Page 33 of Fake it ’Til Fall
Now, the school board wants to meet. Parents want answers. Boosters want proof I can coach kids without turning practices into war games.
The athletic director says my experience is exactly what they need.
The superintendent says my reputation is exactly what they fear.
They want the player without the history.
People always do.
They want the goals, the grit, the clips they can show at alumni dinners. They don’t want the penalties, the fights, the headlines, the grainy video of me losing my temper in a tunnel after a game while half the internet decided I was everything wrong with men in sports.
The fact that the video started after the worst part doesn’t matter.
Neither do small towns.
They don’t wait for context.
They print the version that fits on a napkin and pass it around with coffee.
It wasn’t the first time either.
That’s the part nobody has to say because I already know it.
Maybe that’s why August nearly broke me. Not because of the anger-management classes. Those were fine. Useful, even, once I stopped sitting there like I’d been kidnapped by a feelings cult.
My regular therapist heard me rant about the whole ordeal until I ran out of ways to sound justified.
During anger management, I realize that people aren’t angry. Anger is an easier emotion to hold onto. Anger gives people something to look at. It puts a wall between you and the thing under it. Fear. Shame. Grief. Panic. Humiliation. Exhaustion so deep it starts speaking through your hands because your mouth refuses.
Most of the time, people aren’t angry because they want to hurt someone.
They’re scared.
They’re cornered.
They’re ashamed.
They’re trying not to ask for something they already know they won’t get.
And if they do know they need help, good luck. Therapy costs money. Time costs money. Medication costs money. A decent doctor who listens costs money. Taking a morning off work to sit in a waiting room costs money. Even admitting you’re not okay can cost you a job, a reputation, custody, respect, the one remaining story people were willing to believe about you.
So people keep moving.
They get louder.
Quieter.
Meaner.
Funnier.
More gracious.
I glance at Daisy and wonder if she’s going to crack at some point and forget having grace, and snap at everyone. Her phone buzzes again.
The sound cuts through the café, small and electric.
Her fingers pause on the sandwich wrapper.
