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“I know, I know, you’re not a coach. You’re just Ms. Lim,” Alonzo said. “But the way I see it, if you’re on the field telling me what to do, you’re either my coach or my mama, and I definitely know you aren’t my mama.”

“And does your mama know you’re running around the school?”

“My sister is a freshman this year, and she made me come,” he said. “They’re teaching them how to use the combination locks right now, and I told her I was going to come down and see you.”

The adult in her wanted to scold him for walking around the school without a hall pass, which was not allowed for students at any time—school in session or not. But damn if it didn’t feel nice that one of her students was at least halfway fond of her. Especially when that student was also on her team. They weren’t supposed to have favorites, but the students who had an actual interest in art—whether they came to her that way or she coaxed it out of them—always had a soft spot in her heart.

Alonzo shoved himself in one of the chairs at the black table closest to her desk. For a moment, they looked at each other like that dueling Spider-Man meme, waiting for the other to speak. He was the one to fold first.

“Is Coach Landry leaving the team?”

Franny damn near swallowed her tongue. The question hit her out of the blue, but it wasn’t surprising. Not really. She didn’t know what was inside adults that made them believe kids were completely oblivious to what was going on around them, but she wondered when she herself had internalized it. Of course word had gotten aroundabout Landry’s retirement. Of course the players had sensed or heard that something was amiss.

“Where did you hear that?” she asked in lieu of an actual answer.

Alonzo made a zipping motion across his lips before tossing the imaginary key into the little trash can at the end of the table.

Franny laughed. “At least you’re loyal.”

“Is he?”

“Lonzo, you know I can’t say anything either way. If Coach Landry wants you to know something, he’ll tell you.”

He narrowed his eyes and twisted his mouth up, clearly skeptical of her deeply political answer.

“If he leaves, who’s going to be our new coach?”

Franny peeked at her watch, wishing like hell that Principal Coleman would suddenly release the masses and flood her classroom with enough families that she could efficiently avoid this intense interrogation at the hands of a teenager with a curly taper-fade and Nike slides. The seconds ticked by with no relief.

“I’d say,” she started carefully, “that if you’re worried about the team not having a leader, you shouldn’t be. Everybody is going to make sure y’all are taken care of.”

“It’s not that, really. It’s just that… well, you know my daddy is still recovering from being in the hospital, and we don’t really have money like that right now. I wasn’t going to be able to stay on the team, because we couldn’t afford all the fees and our bills at the same time, but Coach Landry helped us out and made it so I still got to play even though we couldn’t pay.”

Alonzo kept his eyes on the desk the entire time he spoke, hands fidgeting in his lap. The shame was evident in his tone, and it made Franny’s heart ache. It was moments like these that reminded her how much further she had to go before she felt secure as a leader—if security was something real leaders even felt. She didn’t know if sheshould give him a hug and tell him that everything would be all right, because no matter what she did, she didn’t have the power to change his circumstances.

“You’re scared that if Landry leaves, you won’t be able to play anymore.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m not even trying to play college ball. I just love playing and being on the team. It makes me… it makes me feel like everything isn’t bad all the time,” he said quietly.

She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, tears springing up at the corners of her eyes, which she forced herself to quickly blink away.

“How about this,” she began, after clearing her throat. “You have my word that you’ll always have a place on that team. Don’t think about Landry; don’t think about the money. Just know it’ll all be handled as long as you’re doing everything you need to do. You can take my word on that.”

Alonzo finally looked up from the table, his round brown eyes hopeful but cautious. “How can you give me your word when you keep saying you’re not a coach?”

“I happen to have an in,” she said. “Don’t worry about that either.”

He seemed to accept that and sat back in the chair, finally getting comfortable by crossing his ankles and arms. Franny sighed, taking her seat. It was clear he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

“You know what, Ms. Lim? I think you should be a coach.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm-hmm. I mean, if Coach Carr can do it, you definitely can. He barely wants to talk to us half the time.”

Alonzo wasn’t wrong, to be fair. Coach Carr was close to retirement age himself and had lost a lot of his luster for coaching. He always seemed more than happy to let Franny take the reins—regardless of title—at practices.

“Be careful what you wish for. I’d work you way harder than Carr does.”