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The kid’s grimace deepens.
“Hey.” I turn him towards me, palming his other shoulder too. “You nervous?”
August gulps, gaze on his cleats. “No.”
“Good.” Dropping to my haunches, I hook a couple fingers around his helmet cage, forcing sage eyes to meet mine. “‘Cause you don’t need to be.”
As far as motivational speeches go, it’s a pretty poor one. But I’m quickly learning that August doesn’t need much. Simple, sincere encouragements go a long way, and today is no different.
Setting his shoulders, he nods once, bumping the knuckles I extend towards him before jogging onto the field, confidence renewed.
As I watch him go, I sigh at the eyes burning a hole into the side of my face. “What now?”
Ben doesn’t say anything but that resurrected smirk speaks for him. And then it softens and says something else, something I don’t understand but I feel in my chest like an ache behind my sternum. He claps me on the shoulder before jogging off, yelling for the kids to huddle up.
I’m about to follow when a pitchy voice stops me. “Coach Morgan, can I speak to you?”
If it was anyone else, I’d pretend not to hear. IfIwas anyone else, I’d sayno thanksand continue on my way. Unfortunately, the worst part of my new job is someone who does not like to be ignored, and my old job means I’m not someone who’s allowed to be rude without consequences.
With practiced civility, I turn to Kristal Wainwright. “What’s up?”
She’s got a really weird face, Kristal. She’s objectively pretty but something ruins it. That nasty attitude, probably, which I’m no longer safe from. Whatever crush she had on me—and I’m not being cocky when I say she definitely had one—evaporated when the news about me and Sunday came out; the following practice, I heard her loudly whispering about my ‘questionable morals’ making me a ‘bad influence.’ “I want to talk to you about Simon.”
Of course she does. She always does. No matter what I do with her son, she’s never happy. He’s a chronic bench-rider now but at the beginning, I did start him. Until I learned the kid doesn’t care. He doesn’t try. He spends more time picking on his teammates than he does actually working—like mother, like son, I guess. I’ve no idea how he even got on the team but I’m guessing Ben and the coach before me were too scared of Kristal’s wrath to reject him.
“This is his third game not starting.”
“I’m sorry,” I lie. “But he was late to every practice last week. It’s not fair for me to start him.”
“It’s not fair for you to favor certain kids because of personal relationships.”
And there it is; the real root of her sour expression. That was quick. “I treat them all the same, Mrs. Wainwright.” Another lie, technically, but I don’t single out August for the reason Kristal assumes. I don’t pay more attention to him because of who his mother is; I do it because he’s better than the other kids. He’s talented, he’s dedicated, and he deserves the extra work.
I can’t tell Kristal that. She wouldn’t get it and even if I did, she wouldn’t believe me; she’s already convinced herself it’s personal bias, not professional. The eye roll and snort combination she serves me is proof enough of that.Mature. “It’s nepotism.”
Nepotism. Jesus Christ.
I swallow a laugh. “If you’d like to discuss this further, Mrs. Wainwright, you’re welcome to come find me before practice on Tuesday.”
Unsurprisingly, Kristal is not a fan of that answer. She purses her lips, an argument brewing between them, but I don’t give her the chance to spout it. Politely bidding her goodbye, I jog onto the field just in time for Ben to start his typical pre-game encouragement speech.
Maybe I should’ve let her get it out. Maybe I should’ve refuted the nepotism claim a little more heartily—or at all. Maybe I shouldn’t have dismissed her like I did because she storms back to her posse with a fucking fire under her ass, calling her son out of the team’s pregame hustle on her way. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her fuss over him, presumably breaking the bad news.
What’s funny is he doesn’t look all that bothered. He shouldn’t be—anyone not related to the kid can see baseball isn’t his passion. Only when his mommy oh-so-fucking-discretely points at August does he start to give even a little bit of a shit.
When the whistle blows to signal the start of the game, something is immediately, really, really off. There’s a weird energy in the air, something zipping between the kids that I can’t figure out. I swear it’s like some of them are playing each other, not the other team. There’s too much shoving and elbowing and childish aggression, making unease settle in my gut.
I can pinpoint the ringleaders easily; three boys who consistently teeter on the edge of obnoxious. Friends of Simon Wainwright’s, only marginally more committed to the team than he is. I’m all for kids being kids but this isn’t the place for that. Select teams aren’t for fucking around. They’re serious, real preparation for real baseball, and it baffles me how three-quarters of this team doesn’t seem to give a fuck.
I’m not the only one stumped. Even from a distance and with helmets obscuring their features, I can see the confused glances August and Izzy keep shooting each other. They must be seeing the same thing I am because when half-time rolls around, they approach the problem, catching the three boys fucking up their game before they can walk off the field.
It all escalates so quickly. A calm approach turns to wild gesturing turns to raised voices, and then suddenly, two kids are in each other’s faces, one of them shoving the other to the ground.
Ben and I are over there in a flash. He goes for Simon as he scrambles to his feet, stopping him before he lunges for the kid I catch around the waist and haul away. I grab the boy bellowing at his teammates too, grateful only a select few people on the bleachers know he’s cursing them out in Portuguese, and drag them both towards the sidelines. “Izzy,” I hiss, clamping my free hand over his mouth. “Stop.”
“Let me go!” August wriggles in my grip, the hard shell of his helmet colliding with my chin when he thrashes his head back.
I do but I keep a grip on his shoulder, stopping him from hurtling back onto the field and finishing what I can’t believe he started. “What the hell was that?”
