If I Could - B. Celeste Page 0,56
job that I was here to start fresh. I’d put 110% into everything I did, both teaching and coaching, but wanted my personal life—or rather the old life I lived—to stay far away from the one I’m living here. He agreed, even said it may be better in the long run.
A few people like Jim and Sullivan have mentioned the clips of me they’d seen before, or articles they read in passing, but never made a big fuss over it. A couple boys on the football team asked why I’d give being famous up for coaching at a ‘middle of nowhere school’ that has ‘little to no potential’ but that’s where they’re wrong. Everybody has the potential to be great if they believe it hard enough. If they practice. Train. Focus.
I could have chosen a different path for myself and got drafted on a team clear across the country, packed up, and moved if I really wanted to. But there isn’t one thing I’d change since stepping away from that world if I could go back.
Because if I could, then I wouldn’t have met the man who I’m fairly certain fate sent me on my way to find and help, and that’d be a damn shame.
Chapter Thirteen
Ren
The school is nearly vacant minus a few custodial staff doing end of day cleaning as I head out of the small office once belonging to the former Coach Jefferson. They stripped it of everything except a desk and a few filing cabinets that still have records of former students and old stats that I studied up on before the season started, leaving empty built-in shelves that I imagine held a lot of trophies, awards, and pictures. Jefferson’s winning streak with every team he coached is well known, which leaves a few faculty giving me doubtful looks since the Wildcats have only won two out of the four games played this season.
We got annihilated by Belmont, won against Lincoln and Beverly, and got beat hard by Memorial, and after that game there was a lot of words to be said in the locker room when fingers started getting pointed as to whose fault it was. I was getting ready to tell them it was all their faults, because a team wins and loses together, myself included, when Conner Wright, Beckett’s father, walked in and excused the boys like he had a right to. His son was grinning at me like he knew what was coming, and all I could do was strand my ground as I got my head chewed off.
The one-sided conversation left a lot to be desired, and none of it particularly surprised me, especially when he said he’d refuse to give any future donations if he didn’t see his son play the next game. Truth is, Beckett should have played in the last game, but he decided to go after another teammate and get an extra game out. It’s like he doesn’t want to play.
When I shrugged Mr. Wright’s words off like a brush to my shoulder, the tell-tale signs of frustration reddened his face—his neck straining much like my own father’s in anger, as he made idle threats about my inability to coach. I simply told him, “It would be a lot easier to coach kids who were willing to listen in the first place” which is how I ended up with an email from John Richman the following morning about a meeting with him and a few administrative members concerned about reports from a parent.
Since some of the administration can only meet during evenings, I’m scheduled to speak with them tomorrow night since Thursday will be spent prepping and conditioning for our next game against a school who’s track record is even worse than ours this year. It gives me some hope that we’ll have another win under us to get people off my back.
I wave to a few cleaners sweeping the hallway floors of candy wrappers and god knows what else, who give me no more than a couple nods and empty waves back as I exit the building. My phone rings halfway to the staff parking, and I half expect it to be Della since she still hasn’t given me dates when we can schedule time to hang out, but stop dead in my tracks when I see my father’s name on the screen.
Nerves prickling my fingers as I hit ACCEPT, I lift the phone to my ear. “Everything okay, pops?” He’s never liked it when I