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“I’m counting on it.”
Lacy laughed.
“Coach Massey doesn’t believe in easing anyone into the season.”
The world shifted slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that I tightened my grip on the edge of the counter to steady myself.
I kept my voice even. “Massey?”
“Lane Massey. You know him?” She looked up.
The name echoed somewhere deep in my chest.
“We went to school together,” I said carefully.
“Oh.” Her eyebrows lifted slightly, interest flickering there, but she didn’t push. “I didn’t move here until last year. Everyone says he’s good with the kids. You’ll probably run into him, along with half the town, sooner or later.”
“Yeah,” I agreed quietly. I looked back at my computer screen, but the words blurred together. Jace had never mentioned the coach’s name; he just said “coach,” but now I was wondering what I had done by insisting he try another sport since soccer wasn’t available. Lane was here, and that felt like it changed everything. The man I’d spent years avoiding without ever saying his name out loud was coaching my son. Two World Series championships, endorsements with all the major brands, magazine covers in grocery store checkout lines. Every time I caught a glimpse, I’d looked away before the memories could catch up. He belonged on television or on a stadium field. Anywhere but Kennedy, Kansas. What was Lane doing here of all places?
Nine
Cali
My shift ended at six. Stepping outside, the sky was streaked pink and gold. A familiar, earned ache deep in muscles that had carried me through twelve hours on my feet. The good kind of tired. Maybe I could do this. Maybe I could build something here.
Just as I reached the car, my phone vibrated in my pocket. The notification came from the school’s generic football email account. I hesitated before opening it.
Subject: Meeting Request
Hi Ms. Walton,
I want to schedule a time to meet regarding Jace and the upcoming season. Please stop by my office at Kennedy High this week.
– Coach
Lacy’s comments echoed in my head.
Coach Massey.
Jace hadn’t mentioned any problems. He’d come home sweaty and smiling, talking about conditioning and how he thought he might enjoy playing wide receiver. What reason would prompt the coach’s meeting? Was there paperwork missing? Eligibility issues? Something disciplinary? I read the email three times, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less ominous.
Coach. The screen dimmed before I looked away.
Surely, there were multiple coaches on staff. Assistants. Coordinators. It didn’t have to be— Don’t spiral. Before doubt could take over, my fingers were already moving across the keyboard.
Thank you for reaching out. I’m available Thursday after 4 p.m. Please let me know what works best.
Cali
My thumb hovered over Send for half a second, before I pressed it. The message whooshed away, carrying a piece of my equilibrium with it.
The house was loud when I got home. Jace and Grandpa were arguing over the placement of a toy silo while Jeopardy played on the TV at a volume that felt like they’d been trying to listen to it from outside. I grabbed the remote and turned it down to a reasonable level.
“It doesn’t go there,” Grandpa insisted, like a child who hadn’t gotten his way.
“It makes more sense with the wind direction,” Jace countered, as if he’d been a farm kid his whole life. I paused in the doorway and let the sound wash over me. This. This was why I’d come back.
“Hey,” I said, stepping inside.
