Page 188 of Falling Offsides

For the entirety of the drive I debate what to say to Coach. I know he’s not an unreasonable man, but as Dylan likes to remind us all thetime, mothers, sisters, and daughters are off-limits. No-gos. So yeah, I don’t want him to think that I was using his daughter without good intentions.

By the time I find a parking bay, he’s landed and I’m running to meet him. Thankfully, the airport is a circus. Crying babies, delayed flights, and businesspeople yelling into AirPods like they’re summoning ancient demons through time.

Meanwhile, I stand in arrivals with the makeshift sign I ask the concierge to print.

COACH NILSSON, it says in a super bold, super large font that the blind could read from outer space.

When I made the request it seemed like a great idea. It’s what people do to welcome their relatives, right? Now, I feel like a clueless dumbass.

Let’s be honest, I’m a six-two, brown-skin pro athlete in a sea of middle-aged white men that have importance stamped into their stares. Everyone is looking at me… and my sign. A few are obviously debating approaching me. But it’s always the shy kid that braves it.

“Hi,” she waves at me.

“Hi,” I say back.

“I know who you are.”

“Annabelle, don’t be so brash,” her mom chastises, giving me an apologetic look.

“But it’s true. He plays for that team that lost against?—”

“Annabelle!”

Ouch!The little shit’s brutal. But… “We did lose to The Wolves last season. Do you like hockey?”

“No,” she replies with aewwscrunch of her face. “My daddy watches it. I don’t know why, cause it’s boring.”

“I’m so sorry, we’re working on filters.”

“That’s okay,” I’m laughing at her sass while in my head, I’m forming this similar picture of a mini Courtney with her dark curls and bright baby blues, telling it how it is.

“How old are you, Annabelle?”

“Seven right now, but I’m turning eight at eleven-fifty-two, so I get to stay up late and have cake before bed.”

“Oh wow, happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” she sings with a hitch of her shoulders. “Why is your sign so big… and boring?”

“Oh my God,” her mom grimaces.

“It’s for my coach.”

“I know, I can read. Coach Nilsson.”

“Smart.”

“And too outspoken.” Her mom playfully tugs at a bright auburn lock. As Annabelle’s about to sass back, her mom points ahead, “Look who’s home, sweetie.”

I glance up in the direction Annabelle is running towards a suited man with the same shade of hair as hers. She’s so happy to see him, and I can’t stop the thought of how it will feel one day when I get home from a run on the road and my kid greets me like that.

Just like that I’m picturing a mini Courtney with dark curls, except they’re tighter and coarser, and her skin is darker… and…

Shit.

I freeze as I look up and find Coach striding my way. He stops short, staring at my sign. Then at me.

“Cute sign,” he mutters with a hitch of his brow.