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Watching him play for the first time is… memorable. Similar to how I felt the first time I saw Coach, Preston’s mom, standing next to Dante Fisher. Dante was my favorite basketball player growing up. I idolized him for years. Because I wanted to be like Dante. And Charlotte “Coach” Coachman—now Parker—was the first female sports agent.
People took her seriously. Coach was a force to be reckoned with in the sports world. I couldn’t believe it when I saw her on ESPN with a big grin on her face next to Dante. She’d just closed a massive deal for him. Most of all she gave me hope. I had wanted to be like her ever since. That was my dream—to become a sports agent.
“You should get that to your dad,” Taylor says, whipping me out of my Preston induced stupor.
“Right.” I make a beeline for my dad, who’s talking to a player in the box.
With his back to us, I catch a few glimpses of the scrimmage taking place, before he angles his body enough to see us behind him. Dad holds up his hand, suggesting I meet him on the other side.
Distracted by the players, I have to nudge Taylor to get her to follow me. She’s mesmerized by them. A few of them take note of us. One waves, though I can’t see his face. I return his gesture, hoping he wasn’t attached to one of the dicks I’d seen in the locker room.
My dad pushes open the door that leads to the ice, and I hand him the wallet.
He takes it from me with a closed mouth smile. “Thanks, honey. You’re a real lifesaver.” His gaze falls from me to Taylor. “Hey, I haven’t seen you in a while. How have you been, Taylor?”
“I’ve been around. Busy with school and basketball.”
“Still working on your jump shot?”
She bobs her head. “Yep. I got it down pat now.”
He winks at her, and then turns to me, studying my face. “How was practice? Looks like you got a nice shiner forming on your cheek… and your lip. What happened? You look like you went a few rounds with Hopkins.”
I laugh at his boxing joke. “Practice was fine. Could have been better. But at least I’ll have a cool battle scar.”
My dad inspects the gash, shaking his head. “I wish you’d be more careful. You can be so rough.”
“Basketball is a rough sport,” I shoot back. “I’m not some delicate flower, Dad. I can take a punch, or in this case, an elbow.”
“You were never delicate, that’s for sure.” He sighs, as if he regrets turning me into a tomboy.
Before my mother left us, she had me prancing around in floral dresses and ballet flats. Yuck. I never liked ballet or dresses. Track pants and T-shirts were more my speed. My dad was right to raise me the way he did. If my mom had stuck around, I would have been pretending to be someone I wasn’t to make her happy. And I would have hated every second of it.
“Are you staying until practice is over?”
I shrug. “I guess we can hang around a little while longer. Not like we have anything better to do.”
“That’s the spirit.” He slaps me on the back like I’m one of the guys. “I could use another set of eyes on the team. This game is going to be tough for us.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Me neither,” Taylor adds.
Dad forces a smile and slides his hands to his hip. Biting the inside of his cheek, he seems nervous. More anxious than I’ve seen him in a long time. Glancing at the ice, his gaze travels between various players, landing on no one in particular.
With the game a few days away, he’s on edge, even though he would never admit it. It’s the first home game of the season, and his first as the new head coach. NCAA announcers will talk about his role, whether they win or lose. And even more so if they lose.
I tap my dad on the shoulder. “Everything will work out. I have a good feeling about the game.”
Dad grins. “Me, too.”
We’re almost the same height, my dad maybe three inches taller, our eyes almost level to one another. I might have gotten my looks from my mom, but I have his height and athleticism. It wasn’t easy being five feet ten inches in high school. Kids picked on me. Most of the guys were shorter than me.
I learned to develop a thick skin because of it. Class pictures were interesting. Teachers forced me to stand at the back of the line with the boys, arranging us in order of height.
Dad blows the whistle around his neck, signaling for the guys to come over to the bench. “I have to get going, honey. Take a seat over there.” He points to the first row of seats. “I’ll meet you over there after we’re done. Maybe we can get dinner. If you want. Taylor, you can come, too.”
