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They bounce, bunching closer together, but all I want is for him to get on with it already.
If my phone wasn’t in my pocket, I’d check the time, but it is, and Coach is one of the few people I don’t care to be disrespectful toward.
I want to shower and not be rushed into getting ready before I meet up with my friends tonight. Not that that would make a difference…looking good is an art and you can’t rush perfection.
Being late is nothing new for me, but I’m not in the mood to hear their relentless rebuttals if I take too long today. I need to leave soon if I have any hope of avoiding that.
Cole, Eli, and I are having our traditional year-end celebration at our favorite local bar.
It’s turned into our habit over the years to cheers off to another successful year of completion in school. I don’t plan on making tonight any different.
Only one problem. Things have already started to do that without my permission or approval.
Traditionally, we weresupposedto have this on our last day of school. But no, Cole had to go and ruin that—okay, not ruin, Iamhappy for them—by forcing us all to drive hours back to propose to Rory.
Change is happening. We’re growing up, and I hate every single thread of new adult responsibilities that comes along with it.
I’m not ready to dive all the way into that yet, which is why keeping this one shred of familiar repetition is so important to me.
“Alright, Coach, get on with it.” Spit it out, I want to add but don’t.
My foot taps, the noise filling some of that void. He has to be taking pleasure in this because there’s no other reason for him to be taking his sweet time answering me.
Between the tapping, I debate again if it would be awful to sneak a peek at my phone again.
More bouncing, more thoughts, less verbal communication.
Come on, Coach, I’m trying not to be late. I’m trying to be good for my friends.
He shifts, looking more uncomfortable now than I’ve ever seen in him in the entirety of our athlete-to-mentor relationship.
His head rotates, jostling from side to side like he’s trying to pick his words carefully.
“There’s been some talk…rumors,” he starts, and I wet my lips, leaning forward in my seat.
Finally.
“I’m not here to encourage or discourage what you do outside these doors. Frankly, it should be none of my business, but Finn…” Another lungful of air leaves his throat. It’s filled with as much disappointment as the gusto of his arm when he slams down a new type of paper. One I hadn’t noticed he had before now.
The college newspaper.
I reach for it, scanning the printed form of what most students read digitally. I’m not surprised Coach has a black-and-white copy. He’s old school like this.
Okay, “most” is a stretch and if we’re being completely honest. The only reason I’m subscribed to their weekly publications is that I like to check out my own articles.
I told you I have a reputation—
“Son, you’ve made it my business,” he adds, cutting off my skimming when he taps the title like he wishes it was my skin. He uses more pressure, like the force will somehow make a deeper bruise. “Unfortunately, this time, I can’t overlook things.”
“It’s one article,” I defend, tossing the article back down.
So what if it’s a bad write-up? It’ll blow over.
The last few days have been rough…
I arch a relaxed brow. “How many students actually read this—”
The extension of his palm stalls the rest of my sentence, taking my certainty right along with it. “I know, but that’s not my worry. The students at this school are not the ones holding my hesitancy.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Your generation’s need for social media has thankfully dulled the response to anyone actually reading a decent article nowadays.”
