Page 39 of Dirty Hit
Kids are everywhere. Little boys in oversized practice jerseys running around with too much energy and not enough coordination. A few girls, too: some playing, some sitting on the sidelines with juice boxes and skeptical expressions that say they were dragged out here by younger siblings, and are evaluating the whole spectacle with healthy judgment.
I should leave.
That thought comes and goes in a weak little flutter as soon as I see him.
Dominic is standing there in black athletic shorts and a fitted gray T-shirt that clings to his shoulders and chest, showing every dip and curve of his abs. His sunglasses are shoved up into his hair, dark strands falling around his face anyway. He’s holding a football under one arm and gesturing with his free hand whileeight or nine tiny kids stare up at him like he’s descended from heaven in Nike trainers.
Oh, God, I understand the appeal instantly.
Even from here, from the safety of my car and all my unresolved annoyance, he’s magnetic. Not because he’s loud. He isn’t—that’s the weird part. He doesn’t have that performative coach energy some men get around children, all exaggerated enthusiasm and baby voices.
Dominic talks to them like they’re people. Short, clear, and still cursing, because apparently, that part of him cannot be fully contained, even in front of eight-year-olds.
I sit there for a minute with both hands on the steering wheel. Staring.
“Absolutely not,” I whisper. “No. We are not doing this.”
I get out anyway.
I keep to the edge of the lot, cutting behind the bleachers where the metal shade hides me enough that I don’t feel completely insane. There are a few other adults around: staff, maybe, and some other volunteers. No one pays me much attention. I choose a spot at the far end of the bleachers, half-obscured by the support beams, and sit down with my sunglasses on—like that helps.
Dominic blows a whistle once. “All right, little monsters,” he calls out, and a grin tugs at his mouth when a couple of them immediately look delighted by the title. “Line up. We’re doing footwork first before any of you get to pretend you’re NFL stars.”
One of the kids groans dramatically. Another raises his hand, as if this is an actual classroom. Dominic points at him with the football. “Yeah, Mateo.”
“That’s not fair,” the kid says, maybe eight and missing one front tooth. “We already know footwork.”
Dominic raises an eyebrow. “You do, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting,” he says, “because last week you tripped over your own shoes and blamed the sun.”
The whole line dissolves into laughter while Mateo goes red and crosses his arms. “The sun was in my eyes.”
“Bro,” Dominic says dryly, “the sun was behind you.”
More laughter. Even Mateo cracks.
I stare at Dominic and feel my irritation wobble in a way that’s genuinely offensive. He’s good at this. Not just“kids like him because he’s tall and lets them hold the ball”good. Actually good. He remembers names and stupid little incidents from previous weeks. He knows exactly when to tease and when to correct. There’s no impatience in him, none of the cold edge I’m used to seeing when adults waste his time.
Instead, he drops the football to the grass and crouches in front of them so he’s more eye-level, forearms braced on his thighs and attention fixed completely on the kids in front of him.
“Okay,” he says. “Show me stances. Properly this time, or I’m making you all do bunny hops until somebody cries.”
A chorus of horrified little laughs meets that. They scramble into rough approximations of ready position, some better than others, with one kid nearly tipping over in his eagerness.
Dominic moves down the line, adjusting them with quick, gentle touches. A hand on a shoulder. Two fingers nudging a knee wider. The back of his hand tapping a spine straighter.
“Not bad, Noah. Better.”
“Riley, you’re thinking too hard. Bend your knees. You’re not about to sit on a toilet, just loosen up.”
That one sends a ripple of delighted cackling down the line, because little boys apparently find toilets funny no matter their zip code. Dominic shakes his head with a grin and keeps going.
When he gets to the smallest kid at the end, a little blond thing who can’t be more than six, he pauses. “You good, Ollie?”
The kid’s lower lip wobbles. “I don’t wanna get tackled.”
