Me and the Cute Catastrophe (Sweet, Small Town Romantic Comedy in Good Grief, Idaho Book 1)

by Jessie Gussman

  Claire is doing something with the towel too, and I’m not sure they are working together, but I know better than to step into that.

  I grab a cookie and figure now is as good a time as any to approach the basketball thing.

  I need to think about the attraction, figure out what is causing it and what to do about it, but I can’t do that standing here in Mrs. Thompson’s kitchen with Claire looking at me.

  Even if she does have a towel on her head, it doesn’t cover those eyes.

  They are gorgeous. Seattle might be the Emerald City, but it doesn’t have anything on Claire Harding’s eyes.

  Except she isn’t Claire Harding anymore, and maybe she feels the same way about men that I do about women. Or maybe I don’t feel that way about all women. At least not about women with gorgeous green eyes and cute button noses, red lips that aren’t exactly cherry red but have that little dip in them right in the middle that kind of makes them look like they have a little heart at the top.

  Not that I ever looked at women’s lips and thought about hearts before.

  Definitely I need to start thinking about basketball. It is pretty dangerous to start thinking about lips and hearts and button noses. Especially when they’re all sitting right below those eyes that I can’t stop thinking about.

  “Of course he’s still here. I’ve embarrassed myself about six thousand times so far in the last fifteen minutes, and I’m sure he’s just hanging around to see what pathetic, ridiculous thing I’m going to do next. Good Grief is pretty tame compared to the big city, and I guess he needs his entertainment for the evening.”

  “I’m still here. You can nicely talk to me and not about me,” I say, irritated for some reason that her eyes are saying one thing but her mouth is saying something else.

  I hate it when women do that. It confuses me.

  “Are you going to tell me that there’s some other reason you’re here? Standing in Mrs. Thompson’s kitchen? With my dog, and staring at me like I have horns and a forked tongue?”

  She has me hot now, and my mouth moves faster than my brain. Never a good thing. “Actually, there is. I’m going to coach the girls’ basketball team this year, and I need you to tell Mrs. Pinkerton, the principal at Good Grief, so she can inform the school board that I’m taking over your job. The sooner, the better.”

  That isn’t exactly how I meant to say that.

  She’s right, I was staring at her. Not exactly how she said but still in an embarrassing way. And I am embarrassed, and annoyed because she was doing that whole look one way while lips say something else thing, and also irritated because I don’t mind petting Midget but she pretty much soaked the entire front of my shirt.

  I wasn’t expecting that.

  Not that I particularly mind, but I don’t want to deal with Claire, whom I am feeling rather attracted to, and who obviously doesn’t like me even a little, with dog slobber all over the front of my shirt.

  And of course, Midget, as soon as she hears Claire’s voice, leaves me—and the big wet spot on the front of my shirt—and strides over to her mistress, who she obviously adores.

  “I’ll do no such thing. The girls’ basketball team is mine. I’m not going to go to Mrs. Pinkerton and tell her that you’re coaching when I fully intend to,” she says.

  I had thought I sounded irritated. Claire really sounds irritated.

  I continue, thinking, despite my previous experience with women, that my reasonable argument will win her over. “Mrs. Riley said that you didn’t even want to coach the team. I’m doing it as a favor for you. You’re supposed to be happy.”

  Okay, I know that isn’t exactly the best way to phrase anything either, but for some reason, none of the stuff that is coming out of my mouth is how I would have said it on a normal day.

  Apparently, today is not a normal day for me.

  Obviously, since I don’t typically have dog slobber down the front of my shirt.

  Dog slobber isn’t exactly in the men’s manual on how to win a woman.

  “I love coaching basketball. The girls love me. And I’ve been doing it for three years now. I have no intentions of giving it up. Especially not to you.” She says this as she flips the towel around her hair, making some kind of castle thing with it on top of her head, and I might add it doesn’t detract at all from the greenness of her eyes.

  It might seem like I am a little obsessed with her eyes.

  That’s true. I am.

  So of course, I don’t magically revert back to my regular self, but no, I continue to be a crazy man who can’t manage to say anything nice to the girl he’s attracted to, and more things I normally would never say pour out of my mouth. “You don’t know anything about basketball. You always ran around with your nose in a book. Unless you were doing some kind of weird science experiment. Do you even know what a basketball looks like? Have you ever even played basketball?”

  “Of course I do.” Claire’s eyes are narrowed, and while I still admire them, I’m also slightly uncomfortable. “A basketball is two triangles glued together, one pink, one green. If you can find them small enough, you can wear them on a ring on your finger. If you examine them under a microscope, they look very similar to a single-celled organism with a nucleus. That’s on a good day. On a bad day, they have small nematodes pointing out of them, very similar to your chin.”

  I’m not sure exactly what she just said but am pretty sure she insulted me.

  In a rather scientific way.

  I wasn’t a deadbeat in school, but math was my thing. I actually went to school for business.

  “So obviously, you don’t know what a basketball looks like,” I say, allowing myself a little smirk but not really meaning it.

  “I was being sarcastic,” she says, softer than she was speaking. Almost like maybe she is feeling a little bad for being unkind. I’m not going to give her that luxury though.

  “I’ve been gone for a long time. I hadn’t realized small towns had gotten so nasty.”

  “Oh, Trey. Have a cookie.” Mrs. Thompson steps between us. There is barely enough room for her to fit. I have no idea when either one of us stepped closer to the other. We almost look like we’re getting ready to have a tipoff at the beginning of a ball game, that’s how close we are.

  I don’t think she was any more aware of that than I was, because she looks just as surprised as I feel.

  Mrs. Thompson, looking a little unsure for the first time, glances between the two of us as I pick a cookie from the tray she’s holding.

  “You too, Claire. Have a cookie.”

  Chapter 5

  Trey

  I’M SURE THE SOUND I hear is Claire’s teeth grinding together, but she lifts her lips and shows her teeth—and I suppose in some circles you could term that a smile—as her fingers come up and she picks a cookie from the tray.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson. Your cookies are delicious.”

  I smile at that, because Claire is obviously talking with her teeth ground together. In fact, her lips barely move.

  That’s kind of how I feel, though. I’ve been told she doesn’t want to coach the basketball team, and I also know, as much as I had a huge crush on her, that she skipped gym class as often as she could and wouldn’t know a ball if it hit her in the forehead. Truly.

  I’m not saying that in a mean way, because really, she can dissect frogs in circles around me. The idea of cutting a frog open makes me want to throw up.

  The idea of cutting any animal open makes me want to throw up. I definitely couldn’t be a nurse. So my hat’s off to her, for the most part.

  It has been my experience with my ex that if I give her credit, she will take it and completely ignore the idea of reciprocation.

  Maybe I should reexamine that expectation of mine.

  After all, I’m pretty sure when I give someone credit, I’m not supposed to expect any in return.

  But isn’t it human to want that?

  Or maybe it’s male.

  “A
re you seriously gonna tell me that you really do want to coach the girls’ basketball team?” I say, and I hope my tone is conciliatory, almost a let’s put this behind us and get along kind of tone. That’s what I’m going for anyway. That’s how I feel really. I don’t want to fight. Not with Claire. I’m not really a fighter in any case, but Claire would be my last choice.

  There are plenty of other things I’d like to do with her.

  That thought kind of comes out of nowhere, and I’m not sure exactly what it means.

  “I do.” She lifts her chin, like she is challenging me, but the effect is honestly kind of ruined because she has a cookie crumb stuck to her lip.

  I don’t believe her for a second. I can tell, by the little flicker in her eyes, she doesn’t believe herself either. I could be wrong, but I think she’s wondering why she’s even bothering to argue with me.

  We both know she doesn’t really want to coach.

  I haven’t seen her for years, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t develop a serious interest in basketball since the last time, combined with the rumors I’ve heard, especially.

  Regardless, I grind my teeth together. I had been counting on that coaching position to relieve some of the boredom of being back in my small hometown. To replace evenings at the gym and Saturdays on the golf course.

  Seattle wasn’t exactly a sport-centric city, but I stayed active and engaged.

  I had definitely been excited about the coaching position when I’d spoken with Mrs. Pinkerton.

  She was fairly sure that Claire would give it up in a heartbeat.

  Apparently, there’d been some arm-twisting going on when Claire was given the position.

  I inquired about the boys’ team but was shut down immediately. It was full, and there were three assistant coaches.

  “Do you even like basketball?” The question is out of my mouth before I could think about it. It is the one that is running through my head. The one I am sure I know the answer to. The one I know was a definite “no” from the Claire I knew in high school.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m the coach. I’ve been the coach for the last three years, and just because the hotshot baller from high school is back in town doesn’t mean I’m going to give up my position or walk away from it. Those girls mean something to me.”

  “They’ll mean something to me too.” Eventually. I’m sure I will get to know them and care for them.

  Her arms cross over her chest, and her foot taps on the floor. The effect is slightly ruined by the towel tower that is stacked on top of her head. And the crumb on her lip.

  Have you ever been talking to someone with a crumb on their lip and been tempted to brush it off with your finger?

  I never have.

  Not until this very moment. It’s a really weird temptation. One that kind of makes me stop and take a step back and look at myself up and down like what in the world has gotten into me?

  I admit I lose the thread of the conversation.

  My eyes are definitely hooked on her lips.

  I am looking at the crumb. Honest. Not actually, you know, looking at her lips because they are appealing or attractive or anything.

  Well, they are appealing and attractive, but that’s not why I am looking at them. Anyway, she kinda surprises me when she says, “I think you have ulterior motives.”

  It takes a moment for that to sink in, and then I tear my eyes from the crumb on her lip and meet her gaze.

  “Like what?”

  Surely she doesn’t know I am actually thinking about kissing her. Not that I want to, I am just thinking about it.

  “I think all you’re interested in is winning a championship. There’s more to sports than winning. It’s about character growth and development and those girls’ potential beyond the court. I don’t think you see that.”

  Okay. I guess this is where I admit she is right. I don’t see that. I mean of course I think character growth is important. And I think sports teach character. But come on, who doesn’t want to win a championship? That isn’t an ulterior motive for coach. That is the motive.

  But her stance says she thinks there is something wrong with wanting to win.

  How do I argue with that?

  It takes me about three seconds to figure out the answer to that question. I don’t.

  You can’t argue with a person who doesn’t use logic.

  “If you give me the head coach position, you can have the assistant coach position.” That wasn’t exactly what the principal had told me. She’d said that if Claire wouldn’t give me the head coach position, I could have the assistant coach position, which currently is unfilled. But the principal assured me that Claire is handling the coaching duties as well as anyone could expect and she hasn’t really needed an assistant coach.

  With an oh and fifteen record for last year, I didn’t think anybody was doing anything competently in regards to the girls’ basketball team, but I hadn’t said that during our conversation.

  Claire is already shaking her head. “There really isn’t any need for an assistant coach. I’m fine coaching by myself. Completely happy. Maybe they’ll give you a spot on the boys’ team.”

  “Already asked. It’s full.” Normally in a conversation like this, I wouldn’t have said that. Wouldn’t have admitted that rejection which equals weakness. But even though I feel like Claire and I are antagonizing each other, I don’t think we are enemies. I also don’t feel like Claire is the kind of person who would use that kind of knowledge against me.

  Turns out I am right about that.

  She nods, like she’d known.

  “But Mrs. Pinkerton seems to think you don’t really enjoy coaching.”

  “Mrs. Pinkerton is wrong.” Claire’s arms are still crossed tight over her chest, and her lips button down tight after she says that.

  A familiar throbbing starts to push between my eyes, and I pinch the bridge of my nose.

  I honestly came back for my dad’s health, but I am having migraines, have been fighting them for a year, and suspect they are stress related. Because, like now, in the middle of what could loosely be termed an argument, they always start.

  This isn’t a migraine though; it’s just a regular run-of-the-mill headache. That could trigger a migraine.

  “That’s fine. I won’t argue with you about it anymore.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.” Claire seems pleased.

  “I’ll take the assistant position.” I reach in my pocket and pull out my phone. “Give me your number, and I’ll send you a text. You can let me know what time the practices are, and we can get together and talk about our expectations and goals for the year and how we’re going to accomplish them.”

  I think everything I am saying is pretty run-of-the-mill, and I think I am being pretty magnanimous by giving in and letting her win our fight. It is a shock to me when I hold my phone and there is silence from her.

  I look up. Her eyes are narrowed. That is the only change in her position.

  “Now what?” The words come out wearily, because my head is really starting to hurt.

  She breathes in and out, as though wanting to say that she should have some say in who is her assistant coach, but we both know that she really doesn’t. The school district isn’t going to turn me down. I am, after all, the most successful basketball player to ever set foot in Good Grief High.

  “The first game isn’t until just before Thanksgiving. We’ll start practices that week. I’m sure I’ll see you before that, but until then, there’s no need for you to have my number.”

  Okay. I admit. I laugh. I think she is joking. I mean come on, she is joking, right?

  She doesn’t laugh.

  Midget, who had parked herself in Mrs. Thompson’s spot between us, looks between both of us and whines, as though wanting to emphasize the gravity of the situation.

  So she isn’t joking?

  I pinch the bridge of my nose again, which has done nothing for my headache, and then run a hand ove
r the top of my head. I keep it cut short, because my hairline is slowly working its way back the sides of my skull, and I really hate seeing my forehead grow in the mirror every morning.

  Just one more reminder that I am growing old.

  Which has nothing to do with this argument, other than maybe when I was younger, I would have dug in and gotten what I wanted.

  I’m not quite the fighter now that I was then. But I can’t let this go.

  “That’s fine. If you don’t want to bother with practices, I’ll do it myself. Just let me know if you want to keep in touch with what I’m doing. I will assume when you give me your phone number, you want updates.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “I sure can.”

  “I’m the coach. I’m in charge of the practices.”

  “You’ll be in charge of the practices when you decide to start coaching. But if you’re not having any, you’ve abdicated your responsibility, and I’ll pick up your slack. That’s what the assistant coach does. So I’ll run the practices until you’re ready to start in November.” If I do that, we might actually have a chance at winning something this year. I hope she just lets it go.

  I should have known better.

  “Fine.” She rattles off her number.

  I’m not expecting it. I had dropped my hand that is holding my phone down to my side. It’s gone blank.

  By the time I get it turned on and start putting her number in, I’ve forgotten the last four digits. She has to repeat them, which I’m not too happy about but don’t have a choice.

  “I need to get home. My daughter is cooking supper, and I’ve been away long enough.” Her hand goes up like she’s going to adjust the towel on her head, but it drops back to her side without touching anything. Her expression becomes stern. “You and I need to talk about these practices and what we’re going to be doing. I understand you’re very busy, so I’ll let you know when I’ve called the first practice.”

  Her words are said with confidence, but she is looking down at the kitchen counter like she knows I am right and more practicing will probably produce a better team. Because come on, what kid wants to play on a team that doesn’t win a single game? She certainly doesn’t seem like she is going to acknowledge that, and I can’t blame her.