by L A Cotton
Actually, I coached whatever Coach Jefferson asked me to; as long as it involved the game, I didn't care.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever man... Still a bunch of little punks if you ask me.”
“No one is asking you, dude, so cut it.” Zac slapped Jase upside the head and grabbed the bag of mitts off the ground.
“So, we hitting Durty's tonight? Aubrey and her little posse of tight-assed friends are going to be there.”
Zac shot me a look. Jase was a bad drunk and an even worse player.
“Dude, I saw that. You can't tell me you wouldn't hit that given half a chance?”
Zac shrugged dismissively, and I laughed, adding, “I think he has hit that, J. More than once.”
Zac glared at me, and I held up my free hand in defense. “Dude, it's not like people don't know you've got a thing going with Aubrey Lamms.”
“It's not a thing... We fuck. End of.”
“Whatever you say, man. Whatever you say.” I collected up the rest of the bats and threw them into the back of my Ford Ranger pickup.
Ten minutes later, I pulled up next to the office. Jase and Zac emptied the truck while I grabbed the rosters. We headed into the office just as Coach started yelling down the phone receiver. He reminded me of an Army Colonel when he got mad—which was often. Noticing us, he waved us off into the other room.
“Whoa, that guy needs to learn to chill,” Zac said.
“Or get laid.”
“Jase, seriously dude, shut the fuck up. He might hear you and I'll get the heat. He doesn't mind you helping out if you keep your mouth shut.”
Jase went to reply, but I cut him off. “His words, dude. Not mine.”
“What's all this jibber jabber? You, I assume, Jase?” Coach glared in his direction, before turning his attention to me. “How'd it go, son? You keep those kids in line?”
“No problems, Sir. Went over some basic skills, nothing they couldn't handle.”
“Good. I've got a new gig for you. Down at the high school. Gainesville High. You know it?”
“Know it, Sir? I graduated there almost six years ago. So, what's the deal? We don't usually coach schools that have their own programs.”
“Of course you did,” he muttered to himself, before adding, “Seems they got a behavior problem with some ninth graders. The principal called me direct asking about our program working out of juvie. He thought we might be able to work some magic with their 'punk problem' as he called it.”
“Remember us at that age, Keef?”
I smiled to myself. Zac had been GHS class of two thousand and six, like me. “Hey, speak for yourself, dude.”
I’d been the silent type at school; only really spoke when I had something to say. I hadn't changed all that much really. Even working with kids, I didn’t feel the need to be constantly talking. I think that was why I got along so well with the majority of the boys I worked with. They appreciated not having someone ride them all the time.
“Cool with me, Coach. When? And is Zac teaming with me?”
“I hate to split up your little love affair, boys, but the school doesn’t have a big pot so I'm doing them a favor. So that means they only get one coach.” He pointed at me. “You start tomorrow at three-thirty. School field. Oh, and it's for twelve weeks.”
Great. It was for the whole season. But how much trouble could a bunch of ninth graders be?
~
“Come on, come on.” I frantically tapped my hands on the wheel. I hated being late, but the traffic on NW 13th was bumper to bumper, and I was already running ten minutes late.
Twenty minutes later, I finally pulled into GHS. Great first impression to make with a group of teens with behavioral issues. I grabbed my Yankees cap, clipboard, and equipment bag and headed toward the field. A group of boys was centerfield, crowded around two kids locked in some kind of wrestling move.
“Hey guys, look who decided to show. Check out his cap.” The tall, wiry dude released his hold on the other kid and eyeballed me before smoothing a hand over his trimmed Afro.
“And you are?” I met his stare. Rule number one: show no fear.
“They call me Kenny, but you can call me K-dog.” He slapped the hand of a smaller dude to his left and hitched his baggy pants up over his ass.
“Okay, K-dog. How about you grab a bat, gear up, and show me what you got?” I nodded at the bag I'd dumped on the ground next to me, and then watched Kenny’s face as it dropped at my challenge.
It always worked. Rule two: pick out the leader and take him down first. The rest would follow—they always did. The kids I was used to working with in juvie made Kenny and his buddies look like saints.
“I don’t think so, Coach. I’m not feeling it,” he replied, a satisfied smirk on his face.
“Okay, K-dog, if you don’t think you’ve got what it takes?” I cocked an eyebrow at him, goading him, and his mouth widened and his eyes grew thin. “Give me the damn bat.”
“Hey, K-dog, I think you're forgetting something. It's Coach. Okay... Coach.”
I split the group into teams and dished out equipment, instructing them to show me what they had. I headed toward the bleachers to sit back and watch the chaos unfold. Climbing the steps, I noticed a petite girl sitting a few rows up. As I reached her, I realized she wasn't a girl at all. She was all woman. Just on the shorter side… and she looked familiar.
Her eyes studied me and widened with recognition. “Keefer Smith. You're the coach? Small world, huh.”
I'd know that voice anywhere. High school queen bee class oh-six herself. Sharn Macer. Un-fucking-believable. “Macer, is that you?” I dropped into the seat next to her.
“The one and only.” She smiled at me and my breath caught. What the fuck?
She’d been hot at school—wanted by the most popular guys, untouchable for guys like me. But now—now she was stunning. Brown curls rested on her shoulders, big eyes to match. Curves that would make most guys fall to their knees. I removed my cap and shoved my fingers into my hair, trying to think about anything other than how I could see the curve of her tits through her blouse.
“Yo, Coach you watching our game or too busy checking out Miss M?” a voice shouted from the field.
Sharn smirked, and I choked so hard I slipped off the bench and stumbled. Quickly righting myself, I brushed off my sweats and mumbled something about needing to get back to the boys, hoping she didn’t notice my brief arrival and sharp exit. Who was I kidding; it was Sharn-fucking-Macer. Of course, she noticed!
~
Before I got the boys doing basic drills—pitching, batting, and catching—I asked them to tell me where they were. Baseball was part of school physical ed, but from what I'd gathered from Coach, these boys weren't the participating kind. They were a handful, and a couple of them were set on making things difficult. One-on-one, Kenny responded to me, but in front of his buddies, he was all about the attitude. Jared was another one intent on letting me know I didn’t run the show…yet. The rest of the boys didn’t seem too resistant.
For the first hour, I had them rotate through three drill stations. Telling me what they could do was one thing, but I needed to see them in action. Every now and again, my eyes wandered over to the bleachers, where Sharn remained seated in the same spot I’d left her. It made no sense to me that she landed the job of babysitter. She’d turned up dressed in a skirt and blouse, for fuck’s sake, but more than once my gaze met her big eyes staring right back at me.
“Nice arm, Niall. Jai, keep your bat up and ready. Don’t take your eye off that ball.”
“Yo, Coach. How long you been playing ball?”
I helped Otis readjust his glove and called over my shoulder, “Save the questions, Kenny. We don’t have time for small talk.”
“Come on, Coach. Bet you know all about us? And we know nothing about you.”
Kenny’s question diverted everyone’s attention, and I found myself under scrutiny of seventeen pairs of eyes.
“I’ll tell y
ou what, Kenny, I pitch, you make a hit, and I’ll answer your question. Just one.”
“Any question?” His face lit up with excitement, and I inwardly groaned. “Sure, as long as it’s not inappropriate.”
Jai held out his bat for Kenny, and I made my way to the pitcher’s mound. I glanced up at Sharn, who seemed to be sitting a little taller. My little challenge had obviously caught her interest.
“Okay, Kenny, you ready? One ball. No second chances.” I spun the ball in my hand. I was showing off, but the boys needed to know who was really in charge. “Ready?”
I gripped the ball with my forefingers and thumb, drew up my arm, and rotated my body slightly, raising my knee. I pulled back and then extended my arm, snapping my wrist forward, and sent the fastball flying toward Kenny. His eyes widened, steadying the bat ready to receive it. He swung the bat around, but it was useless. The ball skimmed past him and his bat connected with thin air. I smiled to myself. Pitching had been my strong point since I was a kid.
“Bad luck, K-dog. Maybe next time.”
The rest of the boys jeered at Kenny, crowding around me, wanting to know how I threw the ball so fast. I knew they’d be impressed, and I hoped it was the first step to winning them over. Even Kenny looked awed with his mouth hanging open. I hadn’t even throw a full power ball, but it had been enough.
I instructed the boys to pack the equipment, just as Sharn decided to join us.
“Hey, Miss M, did you see Coach pitch to Kenny? He had no chance. The ball was like a rocket.” Keylon bounded over to Sharn.
He had an obvious love for the game but seemed the type to be easily led. He followed the other boys off the field with a huge grin on his face and a spring in his step, like he’d just witnessed the Red Sox beat the Yankees.
“You work pretty fast. You seemed to have no problem getting them to listen to you.” Sharn handed me the last of the bats, and I loaded them into the truck.
It was just the two of us left and I didn’t feel so guilty checking her out without the boys around. She had a tight little body and reminded me of a tiny dancer or something, just curvier.
“They don't seem like bad kids. Just a bit of attitude here and there. I'm used to worse.”
“Kenny’s a character, so are Jared and Micah. And Marc. Oh, and get Niall on a bad day, and he can make your life hell. Jai and Otis are quieter, and Reece doesn't have a smart mouth, he just refuses to do homework. Well, any work really. The others—”
I cut her off. She had a mouth like a high-speed runaway train. “Sounds like you know them all pretty well?”
“I do. That’s why they picked me. To host, I mean. I teach all seventeen of them, and for some reason, they seem to respond to me.”
I could think of one or two reasons why fourteen-year-olds would respond to someone who looked as good as Sharn. “So, I guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other then. I've got to head out.”
Her eyes fluttered down, and I was sure I caught her blush a little. “Oh yeah, of course. See ya.”
I climbed into the cab, leaving Sharn alone in the parking lot. I glanced at her through the rearview mirror, trying to ignore my racing pulse. The twelve weeks definitely just got a whole lot more interesting—only I wasn't sure whether it was a good or bad thing.
~
I pulled into the driveway. The overflowing trash can and overgrown lawn were a sign things were getting worse with Dad. I didn’t bother knocking and just let myself in. The smell of puke and liquor hit me like a fastball, and I swallowed down the bile rising in my throat.
“Dad, are you here?” Walking down the hall toward the kitchen, the smell intensified and I stretched the sleeve of my hoodie over my hand, using it as a makeshift mask. I pushed open the door, unprepared for the sight that greeted me on the other side.
Dad sat slumped in the kitchen chair over the table, facedown in a puddle of puke, holding an empty bottle of Johnny Walker in his left hand. Even in his comatose state, he still clung onto it like he needed it to survive. I should've felt something, anything, but it was a scene I'd witnessed one too many times since Mom died. I'd been cleaning up after Dad for more than fifteen years. Eventually, I’d become immune to it all.
Except for the smell.
That hit you every damn time.
~
Throwing my keys into a bowl, I kicked the door shut behind me. It had taken me over an hour to get Dad cleaned up and into bed. I hated seeing him like that. He was such a great guy before Mom died—full of life and energy. We had played ball every Saturday down at Greentree Park when I was a child. It was where he first taught me to pitch. I’d spend all week waiting for school to get to out on Friday just to spend time with him. Then one day everything changed. Mom left for work, like always, only she never came home. They told us she died on impact, felt nothing. But when you were seven and you were being told your mom wasn’t coming home—ever—it was kind of lost on me. Dad fell apart, started drinking, and I was forced to grow up overnight. For a few years, he managed to hold down his job, pay the bills, and get me to school on time. But by the time I was in ninth grade, I was looking after the both of us.
Grabbing a beer from the cooler, I settled into my La-Z-Boy to watch ESPN. My phone vibrated, but I didn’t need to look at the screen to see who it was. Coach Jefferson checked in after every session.
I hit answer. “Coach.”
“So, how’d it go? Those kids give you any shit?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” I took a long pull on the beer.
“Good. You be sure to lay down the law, son. These kids need to learn some respect.”
“Sure thing, Coach.”
“So, who they got babysitting from the school? Neville Carthey? He’s a good man. We go way back.”
“Hmm, no, actually it was a female teacher. Miss Macer, she doesn’t know jack about ball. Sat in the bleachers the whole time.” My mind conjured up the image of her, sitting up in the bleachers as Coach let out a snort. “A girl? Are they mad? Ninth graders need a firm hand in a role model—”
I could tell by his tone it was going to be one of his rants, so I let my mind continue to drift. I’d been surprised to see Sharn, but she'd really stood her own with the boys. Not that I expected any less. At school, she’d been loud-mouthed and feisty. Girls wanted to be her, and most guys wanted her. She’d looked good sitting up in the bleachers—really good.
“Keefer, are you there, son?”
“Wha-what? Sorry, Coach, the TV caught my eye,” I lied.
“You check in on your old man?”
“Yeah, same shit, different day,” I mumbled, tense from even just thinking about Dad.
“Sorry, son. You need anything, you just ask me, got it?”
Coach had taken me under his wing the moment he learned about my dad. I never took him up on his offer of help, but it never stopped him from asking. I’d worked for him for almost four years, and he was more of a dad to me than my own had been for a long time.
“Got it, Sir. I’ll catch you tomorrow.” I closed my eyes and shut it all out. Even Sharn’s smile. There was no room in my fucked-up life for a girl like her. Period.
Chapter 3
~ Sharn ~
“Hey, Miss M. How cool was Coach Smith? Did you see his fastball? It was off the hook.”
It was the third time I'd been accosted by one of the boys about Keefer’s pitching skills. Apparently, he’d impressed them all.
“It must've been something if Micah Devaun is impressed.” I smiled at him, hoping that would be enough. I was wrong, and he continued. “It almost took Kenny's arm off. Kenny said he didn't even see it—it was so fast. Coach must be pro or something.”
Or something. I didn't want to burst their Coach Smith fan club bubble, revealing that back in high school Keefer was actually a little bit weird. The boy who never spoke, rarely partied, and never dated—ever. Yeah, he was totally Coach Boring back then. Now? I still hadn’t worked him out, but damn, he’d grown
into his own.
As Micah relived the whole story again, the rest of the class listened in awe. He told a good story that was for sure. It was a shame his English work didn't have the same pizzazz.
“Okay, Micah, settle down. It's time to pick up where we left off with Miss Havisham.”
The kids managed to stay on task for the duration of the class. And by the time the bell sounded, the excitement of Coach Smith's 'mad pitching skills' had died down. I closed the door behind the last student filing out of the room.
It'd been a surprise to see Keefer stroll onto the field, and for a second, before I realized who he was, I'd been imagining all kinds of baseball fantasies. Now it just felt a little weird. Okay, I hadn't seen or heard anything about him since we left school, but he knew all about me. My high school reputation wasn't exactly low key. I'd ruled the school in junior year. Even when I’d calmed down in senior year, it didn’t stop the rumors, or the guys trying to score with me. Yet, most people knew nothing about me. Not the real me. They only knew what I wanted them to. That kind of reputation sticks and I bet he took one look at me in my stupidly inappropriate outfit and decided I hadn't changed.
A knock on my door pulled me from my thoughts. “Hey, girl. How did yesterday go?” Nev ducked his head under the doorframe and perched on one of the table edges.
“Well, if the boys’ incessant chatter about it is anything to go by, I'd say it was pretty successful.”
He laughed. “I heard Keefer made quite the impression.”
I noticed how he referred to Keefer by name. “Wait, you know him?”
“I've never met him, but Syd Jefferson has only praise for that boy. Talks about him like he's family.”
“Oh.” I was confused. “And Syd is?”
“Coach Jefferson, founder of the Youth Program. Been running it for years. Always had a special interest in working with boys outta juvie.”
“So, he's the boss?”
“Yeah, he's the boss. So, how'd the boys take to their new coach?”
“Kenny tried it on, but the others seemed to like him. I think he'll get through to a lot of them.”