“They already know who you are,” Bates reminds me. “Your greatest danger here is a write-up in the school newsletter.”
“Think I can bribe the young journalist to write about how kind and gentle I am with the boys?”
“Not if I have anything to do with it.” Bates winks as he guides me toward his team. “You’re here to get these kids whipped into shape. We’re going up against Copper Springs this weekend. It’s a big match for us.”
He starts toward the group of weightlifters, then turns back to me, motioning for me to follow.
“Feel like a scrimmage this morning?”
My heart rate picks up despite my better intentions.
I can’t help myself: it’s been weeks now that I’ve been banished from the court. I’ve missed the squeak of rubber heels on wood floor, the echoes of yells in the high rafters, even that nasty, sticky salt that comes from sweating men and boys. As kids ditch their weights to get into two teams, the gym takes on a new life. It’s teeming with something electric and overflowing, something that resonates in my chest and leaves my fingertips tingling.
“You take the north wall,” Bates says with a jerk of his head. “I’ll give you a few minutes to talk to them and we’ll get a game started.”
“Okay.” I nod, walking over to the boys, who now stand in a casual circle talking injuries and weight goals. The reverberating in my chest picks up even more.
And, stupidest of all, as I cross the hardwood floor, I’ve got this big, dumb grin overtaking my face. If there is a paparazzo hiding somewhere in the bleachers, surely they’ll run a headline about how Gray Smith is spending his suspension flashing teenage boys creepy smiles.
I can’t care. My hands are itching to pick up a basketball. My muscles have tensed in that readying way, like I could jump in and play myself at any moment.
This feels right.
***
“Can he—”
“It’s gonna be tricky—”
Swish.
The ball glides through the basket, bouncing up from the floor and immediately forgotten as my team rushes the player who made the winning score.
It was a close game, closer than I would have liked if I was coming at this while still actively working for the New York Liberty. Bates knows his shit, even if he is a small town coach with a nonexistent budget.
The grin is still hanging on my cheeks. I run over to the guys, throwing an arm around the game-winning player, Brady, to pin him in a headlock. Bodies jostle against me; everyone is rushing down on the skinny junior, razzing his hair and drowning him in hands and chests and sweat. Brady’s just grinning the way I am, his smile so big it’s threatening to burst off his face and explode his head.
At last, I break from the pack and step back, still grinning as I stride over to Bates at center court. It was just a scrimmage, not even a real game that counts. But it felt fuckinggood, and I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Bates is smiling just like me and the boys are, one arm reaching out to wrap around my neck the way I did to Brady. He guides me away from the players and over to take a seat on the bleachers as the boys grab water and talk shit over the final play.
“We almost had you, Smith.”
“Please, there was never a shot. Maybe if Hancock could clean up his footwork—”
Bates shakes his head, laughing. “You could have locked a victory down sooner if you’d gotten Baker to keep an eye on the defense. If we played basketball in a field, I suspect he’d be the kid sitting his ass down in the middle of the game to pick daisies.”
I push Bates on the shoulder, laughing back as I grab a water from a cooler near our feet. “We’ve got to remind him of the stakes. Are you planning on playing video of Copper Springs for the boys today? Sit Baker in the center and make him get an up close view of the Copper Springs kids. And make him take notes. Players hate that, but it’s damn effective.”
“I’m playing video, but I’m afraid Baker’s problem is a little more long term than just one game.”
“You’re right.” I nod, watching the kid now as he laughs with some of his friends on the other side of the court. “Next scrimmage, we make him play another position. Give him some distance and see how he feels. Maybe it’ll light a fire under his ass and he’ll—”
“So, you’re coming back then.” Bates grins, crossing his arms and assessing me with a smirk.
My breath catches. “I mean, I’ll be in town for a while and—”
“And it felt good, right?” Bates uncrosses his arms to lean back on his elbows on the bleacher row behind us. Together we watch the boys, giving them a moment to just bond and breathe. “You know I coached WNBA in Tennessee before I transitioned to grade school teams?”
I turn to him, one eyebrow raising. “Seriously? I’m surprised I never heard of you.”