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“He started it,” both boys protest.
“You pushed him, August.”
“You didn’t hear what he said!”
“I don’t care. You don’t fight.”
“But—”
“Go sit on the bench.”
“What?”
“Now, August.”
Fuck, I’ve never felt anything like the pang in my chest August’s betrayed expression causes. Hurt shines in his eyes but he’s quick to blink it away, quicker to stomp towards the dreaded bench if only because it’s far away from me. Izzy follows behind him, shooting me the same look but it doesn’t hurt nearly as much.
Ignoring their protests—we didn’t do anything, the trio dare to say like I don’t have fucking eyes and a lifetime’s worth of experience with tactile fuckery on the field—I send the other three instigators after them. Four people down, I have no choice. I have to call up everyone on the bench.
When Simon Wainwright jogs onto the field, pausing to throw a smirk at his equally smug mother, I can’t help but feel like I just got played.
* * *
Against all odds, we win.
It’s not a celebration, though. It’s an awkward round of clapping, hushed words shared between parents, and nervous glances between the kids.
August won’t look at me. He won’t look at his mother either. I can’t chase after either of them when they tear towards the parking lot because I have three other kids to deal with. Three sets of parents I have to gently but firmly inform of the zero-tolerance policy for fighting we have, and how they’re not welcome on my field until the week after next. The fourth target on my list does my job for me; it’s Isaac who lets me know he won’t be coming to practice—“Mom said baseball is a privilege and I lose that privilege by being a little shit.”
It’s the fifth and final parent who I’m really fucking dreading.
Sunday is waiting by my car, and I consider it a small miracle that I drove today so running away? Not a viable option. Leaning inside the open back door, she hunches over the boy sitting in the backseat. Skinny arms wrap around her waist, small hands clinging to fistfuls of her clothes. Words too soft to understand float towards me, punctuated by loud sniffs that fucking break my heart.
As my footsteps crunch gravel, the quiet, comforting murmurs come to a stop. Both mother and son go rigid. Coming to a stop right behind them, I make the executive decision to keep my hands to myself instead of dragging them into my arms like I want to. “Can I talk to August for a second?”
Sunday’s arm rises, sifting through August’s hair. “Is that okay?”
August’s hesitation lasts a lifetime. I don’t clearly hear his grumbled response but I guess it's affirmative because his mother moves aside. I’m already hurting when Sunday avoids my gaze. When I stop seeking it and look to August instead… fuck. That’s excruciating.
Tear-stained cheeks. Shoulders slumped in defeat. Swollen, unnaturally bright eyes that refuse to meet mine cause actual pain in my chest. When I crouch, those eyes lift from the ground to the sky, and I will myself not to take it personally. It’s not fair for me to, since I have to treat this whole thing impersonally, like he’s just the kid who shoved another kid during a game and not… August. “Can you tell me what they said?”
“I don’t wanna.”
I don’t need to follow his gaze to know who he’s staring at. “Was it about your mom?”
He hesitates. Clenches his fists. Nods.
Fuck. It’s a good thing none of them are allowed within my line of sight for two weeks because I don’t think my career could survive me being arrested for throttling a child.
“Okay.” Smoothing my clammy palms down my thighs, I stand, internally bracing myself for what I have to say. “You can’t come to practice next week, kiddo. Or next weekend’s tournament”
“What?But they-”
“I know they started it. I know they were stirring shit but you made it physical. I can’t ignore that.”
When that look returns, I almost go back on my words. I don’t know what to do with that look, with his hurt betrayal. I’ve never been on the receiving end of it before, never hurt a kid the way I’ve obviously hurt August, and I hate it. I want the boy who looks at me like I have all the answers in the universe back but there’s nothing I can do. Not without proving Kristal right.
Huffing a shaky exhale, August’s expression shutters. He swipes at his eyes as he slumps in his seat, staring sullenly at the headrest. “This is bullshit.”
