Page 52 of Fake it ’Til Fall

There are normal questions a man can prepare for.

Why do you want to coach?

How do you handle conflict?

What would you say to parents who are concerned about your reputation?

Can you model accountability for young athletes?

Do you have a significant other you can bring to a community dinner so everyone can see you are socially stable and unlikely to throw a chair?

Apparently I missed that one.

Fuck.

Chapter Eight

Forrest

I’m still numb from the significant other thing while Principal Whitcomb keeps talking like she hasn’t just opened a trapdoor beneath my life.

“Basic skills,” she says. “Leadership. Nothing too intense.”

Nothing too intense?

It takes me a couple of seconds to realize she’s talking about the practice.

“My practices aren’t cage fights, Principal.”

The second it leaves my mouth, I know.

They’re the wrong words to say while trying to convince her I’m not some asshole who loses his cool.

The silence on the line is brief, polite, and fatal.

Puck looks up at me with deep disappointment.

Fair.

I close my eyes.

Fuck.

This is it. I might as well fill out an application and start working for Bea. I don’t know how to make coffee, but I can carry boxes and scowl at customers who ask if the poetry section has “anything happier.” Currently, I do that for free, which means I’ve already been training.

“That came out wrong,” I say.

“I appreciate the clarification.”

I bet she does.

Somewhere in Winterberry Cove, an educator is probably writing “difficult but self-aware” beside my name. Maybe underlining “difficult” twice.

“I want the job,” I say, because there’s no point pretending otherwise.

The words feel too exposed once they’re out.

I hate wanting things in front of people. Wanting gives them a handle.