Page 12 of Hometown Halftime

The girls surprised me today.

Not because anything spectacular happened but because of how badly they want this. Though half of them already have the confidence you can’t teach. It was great to see how ready they are to try something that comes with a learning curve steep enough to scare off most adults. They didn’t care, they showed up buzzing, laughing, and willing to look ridiculous together.

It was a really good day.

And Kinsey, well, she’s perfect for the team.

I knew she’d be sharp and confident. She’s the kind of woman whose presence fills the space she’s in without her even trying, but watching her work solidified the fact that Knox was right to select her to lead the team. Seeing her command the girls’ attention in a gentle way and focusing every ounce of energy she has on making sure they felt comfortable did something to me.

She saw everything. Every dropped ball, every grip that needed adjustment, every bit of hesitation, and she corrected it with a smile. She knows the sport down to her bones; you can see it in the way she moves, the way she reads the girls, and how she carries herself when she steps into coach mode.

She’s more experienced in the game. It should make me feel out of my depth. Instead, it makes me want to rise to meet her.

But that’s a problem for future me. Right now, I have about eight minutes to get across town.

I jog to my truck, start the engine, and head toward Little Pines Pre-K. When I pull into the parking lot it’s already filled with parents in minivans and compact SUVs. The teachers have learned my name quickly. Mostly because Emma, my youngest sister, tells everyone I’m going to be a famous football player.

She barrels onto the sidewalk as soon as she spots me from the door.

“RILEEEEEY!” She launches herself into my arms before I can brace, nearly knocking my glasses off.

I laugh and swing her up on my hip. “Hey, Em. Did you learn anything good today?”

“I learned I’m fast,” she says proudly. “And I learned that possums can get bit by a snake and not get sick.”

“Sounds like a full day.”

She clings to my neck as we walk to the truck, her backpack thumps against my side with each step.

“Can we stop for a snack?” she asks. “Mom said when you picked me up, I could ask you.”

“Did she now?” I open the door for her. “What kind of snack are we talking about?”

“The pink donuts from Cedar Perk,” she whispers reverently as she buckles herself into her booster seat.

I pretend to consider it, even though the answer is always yes. “Only if you promise to eat dinner later,” I say.

“I will.” She nods.

We swing by Cedar Perk’s drive-through for donut holes. Pink glaze for her, plain for me, and then head toward my family home. Mom’s car isn’t in the driveway yet; she won’t be back until after her shift at the clinic, which means the house will be ours for a couple of hours.

Emma kicks off her shoes the second we walk inside.

“Hey,” I call after her, “shoes in the cubby. Not wherever you feel like launching them.”

She giggles, grabs them, and puts them in their proper place.

The house feels different since I left for college. Mom keeps it clean, she’s always been meticulous about it. Bills sit in a neat stack on the counter. A laundry basket of neatly folded clothes sits by the stairs.

I drop my backpack by the kitchen island and help Emma climb onto a stool. She watches me while I pour her a cup of milk.

“Did you coach today?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “We had our first practice.”

“Did the people listen to you?”

“Mostly.”