Sidelined Read online

  “I appreciate that,” I started. “But what I don’t appreciate is your little snorts and eye rolls and the way you sit.”

  “The way I sit?” He laughed, low and breathy. An annoying sound, a tease of something much bigger, but enough to know it was directed at me. “Jesus, you’re a real piece of work.”

  “Yeah, you sit like you don’t have a care in the world. This is the football team you’ve been a part of for eight years, right? You’re just gonna sit there like you have no energy, and nothin’ to contribute to our meetin’?”

  I didn’t wait for him to answer. Whatever he had to say, it wouldn’t have been enough.

  “I don’t care what your reason is for not likin’ me. If you want to continue as offensive coordinator here, you need to act like the damn offensive coordinator. So either speak up now or forever hold your peace.”

  A second passed. And then ten more.

  “Jaylin Bose is out for a week at least, with a high ankle sprain. His mom told me yesterday. Jaylin’s the best back on the team.”

  I knew why these were the first words out of his mouth. He wanted me to know he was the coach the parents went to. It was a cheap shot to show he was the supposed top dog.

  “I’ll make sure to call her tonight. You don’t need to worry about contacting parents.”

  He unfolded his arms and shifted his weight between his feet for a moment before rolling his shoulders back. He had a good four inches on me, but I wasn’t intimidated by his size. I’d stood up to bigger and tougher-looking dudes before.

  “This job was supposed to be mine,” he said finally. “I’ve been here for eight years. I know the players, I know where they need to improve and what they excel at. I know this team inside and out, like the back of my hand.”

  “Then why didn’t they hire you, huh? If you’re so good at your job, why aren’t you in this position?” I didn’t back down from his stare. He was a good-looking, blond, blue-eyed guy from the middle of America. I was sure this was the first time he hadn’t gotten what he wanted. And he’d lost it to a woman.

  Oh, the horror.

  Connor seemed to chew on his words before spitting them out at me with a raised voice. “How can you possibly coach a bunch of adolescent high school boys, much less raise our average score per game? What the fuck do you know about football besides your daddy’s last name?”

  See, I’d done what Connor McGuire hadn’t. I’d studied—on everyone and everything. If he thought I was coming into this blind, he was an idiot.

  I smiled, making sure my features were set into place before I unleashed the fury.

  “What do I know about football? Let me tell you. I know you attended Divine Mercy in St. Paul and held the state’s record in rushing yards your junior and senior year. I know you were recruited by the University of Indianapolis, where you had a good couple of years as quarterback until you tore your MCL and ACL from a bad tackle. I’m sure you took that pretty hard, but as far as I can tell, you weren’t gonna get drafted to the NFL. Far from it. So this thing where you think the world owes you somethin’ is bullshit. The world owes you nothing.”

  I stepped closer to him, close enough to see his nostrils flare, and went on.

  “I wore football pads my entire life. I was a receiver at a championship high school until I was fifteen years old. When boys outgrew me, I became the lead placekicker, scoring the most field goal points three years in a row. I was a walk-on at a top D-One school in Florida and played professional football in the women’s league for three years before becoming an assistant coach at Georgia Tech. Yes, I worked for my father, but I’ve recruited and worked with collegiate players for years, and have had a hell of a lot more experience winning than you’ve ever had. But what do I know about football?”

  Connor’s stiff stance loosened slightly, but he kept up a good front.

  I wasn’t done yet.

  “Just because you and the rest of my male counterparts may be bigger and stronger than I am doesn’t mean y’all understand the game any more or better than I do. The job of a coach is to lead. And I plan on leadin’ this team to the state championship. You can either buy a ticket for this train or get the hell off. I’ll be sure to wave at you in your position on the sideline. Your decision.”

  Connor’s jaw worked as a thick tension lay between us. I had no more words for this guy. It was up to him whether he wanted to stay or go.

  He turned his back to me and I noticed his shoulders moving up and down as he breathed. I might’ve been a bit harsh about his football career, but I didn’t care. He needed to be brought down a peg or two. If I could handle the bitter comments and ruthless “honesty” that had been directed toward me my whole life, he could certainly handle a few minutes of blunt truth.

  He took a step to the door, and as he touched the handle, I called out to him. “McGuire, if you’re going to continue with this team, you’d better have a better attitude come Monday. And don’t take the Lord’s name in vain in front of me. We’re not a bunch of fuckin’ heathens.”

  He turned to me then. “You know the meaning of the word ironic?”

  “Yeah. A football coach of a losin’ team who doesn’t know when he’s been beat.”

  He pursed his lips, staring me down for a few seconds before he spun around. The only acknowledgment I got was the resounding sound of the slammed door.

  I’d been called a bitch a time or two, sometimes worse than that, and I could only guess what words he had for me. It’s not that I enjoyed tearing into someone, but it occasionally had to be done. Women were called names for that. Men were called tough.

  It was a backward world we lived in.

  I was supposed to meet Jim and Mr. Philander, the principal, at two, and I needed to make myself look more presentable for the cameras. I was no model and wasn’t much for fashion, but I enjoyed bath bombs, red lipstick, and a lace bra as much as the next gal.

  I changed into a polo shirt with the school’s name on it and a new pair of slim khaki pants, imagining Gram rolling over in her grave. I was about to go on TV looking a lot more like a tomboy, which she hated, and a lot less like Miss America, which she loved.

  But it was twenty years too late to try to change now.

  In an effort to make my gram proud of me from her place in heaven, I took my hair out of the messy bun it was in and ran a brush through it. I had the curse of pin-straight hair, and with its mucky blond-brown color that I hadn’t had a chance to fix at a salon, it looked like straw. I swiped on mascara and some ChapStick before heading upstairs to the main office. It’d have to do.

  Jim was already there, waiting for me. “Hey, Charlie, how are you today? Settling in okay?”

  “I’m gettin’ there.”

  He patted my shoulder once. “Good to hear. I spoke to someone I know about a place you might be interested in living.”

  “Yeah?”

  He handed me a piece of paper with a name and number. “I’ve known Sonja for about two years now. She works at the gym I go to. She’s real sweet. She mentioned in passing yesterday that her friend is moving out of her house soon, and I told her you were looking for a place.”

  I stuffed the paper in my pocket, about to ask more about this Sonja when Philander walked up.

  Mr. Philander was oddly tall and thin, with a long nose that gave him the appearance of a villain from an old-timey movie. “Hello,” he said, tugging on the lapel of his sports coat. “Jim, Charlie. Nice to see you both.”

  Except he couldn’t even be bothered to look me in the eyes. A serious flaw, I thought.

  “Shall we walk down to the field?”

  Jim and I nodded, and the three of us headed out of the school down a slight hill to the football field. I could see the small platform set up with a podium and microphone. A group of reporters was clustered in front of it, along with men and women of all ages. I assumed that a couple of my players were in the mix too, judging from the line of boys at the back. I spotted one who looked familia
r. I racked my brain for where I’d seen him before until it came to me: Nate from Caribou.

  “Perfect weather for this,” Philander said shortly. “This will look good for the school.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I agreed, my stomach twisting into knots with every step closer to the podium.

  The very little knowledge I had of the principal was that he liked the spotlight, having the name of the school out there. The more ribbons, championships, and awards, the better. But he wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy.

  He nodded at the small crowd as he took his place at the front of the platform. He tested the microphone, then waved for Jim and me to join him, and I took a few steadying breaths. I might have been a football player and coach for most of my life, but I wasn’t great in front of crowds. Or cameras.

  Instead of listening to Philander talk about Douglass High School, I focused on the kids in the back. I hadn’t been around high school kids in a long time, not since I played in the IWFL and actually used my teaching certification for a paycheck. I had become accustomed to working with college players and the attitude that came along with them. By the time players and coaches reached a certain level of notoriety, their outlook changed. It became a little bit more about what the game could do for them, and less about why they played it in the first place. High school football had all the passion without all of the cynicism.

  And just as I smiled, remembering my own years as a high school player, I was introduced.

  “Please welcome Charlotte Gibb, the new head coach of the Douglass Otters.”

  I shook hands with Philander, and then placed my palms on the podium to steady my trembling fingers. “Thank you, Mr. Philander, for the introduction, and to Jim Thines for makin’ the transition here so easy. I won’t take up much of your time. I’d just like to say I’m really excited to be here, and I look forward to this season. Dick Nelson had a long run here, and I hope I can eventually become as loved as he was. In my short time here, I’ve already learned that this is a tight-knit community and a really great school. I can only promise to do my best for the players and for my students. Thank you very much.”

  I stepped back from the podium, and, to my relief, Jim took my place, wrapping up the session. Reporters shouted a few questions about my background and my father, but I only smiled and waved quickly before hightailing it off the platform toward the boys in the back of the crowd.

  “Hey, Nate, right?” I said, looking to the boy, probably six feet tall, with long arms. “You’re on the team?”

  He smiled and nodded. “Yeah, Nate Anderson. I’m a junior.”

  “I remember you from Caribou.”

  Another player, this one tall and muscular, jostled him. “Caribou king, right here,” he said, then stuck his hand out to me. “I’m Marcus Clark. And this is Joel Cooper.”

  Joel was scrawny and still had some ways of growing yet. Or at least, I hoped so. He seemed like he’d be blown over with a strong wind.

  I smiled at them, genuinely pleased that they seemed enthusiastic. “You ready for the new season?”

  Marcus clapped his hands together. “So ready, Miss—I mean, Coach.”

  “Good to hear. I’ll see you guys bright and early Monday. Come ready to work.”

  “We will,” Nate said.

  I sneaked back into the school while Philander entertained the reporters. Jim saw me and gave me a nod. He knew I wasn’t much for this kind of thing.

  I quickly packed up my belongings, ready for some much-needed downtime after today, but as I walked to my car, I overheard two men talking with their backs to me. I assumed they’d been there for the press conference.

  “You really think she can do it?” one of them asked, proving my assumption correct.

  The other man tilted his head side to side. “No. I’ve never heard of a woman coaching before. I doubt . . .”

  I shook my head, eyes to the ground as I tuned them out and got in my car. What people didn’t realize was that the more they doubted me, the more I’d work to prove them wrong.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Connor

  I always loved the first day of doubles. After a long, hot summer, stepping back on the grass felt like coming home. This year was no different.

  Even if everything was different.

  Charlie Gibb stood in front of the team, an Otters hat on her head. I had to give it to her, she knew how to handle herself. She had every player’s attention and made sure to look them all in the eyes as she introduced herself.

  She gave a summary of her background, but I didn’t need to hear it. She’d given me an earful on Saturday. I’d never had anyone speak to me the way she did, so bluntly. And it took balls.

  If she needed anything in this job, it was big balls.

  I’d gone home after and looked her up on the Internet. Her career was impressive, and not just for a woman. For anyone. She had a long résumé and, according to YouTube, a really good highlight reel.

  There were a few articles written about her but not very many direct interviews because, as she said, she didn’t like the limelight. Although there were more than a few comments written under every article and video about her looks or sexual orientation, or another four-letter word that even I didn’t dare speak.

  I might be pissed she was the head coach, but it had never crossed my mind to call her names or speak about her the way these strangers did.

  Although it was strange to see a woman lead the team. Even with the plain T-shirt and green mesh shorts, it was hard to ignore the physical difference between her and every other person on this field. She was tall and strong, her arms and legs clear signs that she was an athlete, but her long hair and curves were distinctly female. The shine on her golden skin had me wondering if she’d lotioned up before coming out on the field, but that was exactly the type of comment those anonymous posters wrote about her, and I wanted to be better than them. I shook my head, focusing on her words.

  Her voice was much more relaxed as she went over the schedule than when she’d chewed my ass out. Who’d have thought a girl from Georgia with a sweet southern accent would have a mouth like a truck driver?

  And would be offended by taking the Lord’s name in vain.

  “Coach Rosario will start off with stretching, but I want y’all to know that when you come onto this football field, you will be running. We don’t walk. We run. Got it?”

  The players all nodded, and she clapped her hands together once. “Good. Let’s get started. Coach . . .”

  Ronnie stepped forward to lead them in stretching, and the players stood up, running to their spots in lines across the field. Gibb grabbed a clipboard and whistle before meeting me by the fifty-yard line. She had already made it known that her goal this first day was to assess each player, but I hadn’t expected her to have notes on almost all of them already. She handed me a spreadsheet with the physical stats of every kid, along with any significant notes from last season.

  “We gotta get these guys in better shape,” she said, staring out over the team.

  I nodded in agreement. I’d been trying to do that in the off-season, working them hard in the weight room.

  “I spoke to Jaylin last night. Seems like a nice kid.”

  I nodded again.

  “I told him I expected to see him in person tomorrow. He’ll need to work to catch up on what he’s missed this week,” she said, and I slipped my sunglasses on.

  With a low, irritated noise, she stepped in front of me, her back to the players as they stood up from their stretching. “I’m glad you took our little chat to heart.”

  This time I dipped my chin down to look at her. “I’ll do what I need to do for this team to win. That doesn’t mean you and I have to like each other. We are colleagues, not buddies.”

  “Good. Then I know it won’t hurt your feelings when I say get to work.” She slammed the clipboard into my chest along with a timer.

  She blew her whistle, nearly in my ear, and yelled, “On the fort
y!”

  The players jogged over to the forty-yard line, facing the goalpost, and I moved to the goal line. Taking sprints times wasn’t exactly in my job description as offensive coordinator, but I wasn’t about to argue that now. I wasn’t going to be the one not being a team player.

  Even Al was toeing the line today. Although I didn’t expect it to last—he was basically a sloth in human form and had only stayed on staff because he was good friends with Nelson. He had been in my ear again about her this morning. Hard to believe, but he disliked her more than I did. For him, though, it was straight-up sexism. Old dogs, new tricks, and all that.

  Gibb wanted the team faster, so we spent a lot of time conditioning. First with sprints, then cone drills and ladders. It wasn’t any different from what I would’ve done. We had a few standout players, but we needed each of these boys to improve to start winning games. By the time ten o’clock rolled around, they were all spent and ready for a break, so we broke into groups to go over the new plays before lunch. The afternoon wasn’t much different, more skills work, ending with more running.

  Gibb and I avoided each other.

  Double sessions were always grueling, long days with little rest, but she kept a tight schedule, leaving no room for the kids to fool around. And by the end of the week, the team was adjusting to the new plays and showing improvement. She set high standards with hard-and-fast rules, punishments set as push-ups, up-downs, or general running around the track until she said to stop, like she had Butcher doing right now.

  Scottie Butcher was a slow-as-molasses lineman with a penchant for making jokes on the field. On his third circuit around the track, he looked ready to pass out, and I held my hand up. He stopped running and bent over, taking heaving breaths.

  Gibb stalked over to me, her ponytail swinging with every step. She whispered her words to me: “What in the hell are you doin’?”

  “The kid is wrecked.”

  “I don’t care if he’s pukin’, you don’t tell him to stop if I told him to keep runnin’.”