Page 3

TWO

A bell rings above the glass doors as I enter the Waffle Shack. It’s a slow time of night, only two other customers nursing mugs of coffee in the booth by the entrance. The silence is soon interrupted as the bell chimes again, followed by a cacophony of giggling girls.

“Everyone take your seats,” I tell the team, wincing my apologies to the waitress behind the cook station. Being bombarded by a dozen middle schoolers on what appeared to be a slow night must be irritating. I warn the girls, “And keep your voices down.”

The girls dart to the back of the restaurant, filling the row of booths along the far wall. Their parents scatter around to the other available booths, as the waitress shuffles laminated menus into a stack.

“This is nice of you,” Joanna says, standing beside me. “Buying a meal for the team.”

“We’re the district champions. They deserve it,” I say. “And it’s a tradition.”

When I played high school sports, Coach Phillips celebrated every win with a meal at the local Waffle Shack. Now that I’m the head coach, I like to continue the custom.

“Can we order whatever we want?” Delilah, one of the seventh-grade girls, is on her knees leaning over the cushioned booth, shouting at me from the other side of the restaurant.

“Sure. Just no coffee,” I say, motioning them to keep their voices down again. “We still have school tomorrow, remember?”

Groans ring out as the girls turn back around, studying their menus. When I was their age, the idea of coffee made me gag, but now it’s all the rage. Nearly every morning, I see students arriving at school with large iced mochas, triple pumps of pumpkin or vanilla or whatever flavor is in at the moment.

“They’re too young to drink coffee,” Joanna says, sliding into a booth.

“You know what these kids are like,” I say, sitting across from her. “Fourteen going on thirty. It’s kind of scary, really.”

This is Joanna’s first season as my assistant coach, and even though she’s been an incredible asset, she doesn’t work at Manning Academy full-time, and she’s still getting used to the inner workings of young girls. Every group is different, each cohort arriving with new trends and dislikes and motivations. The adolescents of today seem far removed from the young girls we once were.

“I’ll take a waffle with chocolate chips and extra whipped cream,” Shana, one of the eighth-grade girls, says to the waitress. Her order makes me laugh. They’re at least young enough to enjoy yummy food and each other’s company. In a few years’ time, they’ll start obsessing about weight and boys, a painful truth that makes me shudder.

As a coach, I’m not supposed to have favorites, but this particular team has inspired me more than ones in years past. When I started working with them last year, their talent was raw, eclipsed by their insecurity and uncertainty. Over time, I’ve watched them come into their own, harnessing their skills to work effortlessly as a team.

“I’ll take the Old Timer’s Breakfast, please,” Evie says. Tonight’s star performer.

Across from her, Beth tells the waitress, “I’ll take the same.”

The two girls sit alone at a booth by the front window, leaning over the table to whisper excitedly. It makes me smile. Reminds me of when I was younger, and my best friend was my entire world. The rest of the team, as usual, circles around Beatrice, Amber and Tara; they’re not the most talented, but they’re certainly the most popular.

The entrance bell chimes again as a man in a dark coat enters. He twists his head from left to right, searching the room, a wide smile spreading across his face when he spots me.

I kiss him on the lips, leaning back to take a better look at him. His jacket is damp from the evening moisture and stubble has spread along his neck and jaw, but he’s still undeniably handsome. This time next year, he’ll be my husband. My stomach does little somersaults every time I’m reminded of that fact.

“That was one hell of a game,” Connor says.

“Wasn’t it?” Joanna says, motioning across the table at me. “Three championships in four years.”

“I’ve been blessed with some talented players,” I say.

“They couldn’t have done it without you,” Connor says, eyeing his menu.

“You’ll have to tell Rex I’m not a total disappointment,” Joanna says to Connor. She puts her menu down on the table.

Connor and Rex were best friends in high school; Joanna is Rex’s kid sister. Last year, after my assistant coach told me she was pregnant and taking a year off, I was scrambling to find a new partner. Connor suggested her for the job, and it’s been a great fit.

“I can’t believe the season is already over,” I say, sipping my drink.

“That’s what we’re celebrating, isn’t it?”

I nudge Connor in his side, and he grins. Coaching is my top priority, something he’s known from the moment we met, but it can be an obstacle in our relationship sometimes. When you’re coaching a sport, you can’t turn off the job once practice is over. Even when I’m home, I’m strategizing new plays, overseeing game schedules and reading about potential competitors. That doesn’t even count the extra hours I put in with practices and out-of-town tournaments. Sure, the season is now officially over, but the job never ends. Connor knows that as much as I do.

The waitress comes over and takes our order. One of my favorite things about Waffle Shack, other than their perfectly crisp namesakes, is the speed with which they deliver the food. Within twenty minutes, the waitress and another worker from the kitchen, donning a floor-length apron, are serving up waffles and eggs to the giddy girls and their parents. It’s quite funny how quickly the room goes quiet once food is on the table.

I use the moment to my advantage, standing to capture everyone’s attention.

“Tonight was my favorite type of game,” I begin, waiting for each player on the team to face me, their bright-eyed expressions eager with anticipation. “It wasn’t a landslide victory, by any means. In fact, there were several moments when I thought we might be bested by the other team. And yet, you managed to dig deep and persevere. Talent on its own isn’t enough. When you face a fierce competitor, that’s when your true ability comes out.”

The girls break into applause. Even the overworked waitress is smiling. There’s something magical about being in the presence of winners. You feed off their spirit.

“Great speech, Coach,” Joanna says when I sit down again.

“It really was,” Connor says, raising his hand to get the waitress’ attention. “I’m happy to take the check for everyone.”

“No, Connor. This is my team.” I place my hand over his, trying to stop him, but he wriggles his fingers away and retrieves his wallet.

“Nonsense. You’ve earned this just as much as they have,” he says. “Let me spoil you.”

Even in a cheap establishment like this, the bill will be high, but I was prepared to pay it. Connor works in finance, his salary almost triples what I make. Still, since we’re not married yet; I prefer to keep our accounts separate. Independence is something I worked so very hard to achieve.

“Let the man pay,” Joanna says, swatting my hand. “We should be celebrated just as much as the girls.”

Two women approach the table, interrupting us. Beatrice’s mother, Lynette Nichols, and Amber’s mother, Melinda Terry.

“Congratulations, Coach,” Lynette says. “Our girls did a good job tonight.”

“They sure did,” I say.

“It was down to the wire,” Melinda says. “I wasn’t sure we’d pull it out.”

Melinda’s compliment doesn’t come across quite as genuine. I’m used to this tone with parents. They want the best for their child, and often kiss my ass to get it, but they also think they know best. Everyone wants their child to be the shining star.

“I never doubted them,” I say, pointedly. You never know what the outcome of a particular game might be, but I always had faith in my team.

Without invitation, the two women join us in our booth. Lynette sits beside Joanna while Melinda scoots in beside Connor and me, forcing us to scrunch together.

“We realize the season is over,” Lynette begins, “but we were hoping to discuss how we might celebrate the girls’ title.”

“This meal is a grand gesture,” Melinda says, somewhat snottily. “But winning the district championship is a big deal. We’ll have to come up with something to mark the occasion.”

“I plan on talking with the athletic director tomorrow,” I say. “Anything sponsored by the school will have to be approved by them.”

“You know, there’s a new indoor waterpark opening in the next town over,” Lynette says. “That could be a fun place for the girls?”

My mind starts calculating costs and risks. Hotel rooms and chaperones and potential dangers. It won’t be good for next year if one of the players suffers an injury on a school-sponsored trip.

“We’ll see,” I respond, politely. “I’m happy to mention the idea.”

“Mr. Lake and I are good friends,” Melinda says. “You’ll have to let me know what he says.”

I grit my teeth at the obvious namedrop. Mr. Lake is the school’s athletic director. Manning Academy is a private school. Parents pay sky-high tuition to ensure their children have an exceptional education, and that extends to every element of the school experience. Dealing with parents is one of the negative aspects of coaching, particularly in this privileged setting.

Now that the girls have finished eating, they’re getting restless. Most of them are out of their seats, huddled around Beth and Evie’s table. I use the distraction to my advantage, excusing myself to go over and supervise.

“We have plenty of time to come up with a plan,” I tell the mothers, gently moving to push Connor and Melinda out of the booth.

When I approach the girls’ table, I see several phones out. They jump back when they see me standing behind them.

“What’s so exciting over here?” I ask.

“Nothing, Coach,” Beatrice says, moving to hide her phone. “Just going over highlights of the game.”

“Let me see,” I say, holding out my hand. It’s always fun to see the game from the audience’s point-of-view, and thanks to social media, I get to see dozens of clips.

“Phone is about to die,” Beatrice says with a shrug.

“Hopefully someone got a good video of the winning shot,” I say to Evie, but I notice she’s not looking at me, or the other girls. She doesn’t seem to share in their enthusiasm. She’s staring straight ahead at the table, hands clenched into fists.

“Is everything okay?” I ask her, but Amber is the first to answer.

“We’re just tired,” she says, pulling on her jacket.

“Thanks for the food, Coach,” Tara says, and the three of them skip away before I can ask anything else. I watch as the various clusters of girls and parents disperse, thanking me for their meal and a victorious season on the way out.

Evie remains sitting at her booth, tapping at the flip phone in her hands. The top of her forest-green hoodie is pulled up over her head.

“Everything okay?” I ask her again.

“I’m trying to get a hold of my mom,” she says, eyes never meeting mine. “She’s not answering.”

“Your mom wasn’t at the game tonight?” I ask, bracing for the answer.

“She had work.”

My mind replays the glorious image of Evie scoring tonight’s game-winning shot, then plummets at the realization no one from her family was there to see it happen. Evie’s home life isn’t the best, but I thought her mother would have made an effort to attend the championship final.

“Tell you what,” I say, bending down so no one can hear. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

“You sure?”

“Not a problem,” I say. “Head out front. I’ll be there in a sec.”

Evie seems relieved that she can stop the frantic texting. She stands, both hands in her pockets. “Thanks, Coach Cass.”

As I turn to follow her, I see Melinda Terry is standing there. I hadn’t felt her beside me.

“I do hope whatever you decide, you’ll include me on the planning,” she says. “It’s difficult enough watching our girls from the bleachers all season. I know the parents would like to be involved as much as possible.”

“I understand that,” I say, softly.

“I’m not sure you do. We all know you’re a local sport star, but you didn’t attend Manning Academy yourself. We do things here a bit differently.”

Again, I grit my teeth, resenting the subtle reminder that I’m not one of them. I don’t need Melinda Terry or anyone else reminding me. I’ve known it my whole life. If it weren’t for my talent on the basketball court, and later from the coach’s seat, I’d never darken these people’s doors.

“It’s my fourth season as head coach,” I remind her. “I’m aware of how Manning Academy operates.”

She smiles knowingly and nods her head. “Very well.”

She walks away and approaches Amber, inspecting her coat before they exit the restaurant. There’s a familiar expression on Amber’s face, one of adolescent annoyance and yet the stark desire to want to please. I can’t imagine what it’s like having a domineering mother like Melinda Terry. Then again, I can’t imagine what it’s like having a mother at all.

As I’m turning to leave, I glance at our table once more. A cell phone sits on the Formica surface. I know it’s not mine or Connor’s, and a quick swipe of the screen tells me it belongs to Melinda: the background picture is one of Amber, taken at their most recent trip to Disney World.

I turn around to grab her attention, then stop, a familiar pleasure coursing through me. Melinda is right. I’m not like her and the other wealthy parents. I come from a different place, a different history, and as much as I try to outrun that origin story, particles of the girl I used to be remain.

In one swift move, I pocket the phone, holding down the side button to turn it off. I exit the restaurant, cherishing the tingling rush of another victory.