“It was a million years ago, and I was never exactly one for the history books.” He waves me off, eyes still trained on the boys ahead. “But it was great. Excellent team, amazing support staff. I had no complaints.”
“And you traded all that in to come live in a town with more stray dogs than people?”
The corner of Bates’s mouth curls up at that. “There’s something particularly satisfying about coaching grade school ball. The kids are all so young and unformed and eager. I’m not saying anything new to you. You know all this for yourself. But when you get to the pros, so much is locked in place, right? So much is beyond your control. Here, I can really build something. I can have a hand in making these kids the players they’ll be. I can have some kind of impact I wouldn’t have at the pro level.”
I cock my head as I think that over. The boys have shifted away from their water bottles to return to the court. Their movements are far from refined. They haven’t yet learned the subtle tricks they’ll need to truly excel with the ball, and their bodies are still too awkward and gangly to be of much use to them.
But they’re all still wearing those smiles. The same expression I felt on my own face all during the scrimmage.
One boy—Christian Something? He was on Bates’s team—is lining up at half court, his tongue stuck between his teeth as he concentrates on setting up his shot.
He’s short. He’s way too short to ever make it on the pro level, or even at college, and there’s no amount of training or practice that can change that for him. But still, he concentrates, and he sweats and he holds the ball loosely in his hands as he levels it up…
Swish.
My heart thumps against my chest once more as a pair of guys hold up their hands to high five Christian, and he smacks them back, his fingers clenching into satisfied little fists when he walks away.
There’s an itch in the back of my brain. If I could get Christian in here in the mornings before school, maybe I could run drills with him. Soon, he wouldn’t be sweating over a half-court shot at all. He’d get the motion down pat, and we could move on to bigger and better things. He could really improve if we just—
“Did you ever think about coming back to coach?”
I turn at the sound of Bates’s voice, heart still racing. To my surprise, I realize my fingers have clenched around the edge of my bleacher, ready to push me up so I could stride over to Christian. I shake my head, attempting to clear it.
“God, come back to Little Haven?” A low chuckle comes from my mouth, and I realize with another start that I hadn’t consciously made the choice to laugh at the notion of returning to my hometown. At this point, it’s muscle memory. Pure instinct.
I shift on my bench, crossing my arms as I think things over. Finally, I shake my head and turn back to Bates. “I think the next logical goal would be to pursue a head coaching job. If I can repair my reputation and get back from suspension without problem—”
“You’ll be on the radar for jobs out in New Mexico and Idaho,” Bates provides with a nod. “I remember hearing that on ESPN once or twice.”
He just looks at me for a moment, the expectation more than apparent on his face. His expression leaves me squirming, my heart somehow beating even faster than before inside my chest.
“Look,” I say finally, the word coming out of me like a crack giving way in a dam. “This was always the goal. Back home, sure, people worshipped me, but it wasn’t like they had many other options. I was always supposed to go out into the world and build something new, prove that I wasn’t just the hero by default. Coming back to Little Haven was never…”
But my voice has already drifted off as I’m lost in the next thought. I eyeball Bates, swallowing and fighting back what feels a lot like unexpected embarrassment.
To his credit, Bates doesn’t press the issue. He just pats my leg, stands back up, and hollers for the boys to hustle to the sideline to run suicides. I’m left sitting alone on our bench, the back of my mind still buzzing.
As if on cue, there’s a vibration in my pocket. I shift my leg and fiddle around, producing my phone and tapping on the little screen.
MOLLY: Shipment of Christmas trees just came in. No pressure to come back, just wondering if I should tap Hunter to help me move them?
My breath catches, and my free hand involuntarily moves to my chest, my thumb running across my sternum. Once again, I’m surprised my heart rate could pick up any faster. I’m a few beats away from making national sports headlines when I collapse from a heart attack on the side lines.
It’s the idea of being with her again, of helping Molly fix up the inn and get her one step closer to having the money she needs to keep the place running. It’s the excitement of helping her realize her dream, of being a part of what she needs.
Are there seriously things in Little Haven worth doing? Are there reasons worth sticking around for a while, worth coming back for a holiday or long weekend?
My thumb hovers over the screen. If I’d been asking myself these questions even just a few days ago, the autopilot in me would have shut them down immediately. I’ve been telling myself for more than a decade that everything I’ve worked for has been shuffling me out of Little Haven, onto something bigger.
Something better.
Right?
But I’m typing out my response already, and I have to shift on the bench as I become aware that my cock has stiffened up at the mere sight of her name on my tiny screen.
GRAY: Don’t call your brother. I’ll be there.
CHAPTER EIGHT: MOLLY