Page 39 of The Coach

“Your coach has a level head. That’s why he’s a good coach,” Dad says, and my chest blooms with warmth. “I’m sure he did what was right.”

“I thought Connor was going to lose his cool when Johnson was yelling at him, though.”

“Connor was getting yelled at?” my mom asks, a hand pressed to her chest. “He’s the sweetest boy.”

Lincoln shakes his head. “It wasn’t his fault; he was breaking under Johnson’s pressure. It’s honestly for the best that he’s gonna be gone. Now we can focus.”

My parents pester him for a few more minutes while I take delight in the food in front of me, eager to get finished so maybe I can see Tanner tonight.

“So,” I hear my mom sing the word in my direction, and my eyes flick up. “What’s new with you? How’s school?”

I groan. “Don’t get me started. We have so much coming up, and I’m already behind on my reading.”

Mom winks at me. “Behind because…”

Unable to help myself, I blush under her scrutiny.

“Aha!” She snaps her fingers, garnering my dad and brother’s attention as she does so. “So there’s a guy?”

“A guy? What guy?” Lincoln asks, a scowl on his face. “You didn’t tell me there was a guy.”

I sigh. “Will you calm down?”

“No,” he replies simply, and I give him an exasperated look.

“I’m casually seeing someone.” As casually as I can, anyway. What with having to hide our relationship from nearly everyone we know and make sure that we don’t give off any signals that we want to tear each other’s clothes off at a moment’s notice.

“Ooh, tell me everything,” Mom says, leaning closer.

“Yeah, tell us everything. Like his name, address, and social security number.”

I frown at my brother. “How would I know his social security number?”

“You see what I have to deal with?” Lincoln waves an arm at me, looking to our dad for backup. “She doesn’t even know his number!”

My dad just smiles patiently at my brother. “I’m sure Micayla knows what she’s doing.”

I clear my throat and take a deep swallow of my water.

Yeah, I’m sure Micayla knows what she’s doing, too… I hope.

“How is my girl doing?” My dad asks me as he sits on the stool in front of the cherry red 1967 Mustang he’s currently restoring.

Ever since my dad left the military life, he had to find himself a hobby—one that wasn’t bugging my mother constantly—and when he saw this baby for sale on some online site, he knew that’s what he wanted to do.

He’s been working on it for nearly four years. Slowly, but consistently.

It now ran, and he could use it as a run-around town car, but according to him, there was always room for improvement.

“I’m okay,” I ask, taking a seat on the rolling chair he has. “How’s the leg doing?”

He smirks, his eyes still focusing on whatever he’s working on for the car. “Doing fine. Still doing my exercises.”

“Even at the pool?” He frequents the local community rec center to use their pool. One of the physical therapists from the VA hospital suggested he use it to gain proper motor function again.

“Even at the pool, despite there being other people there.” I laugh at my introverted father’s response. My father has three people he likes, and only one is not blood related—my mother.

At fifty, he’s got defined muscle in his arms and legs, even the hurt one. The only indicator of his age is the salt and pepper hair that he now sports, but minus the cane, my dad is in some of the best shape of his life.

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