The Hero's Redemption

A voice echoed in the big, concrete space. “It’s fun playing, but Mr. Whittaker doesn’t know any more than Mrs. Fisher does.”

“I don’t think I’m going to play this year,” another girl said.

Walking from the shower room to her locker, Erin saw a bunch of preteen to teenage girls filtering into the locker room from the gymnasium. Oh, no. They had to be taking the more advanced of the two volleyball sessions she’d read about on the Recreation Department website. How had she let herself forget? This session met twice a week, Tuesday and Thursday evenings, six to eight o’clock, allowing for teenagers who held summer jobs.

She reached her locker, only to have two girls saunter after her, stopping just a few feet away to open lockers of their own.

“If we all suck at setting the ball,” one of them grumbled, “how are we supposed to spike it?”

Good question. And sad, because what everyone enjoyed most was slamming the ball over the net.

Voices rang out from every direction, echoing in the big, concrete space. Dressing hastily, Erin couldn’t help listening to the two girls talking.

The dark-haired girl started pulling clothes out of her locker. She had to untangle panties from skinny jeans. “You’re really not going to play?”

The other was a tall, athletic blonde with hair cut short. “Why waste our time? Anyway, you know Mrs. Fisher doesn’t even want to coach volleyball. She only did it last year because Mr. Hoffer leaned on her.”

“They get paid extra, you know.”

“I heard her telling Mr. Ellis she didn’t care about the money.”

It took as little as this conversation, seeing two younger girls snapping towels at each other outside the shower room, the sound of a high-pitched giggle from nearby, to pierce Erin’s heart. It was all so painfully familiar.

She hurriedly fastened the buckle on her sandals and shoved her suit, goggles and wet towel in the tote. She had to get out of here.

Since she was apparently invisible to the girls, they kept talking. “Last year, she said she’d watch films and, you know, study skills. So maybe…”

“Oh, sure.”

A shriek of laughter came from the other side of the bank of lockers. Erin slammed hers shut. The clang was achingly familiar, as were the bits of other conversations drifting her way.

I miss this.

Forcing an apologetic smile, she slipped by and went to the row of mirrors. She was lucky to get one. The younger girls headed out with wet hair, like she was planning to, but the older ones waited in line for outlets to plug in their hair dryers. Some were carefully applying makeup, because God forbid a hot guy should see them without.

The ache she felt was bittersweet. She could help the girls who really did want to play the game well. Memories flickered like a campfire leaping to life. The laughter, the frustration, the childish moments and the graceful, mature ones. Even though it hurt, Erin was glad. She didn’t want to forget the girls, ever.

She hadn’t thought in a long while about the good times with her team.

If she coached at the high school level, she wouldn’t drive to games; the district would provide bus transportation.

It’s too soon.

In another year, she might think about applying to coach. Or even teach a class or two at the community college. Not too big a commitment.

But not yet.

Given the emotions that had pummeled her, Erin’s enthusiasm for grocery shopping had waned by the time she reached the parking lot, but the pickings in her kitchen were getting skimpy, and she couldn’t imagine she’d jump out of bed in the morning and think, Wow, I can hardly wait to go to the grocery store!

Plus, she was working tomorrow afternoon.

So get it over with, she decided.

Sad to say, she never walked into Safeway without looking for Cole. Which was totally stupid, when she didn’t even know where his apartment was or if he was still working at that development between West Fork and Arlington. He could be living and working on the other side of the county by now.

Tonight, she nabbed a cart and started in the produce department, barely glancing at the checkout lanes. It wasn’t as if they’d be that busy after nine in the evening.

Except…there was Cole Meacham, unloading the contents of his cart onto the belt.