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“Best Mexican in town.”
I couldn’t agree more.
And maybe—if I’m lucky—I’ll be able to ferret out some information about Dad’s new coach.
Mason
Iyank open the door to the lecture hall and grind to a halt as my gaze coasts over the roomful of students laughing and chatting with one another. That’s all it takes for uncertainty to crash over me again.
What the hell am I doing here?
I don’t fit in.
Or belong.
I’m too damn old to be an undergrad.
I shift my backpack. The heavy weight resting against my shoulder feels more like a blast from the past than my current reality.
“Hey, you gonna move or what?” an impatient voice says from behind.
I blink and realize that I’m standing in the middle of the aisle near the door, holding up traffic. One glance over my shoulder shows a handful of annoyed people waiting to file into the spacious hall.
A dull heat creeps into my cheeks as I step aside.
“Sorry,” I mutter, feeling even more like a dumbass.
It’s so tempting to swing around and plow my way toward the exit. To forget about this idiotic idea of finishing up my degree and finally graduating.
What do I really need it for anyway?
Not the small mechanic business I started up a couple years ago out of my garage. That had been the plan before Derek Andrews filled my head with a bunch of crap about assisting him with his Division I football program.
I should have stuck with what I know.
What I’m used to.
Instead of giving in to every impulse that prods me to turn tail and run, I swing into the last row and slide over a couple of desks before settling on an empty seat. I promised myself I’d give this a couple weeks before dropping out, and that’s what I intend to do.
No matter how painful.
Here’s my dilemma—in order to coach college ball long term, I need a degree from a four-year institution. It took a lot of cajoling on Coach A’s part to convince the athletic department to overlook that credential. They only agreed to hire me with the caveat that I take courses each semester and steadily work toward my bachelors.
If I quit school, I lose the offensive coordinator position. Not to mention, disappoint Coach, a man who has put his name and reputation on the line for me. Even though I’ve only been on the field with the kids for a couple of weeks, I already love it. This job is a dream come true. Now that I’ve made it a reality, I’m loath to walk away and go back to working on cars full time.
When I was a kid, I lived and breathed football. I played in a Pop Warner program before moving onto my high school team. And then Claremont. I have no idea if I could have played professionally after college, but I loved every moment of the experience along with the camaraderie I found with my teammates. The kind of friendships you make in a team sport aren’t easily duplicated.
Until I walked away from football the summer before junior year of college, I didn’t realize how much it consumed my life. I did the only thing I could and threw myself into steering my brother in the right direction. As satisfying as that had been, it’s not the same as being on the field and playing.
Coaching isn’t the same either, but it’s damn close.
As close as I’ll get.
So, no…the last thing I want is to give it up. Which basically means I need to do whatever I can to make the situation work. Since I haven’t been in a classroom for a while, I decided to slowly dip my foot in the pond by taking a couple of classes. If the fall goes well…then I’ll consider a full course load in the spring.
I still get my hands dirty by working on cars. It’s just not as many as before. Coaching takes up a significant chunk of my time.
I glance around the room again and watch the other students grab their computers from their bags and fire them up. I can’t help but shake my head. Back in my day, we used a notebook and pencil.
