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Logan
Isip on a cup of coffee, a piece of pecan pie in front of me. Campbell sits on the other side of the table, working on his second piece of pie. We’re at Mary’s Café, and we’ve already eaten breakfast. I know breakfast doesn’t typically come with dessert, but we were unpacking late last night and didn’t get down here like I planned.
“This is really good,” Campbell mumbles, his mouth full.
“Best pie in North Carolina,” I say.
“Best pie anywhere,” he counters with a sloppy grin.
I chuckle and glance at an incoming message on my phone. When I decided to return to Coree Harbor, my return came with perks. I’m set to take over as head coach for the varsity football team. The only downfall: I can’t be head coach unless I teach at the school.
I did get my degree in college before entering the draft. I suppose I’ll be putting that degree to use as the physical education teacher. Not like I could teach history or any common core classes.
Now, according to the text from my soon-to-be boss, my open tryouts for football today may get rained out. Hate to tell him, but I don’t give a damn if it’s raining or not. We’ll be playing in the rain, so we’ll be holding practices in the rain. Tryouts are no different.
“Here’s the check, honey,” the waitress says. “Glad to have you back in Coree Harbor.”
“Glad to be back,” I reply, smiling up at her. I know I went to high school with her, but I can’t place her name. There are a lot of former schoolmates I don’t remember.
“You back in town and a female coaching basketball at the college. Coree Harbor will definitely be on the map again.”
“Yeah, that’s something,” I say, knowing she probably should’ve been front page news instead of me.
“Well, with you coaching football, we may have a shot at a championship again. Can’t wait to see what you do with the team,” she says with a wink before sauntering off.
I pull out some cash and toss it on the table, telling Campbell to finish up while I go take a leak. I want to get over to the high school and check out the equipment, see what I’m working with.
I walk around the tables and down the hall to the bathroom. Once I’ve handled my business, I push the door open and hear a loud curse on the other side. A brunette in a baseball cap and sunglasses slaps her hand on the door.
“Damn it! Watch yourself!” she snaps.
My gaze drifts from her tank down to her cut-off jean shorts. I realize I must’ve knocked into her with the door, so I apologize. I can’t see her eyes behind the sunglasses, but her cheeks tinge a nice shade of pink.
“Whatever,” she mumbles and presses the door open to the ladies’ room.
I’m tempted to follow her inside, demand she accept my apology, but I would look like a damn lunatic if I did that. I may be a legend in this town, but times have changed.
I head back out front and see Campbell has already gone to the truck. I take one last glance back toward the hallway, but the mystery woman hasn’t emerged. Two run-ins in two days. Things can only get better, right?
