the men’s head coaching position? It’s been total radio silence. Frankly I’m surprised. I can’t imagine another candidate has the experience I do. And aside from the championship loss this winter, my record speaks for itself. I’d appreciate it if you would put in another good word for me.
Phoebe leans forward, her lungs collapsing like the bellows of an accordion, causing her to emit a similar groan. She scrolls back up to the top of the message, intending to go over Coach’s entire response again. There are so many dissonant bits to parse through. But she can’t seem to pull her eyes off one particular sentence.
Unfortunately, Phoebe disregarded the advice of her doctor and misled me that she’d been cleared to play, when in fact she had not.
She grips the piped leather sides of Mel’s driver’s seat, as if to remind herself she is not in free fall.
That’s not what happened.
Not even fucking close.
She never told a soul about the conversation she’d had with Coach about playing in the championship game. Before they talked, Phoebe was already thinking of coming back. Had already butted heads with her doctor at the last follow-up appointment, because honestly, was one more week of taking it easy really that essential?
His answer was annoyingly definitive. “Yes.”
Phoebe could have gone straight home after leaving the doctor’s office, but no, she drove herself to the field, even though practice was nearly over. She had never missed a practice before her injury, not a single one since making varsity. Phoebe wasn’t about to start now. There would be only one more after this one, before the championship game. She purposefully left her crutches in the car.
It was December. The girls were puffing tiny clouds. Phoebe felt like a complete asshole in her winter jacket, so she took it off. When she played she never felt cold, and now she hated that she couldn’t stop herself from shivering, like she had already lost something from being sidelined for two weeks.
Coach didn’t say anything to Phoebe. Maybe he hadn’t noticed she’d arrived. He blew his whistle, stopped play, and let loose on Kearson, a snarling dragon’s cloud of hot angry breath pouring from his mouth and his nose straight into Kearson’s face.
For those last two games of the season, Phoebe wrung a dark glee from watching Kearson’s repeated screw-ups. Each time Coach would chew Kearson out, she’d return to the field totally dazed, her bobblehead bobbling in a crazy dizzy blur, and before it had settled and steadied, she’d make another mistake and start the whole cycle over again.
For whatever reason, Kearson couldn’t seem to absorb Coach the way the rest of them did. Then again, though Coach yelled at all his players, what he aimed at Kearson that afternoon was a level of vitriol Phoebe had never seen before.
Phoebe actually felt bad for her.
Ordinarily Coach actively weeded out the girls who couldn’t take his style of coaching. Under normal circumstances, Kearson would never make the cut. But these weren’t normal circumstances. He’d been forced to make an exception. And the entire Wildcat team was suffering for it. With the state championship hanging in the balance.
After a whistle to restart play, Coach turned his head slightly toward her and said, “How was your appointment?”
Phoebe had asked Mel to tell Coach, because she knew she’d be late for practice. Not that it mattered. But Phoebe wanted to still feel a part of things.
“He thinks I still need more time to heal.”
“But you’re not on crutches.”
“I still have them. I just hate them.”
He sighed. “Not having you out there is killing us.”
“Believe me, it’s killing me, too.”
He blew his whistle. Another Kearson fuckup.
Phoebe was trying to muster up the courage to say, Fuck it. Can’t you just play me? She hated herself for being too scared to do it.
Coach turned his attention back to the field and restarted play. Once the girls were again in motion, he let the whistle fall from his lips. “You and I, we’re a lot alike.” He swallowed. “That’s why I’m going to tell you something I probably shouldn’t. Because if it were me, I’d want to know.”
“Okay.”
Keeping his eyes on the field, he said, “There’s a Truman scout coming to the championship game. Finally. I’ve been bugging them for months to come, but they’ve been focused on recruiting defenders.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I know it’s shitty timing. But this is your shot. Yours and Mel’s. So just know that if you want