Page 7 of Whoa There Cowboy
“Yeah? How much do they enjoy a window into some good ole family dysfunction?” I turn finally and meet her eyes, offering a wry smirk as I back toward the tee to take my turn with Coach Kessler. “Cuz that’s what this story is. Dys-fucking-function.”
I shake my head, then drop my gaze to the tee and try to focus on what I’m here for. I rip through the ball with a little extra zing, and Coach comments about not using so much muscle just yet.
“Sorry,” I grumble, glancing at Campbell. She’s watching me intently, and I wonder if she finally understands just how uninterested I am in opening this topic further.
By the time I finish my second round, Campbell’s gone, probably moved on to some other juicy morsel of media gossip on our roster. I’m sure there’s plenty. Small town? Young players fighting for shots at dreams? Young men apt to make stupid decisions? Hell, she could very well end up busying herself putting out media shit storms if this place really gets going. I’ve watched enough of those stories develop over the years, like the time eight years ago when I was a senior in high school and it came out that one of the Mavericks players was taking one of my classmates to prom. And it wasn’t for a media stunt. Texas flew their PR team down here to put a stop to that whole thing before any corsages went on wrists.
Hell, if Jayden isn’t careful with his impulses, he may just blow up all the good press happening around Coach Kessler. That’s the other reason I wormed my way into his session time with her today. Dude has it bad. He signed up for something like a dozen of her sessions in a row. Even if nothing is going on there, the perception is hella bad.
For the next hour, Jayden and I grind, working on one-hand drills that he seems to soar through while I look like a beer league player. I grow more and more frustrated with every swing, until the tension finally boils over and I toss my bat on the ground and walk away from the tee, gritting, “Fuck” not so quietly under my breath.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Coach Kessler says, nudging my bat toward me with her foot.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
I meet her eyes then repeat my words.
“Sorry.”
This time it’s audible. And sincere.
“I’ve been there. You’re a competitor. Just . . . don’t hold on so hard.”
She lightly punches my shoulder before I bend over and pick up my bat.
“Shouldn’t I hold on to this thing harder?” I joke.
She flashes a crooked smile, but she doesn’t laugh.
“I mean in here,” she says, tapping her finger to her head.
“Ha. Yeah, I guess.” I shake my head and straighten the tee before snagging the bucket and waving off Jayden and Coach’s help picking up.
“I got it. I’m going to try to work on a few things before I head out,” I say.
Coach purses her lips, probably in warning that over-practicing isn’t good for progress, which yeah . . . I’ve heardthat a lot. From just about every coach I’ve ever had. I can’t stop putting in the extra hours, though. It’s all I’ve got. And if something doesn’t click soon—like the magic genes I’m supposed to have inherited from Roddy McKinney—then I’m going to have to suck it up and face a life of manual labor and small-time farming on my family’s land.
I kick the balls to the end of the tunnel, then drag the bucket with me to fill it up. When I turn around, the tee isn’t the only thing staring back at me from the other end. Somehow, Roddy slipped into this space without me noticing.
“Damn, just how loud was I talking to myself not to hear you?”
“Pretty loud,” he laughs back.
My mouth inches up on one side, briefly. I wasn’t actually making a joke. I’m earnestly irritated that I’m trapped in a cage with him right now.
“You know, I used to get frustrated doing tee work, too.”
“Oh yeah? Wow. Thanks for the fatherly advice,” I say, plunking the heavy bucket down on the stool Coach was sitting on earlier.
I pluck out a ball and balance it on the tee, then line my feet up on the turf before slowly going through the motions of my swing. My father isn’t leaving. He’s stubborn like that, a trait I’ve learned about him in the few short weeks we’ve been in each other’s orbit.
“Try something for me,” he says.
“No thanks,” I fire back, pulling my bat from my shoulder and slicing it through the ball with every ounce of energy left in my core. It hammers against a metal post at the end of the tunnel.
“Well, all right. I guess if you’re gonna hit like that, what the hell do I have to teach you.” He chuckles, and it irritates me.
“Exactly,” I say, flashing him a glance, just long enough to make sure our eyes meet and mine leave an impression behind. One that saysstop trying to make this better, asshole!
