Regency was our Orange County equivalent. It wasn’t as old or prestigious as Westgate, but Regency was well respected and boasted an impressive roster of student athletes. And if possible, their board was known for being even more conservative than ours.
Not important. What was important was winning this game.
So far, we were doing a damn fine job.
The score was six to two, us. We had to get through one more quarter and ideally put some more points on the board. I braced for someone to say or do something to rile Carly, but three quarters in, she was rock steady.
I tapped my clipboard and blew out a rush of air. I cast a serious look at my players, slapping high fives as they joined me on the sidelines. “Do not let your guard down. Do not think about celebrating. You haven’t won anything yet.”
“We got this, Coach. The ref isn’t calling them on penalties. I got stiff-armed twice out there.”
“Me too. And lesbo is their name of the day,” Callie, a senior defender huffed.
“Names are noise. Don’t listen to them,” I coached gruffly.
Carly clapped me on the shoulder. “That’s right. It would have been nice if my family let me know about the Pride flag, but I think it’s a nice touch.”
Carly’s parents had indeed shown up with a ginormous flag and a rainbow-colored “Go Wildcats” poster with all of the girls’ names on it. I spotted Katie with her aunt and uncle in the front row, behind the players’ bench, cheering for her cousin. I couldn’t see Asher, but I knew he was in the next section with some of the moms he’d befriended, dressed in black. Knowing him, he was probably bummed he hadn’t gotten the rainbow memo.
Regency’s bleachers weren’t as vocal as ours. I hadn’t heard anything negative, though. But I’d been more concerned with the game and I’d taken our happy rainbow vibes as a good omen.
“It’s a great touch,” Shana agreed, chomping her gum noisily, then lowered her voice for my ears only. “The grand pooh-bah, however, is not so happy. We’d better fuckin’ win this title.”
I furrowed my brow as I stuck my hand out, and called the girls in. “On three. Wildcats.”
They hooted, grabbed their gear, adjusted their goggles, and raced for the field. I kept my eyes glued to the action for a solid minute before I finally gave in and glanced toward the aristocratic gray-haired man standing in between the bleachers. Westgate was poised to take home its first-ever lacrosse CIF title…but the headmaster did not look happy. Neither did the board members flanking him.
Fuck. You couldn’t win for losing some days.
I sucked in a deep breath and refocused on the field. Five minutes to go. We had a game to win.
And we did.
News flash…the score was eight to three.
The girls went wild, the stands erupted, and the best kind of chaos reigned with boisterous cheers, applause, and endless photos. The Petersons volunteered to host an impromptu pool party and demanded my presence. I nodded, accepting a dozen more accolades as I clandestinely scanned the field for Asher.
That was silly, though, right? He was my friend and everyone knew it. But they didn’t know he was important to me. They didn’t know that it took a crazy amount of willpower not to chase him down and hug the life out of him. But I was equally aware of my boss standing nearby and my ex and her family milling a few feet away.
I hugged Shana and exchanged fist bumps with her sons and her husband.
She bumped my arm and tilted her chin meaningfully. “Quit stalling. We’ll save you a beer at the Petersons’. Myers is waiting for you. Get it over with and muck up the praise. He probably wants to say a bunch of nice shit, and you deserve to hear it. You did good, Coach J.”
“You too, Shan.”
I pasted a friendly smile on my face and greeted Westgate Prep’s headmaster with a firm handshake. “Hello, sir.”
Sterling Myers was a tall, good-looking man in his early sixties who had the air of a blue-blooded trust-fund baby. I’d heard he was the heir to an RV fortune. He was also a Harvard grad with a PhD in psychology and a master’s in education.
I didn’t deal with him often. I reported to the head of my department directly. What little interaction I’d had was generally favorable. Myers had always been pleasant, albeit cool, which made him hard to read. He was the kind of guy whose smile never quite seemed to reach his eyes.
And now was no different.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Johnston. Congratulations are in order.”
“Thank you. The girls worked hard. I’m very proud of them,” I replied.
“I’m sure you are.” He waved at a fellow faculty member before meeting my gaze again. “We all are. Well done.”