, so I don’t laugh out loud.

Ottley looks toward my side of the room. I put the phone facedown and attempt to behave like a future professional.

By three, I’m at the rink.

Work is quiet enough that I get through the tape inventory, finish two travel jerseys, and help Cole replace a skate holder before Donovan tells me I can use the back desk for my event stuff if I’m caught up.

I am. So I do. The event has reached the point where I can’t call it my little class project anymore. There are forty-eight kids registered.

Forty-eight.

When Derek first told me the youth program thought forty participants was manageable, forty sounded theoretical. A number on an email. Now I have a spreadsheet with forty-eight actual names, forty-eight emergency contacts, forty-eight skate sizes, and a column noting which kids already have equipment.

The rink is held. The youth program is confirmed. Athletics approved the use of the space. I have volunteers. I have a rough schedule. I have enough questions left that every time I answer one, three more appear, but the event is happening. That realization hits differently while I’m sitting in the equipment room staring at the registration sheet.

I came up with this. Not alone. Derek helped. Donovan has answered questions. Ives has pushed me every time I showed up to class with a version of the idea that was too vague. But it started in my head. Now forty-eight kids are coming.

I sit back in the chair and grin at the screen.

“What now?” Cole asks from the skate machine.

I look over. “Nothing.”

“You look creepy again.”

“I am creepy. Frick off.” I flip him off.