I rap my knuckles against the door then straighten my tie. I got used to life without this uniform over the long summer. Every year I’m here, the chokehold is tighter.
I’m practicing my opening line mentally as the door opens and I make it as far as, “Coach, hi. I’m sorry to barge—” before I realize the face I’m staring at is an entirely different man than I was expecting.
“Peters? Or . . . one second.” This man is about six inches taller than Coach Wallace and about sixty pounds lighter. He has a full head of hair where Wallace had none, and a forearm that flexes with the simplest movements. He pulls glasses from the collar of his shirt and slips them on as he glances down at a clipboard in his hand. “It should be Peters, but you don’t look like a lineman, so Raskin?”
“No, I’m Rothschild. I mean . . . Theo. Wait. Where is Coach Wallace?” I shake my head, wondering if I’m dreaming this.
“He decided to take a job at a public school. And Rothschild, let’s see. Oh, right. Yes, you’re the young man who—”
I cut him off before he says something that will, I’m sure, disrespect my sister’s death and everything we’ve been through.
“I’m the tight end. Senior, sixth form?” I’m still confused as to who this guy is. And why am I instantly threatened and trying to sell myself to him. If my expression is half as affronting as it feels, I must look pissed as hell.
“Right, Theo. I’m sorry. This is probably not what you were expecting. You know what? Come on in. Peters isn’t due to be here for ten minutes yet.” He opens the door wider, and I step in still feeling a little dazed by it all. Nothing in this apartment is the same as it was last year. Every trace of my old coach is gone. I didn’t know he was leaving. We weren’t incredibly close, but I’d like to think I would have heard about the staffing change.
Nobody thought I’d be back.
I walk toward the dining room, glad to see that at least the layout hasn’t changed. I’m about to pull a chair out to sit in when another guy my age steps into the room from the other end. He’s wearing one of our jerseys already, and I know they haven’t been issued yet, which means he’s someone with special privileges. I’m guessing by the near identical build and height; this is the new coach’s son.
He sets his soda can on the table and wipes the moisture from his palm against his side before reaching across the table.
“Hey, man. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I’m James. I’ve been sitting in on all the intro meetings with him so I can get to know the team.” We’re still shaking and staring at each other when Coach walks in.
“Right. Uhm, sorry. I’m Theo. And you’re . . .”
“Coach’s kid. Yeah. I know, but I swear I work my ass off.” James smiles, guilt dimpling the corners of his mouth. He read my mind, and I’m sure he senses a lot of entitlement whispers behind his back. He seems all right.
“We’re all a bunch of entitled assholes here, so they’ll move on to resenting something else by next week,” I quip, noticeably easing his tension. It seems to go a long way with the new coach standing to my right, too, as he pats my shoulder with a heavy hand before gesturing for a shake.
“Dave Fuentes,” he says, his shake firm. I’m still skeptical . . . and thrown off my game. I had a plan coming in here, but now?
I pull a chair out and Coach sits next to me, turning his sideways. His son takes the seat directly across, and I glance at him, smiling through my teeth.
“Oh, should I— Is this private?” He points to his dad, then to me. Really, though, might as well get this out of the way before he gets fed the entire tale of me and my life through the Welles rumor mill.
“Nah, it’s fine.” I relax into my chair and fold my hands in my lap. Crossing my legs, I twist to face Coach more head on. “It seems you’ve been filled in on my situation. And I know I was not here for the summer camps and haven’t been on the text strings or in the email group.”
“Understandable,” he cuts in. “You’re still a part of this team. I mean, I hope that’s what we’re getting at here?”
I laugh out and my shoulders drop down more. He gets it.
“It would mean a lot to me.” I nod.
“Of course. You’ll have to compete for your starting spot like everyone else, including this asshat over here,” he pauses, nodding toward his son, who rolls his eyes. Yeah, both are growing on me.
“Absolutely.” Having played the last three years and started at tight end every year, I’m not too worried. Welles competes against the other privates and boarding schools in the Mass Prep League. Competition isn’t exactly fierce, though we could maybe win the title this year with James throwing the ball. Our last quarterback was about half his size.
“And listen, I know I’m the new guy here. You guys probably had a tight relationship with your former coach. But whatever you want to talk about—or not talk about—” He stands, and I follow his lead, our eyes meeting in a mutual understanding of what he means. “My door is always open. It’s just me, James, and my wife, Penny. Our house is your home, anytime you need it.”
“You mean our dorm apartment,” James corrects. Without pause, Coach tosses the pen from his clipboard at his son, hitting him in the chest.
“See? Asshat.”
I laugh through a brief smile. This feels good. Maybe being here is good for my futureandmy present.
“I appreciate that, Coach.”
We shake hands again.