Page 55

His expression hardened. He had more coaching experience than I did, and I respected that. What I wasn’t going to do was assume years on a sideline automatically made his approach the right one.

“But—”

“Trust me.” I interrupted. I had no desire to stand there and defend every decision I made like I was asking permission. “Only telling them the bad shit won’t help them improve.”

Not in the long run. Fear could absolutely make somebody work harder for a little while, and humiliation could keep them sharp for a game or two, but eventually, all you built was a team terrified of screwing up.

And terrified players hesitated in crucial moments. They stopped trusting themselves. I didn’t want that. I wanted them hungry and confident enough to know that one ugly game didn’t erase everything they’d done right. We’d end up with an angry, stressed-out team if all we ever gave them was criticism.

I’d rather build something better than that.

I declined going out for dinner with the other coaches.

Not that it felt like much of a sacrifice. If I was being honest, I had a feeling they didn’t particularly want me there anyway. My so-called new-age approach to coaching wasn’t exactly winning me friends among the veteran staff. Apparently telling players they’d done something right before cataloging everything they’d screwed up qualified as revolutionary thinking.

They could think I was soft, but I wasn’t changing my mind. This team was more than a collection of bodies I could arrange on a field until they produced points. Most of these guys had a few years of football left at best. After that, they still had entire lives to live. If the only thing I taught them was how to win a game, I’d done a pretty shitty job.

Judging by the looks I’d gotten from McBride and Hale, I had a feeling the Dean would eventually hear about my unconventional methods.

Until he was knocking on my door to tell me I’d done the wrong thing, I had work to do, which was how I ended up eating a cheap sandwich over my desk in an office that had somehow become more disorganized every day I occupied it. At some point, I needed to develop a system. The fact that I, of all people, had allowed my workspace to reach this level of chaos probably said something about how well I was handling the last few weeks.

But instead of focusing on an organization system, I reviewed the game’s film. And then I replayed it. And did so another time. I took notes on everything—the good and the bad.

Overall, I wasn’t upset. I meant what I’d told the team. Considering the circumstances, they’d done a damn good job. The first half had been ugly. They’d fumbled the hell out of it—both literally and figuratively—and there were several moments where I’d wondered if we were about to unravel completely. But they hadn’t, and somehow, in the final stretch, they’d pulled a win straight out of their asses.

I was halfway through reviewing the second half for a third time when my phone lit up with a video call. Sariah. Relief came automatically like it always did. I answered quickly.

The grumpy expression filling my screen was not what I expected.

“How—”

“You missed our dinner date,” Sariah interrupted, and I could feel the weight of her scowl a thousand miles away.

“Fuck.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. I’d completely forgotten we’d made plans. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“Obviously.” The sass was strong as she rolled her eyes at me. “Was your crappy dinner extra awful without me?”

“It was,” I said. “It was unbearable trash. I’ll probably throw it up later.”

“Good,” she replied with a happy little smile. She didn’t mean it, and I knew that. It was just loneliness making her grumpy. I couldn’t even blame her. We’d never been apart this long. It was only ever a few weeks, not ten months. “How was the game?”

“It was… ” I blew out a frustrated breath and leaned back in my chair. Where the hell did I even start? She didn’t understand a damn thing about football. “They did better than I expected, all things considered. I haven’t had enough time to work with them—at least not as much as I’d like—and I think they realize that.”

That was the part bothering me. They trusted me to know what I was doing, and I wasn’t sure I did. At least, not completely. It would’ve been easy to blame the sloppy game on the players, but that didn’t sit right with me. If they weren’t prepared, then it was partly mine. I couldn’t ask them to keep improving while assuming I had nothing left to learn. I had no clue what that improvement looked like yet. But I’d figure it out.

“That sucks,” Sariah said.

“Yeah, but I’ll figure it out.” Maybe if I said the words enough, I’d eventually believe them. “How are you?”

I’d much rather talk about her life than mine.

“I hate wedding planning,” she told me. “I hate it. I hate it so much. I wish you were here to yell at all the stupid people.”

Sariah and May had deliberately chosen a long engagement. They wanted to wait until May was ready to permanently retire from touring before they got married. Unfortunately, retirement had finally arrived during the stretch of time I was in Everdale. They were getting married on Halloween, and I was missing almost everything leading up to it. I’d helped Sariah pick her dress through a phone screen. We’d debated color palettes through texts. She’d sent me pictures of invitations, flowers, table settings, and at least one centerpiece she described as an affront to God. It wasn’t enough. As her man of honor, best friend, and closest thing to family, I was supposed to be there.

This was one ball I hated dropping. Sariah would never make me feel guilty about it, which only made me feel worse. She would swallow every ounce of disappointment because she understood why I was here.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “If you want me to yell at people, I will. Just give them my number, and I’ll yell over the phone. Hell, I’ll send angry emails for you. I can leave vicious reviews.”