Page 77 of The Masks We Burn

I nod, give her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re the best. See ya’.”

Rushing out the door, I jump in my truck and do a double take to make sure my suit, gown, and shoes are laid out. Mom would kill me if I had even the smallest wrinkle.

Satisfied, I hit the road.

It’s funny how I spent four years stressed about this day, not knowing what I’d do after it came and went. Now, it’s like anything else on my to-do list—completed. Crossed off.

And after it’s done, I get to play.

* * *

ONE WEEK LATER

I glancedown at the list and check off another name. “You see that guy over there? That’s Coach Z. He’s our offensive coach and he’ll tell you what station to go to.”

Little man nods his head before kissing his mom on the cheek and taking off running toward Bellamy. His mother smiles and looks back at me, a small sheen in her eyes. “When we found out about this last month, he hadn’t missed a day practicing in the backyard.”

My chest swells as I look back at the kid talking to Bell. He’s tall for a nine-year-old, square in the shoulders with a solid build that’ll be perfect for offensive tackle. His blonde hair is mussed as he shakes it out of his face.

“That’s great to hear, ma’am. If you’d like to take a seat, you can set up on the far side with the yellow cones.”

She nods before following behind the throng of other parents. In total, we have seventy-nine kids, ages ranging from six to eleven. Each group comes a different day and time for practice, and so far, it’s been amazing.

Our crowdfunding was an overwhelming success. We had enough funds that neither Bell nor my parents had to donate a dime, and we were able to buyeverythingwe needed. Not all the equipment is in yet, but parents said they didn’t mind bringing their own chairs if it meant their kids could start practicing earlier. Our large warehouse-type building will be in by late summer, and our big-picture plan is to raise money and build a small stadium rather than renting out local colleges for all our games.

I jog to my side of the field and introduce myself the same way I have all week. “Good morning, boys. My name is Coach Cassidy, and I will be your defensive coach. Real quick rule rundown. I only got one, and it’s respect. You respect me, your teammates, your opponents, yourself, and the game. Long as you do that, we are gonna have a good time.”

The thirteen boys on the field have a seat as I motion for them to do so, and I have to rub a hand over my face to keep from smiling. I do that a lot now—smile when I’m supposed to look tough. It’s just something about doing what you love that makes you so happy it’s hard to hide it.

I clear my throat and give the rest of the welcome speech, letting them know how hard we are about to work. How I did peewee football from the age of six and I know if it wasn’t for my coaches then, I wouldn’t have been the ballplayer I was in high school. So I know exactly what they are about to go through in the trials, tribulations, and triumphs. I even tell them how I was hurt, and how my job is to keep them safe and teach them to be aware of their surroundings at all times to minimize something like that happening to them.

After I’m done and the boys get up to run drills, they all do it with excitement in their eyes and hope in their hearts. I know the look because I wore it every day for seventeen years, and then every day this week.

The rest of the practice goes great, and every parent shakes my hand on the way out, telling Bellamy and I how excited they are and how they can’t wait to watch the program grow. I can’t believe we haven’t been open for a week and we’ll already need to hire another couple of coaches.

I sigh as I clean up the cones on the field, a contentment settling in my bones. Everything feels so damn right, and besides the little ache behind my heart, I think things couldn’t possibly get any better.

Bellamy meets me by my truck as I start the engine. “Hey, we’re still on for our appointment, right?”

I nod. “Hell yeah. Let me go take a shower and I’ll meet you there.”

“You figured out what color you’re getting this time?”

“Nope. But I’ll figure it out before we get there.”

With not a lot of time to spare, I hurry up and get home, making quick work of taking a shower and throwing on some clothes. But when I put the place in my GPS and see it’s only a couple of blocks over, I decide to walk.

The sun is high above, but it’s a perfect sixty-eight, making me want a smoothie. I check my phone and decide to take a small detour to Main Juice, but when I turn the corner of the next shop on Third and Smith, my heart stops beating.

A huge gold sign is being installed under an awning that reads Sugar and Spice Anime Café.

She did it.

She fucking did it.

An intense feeling of pride coats over me until I see a flash of pink hair. My breath comes quicker as she puts something up in the window—aSakunadecal, I believe. She burnishes it seventy times over before her perfectly arched brows furrow and she yells at someone.

Then, appearing from her side, Mr. Orlov scooches her to the side with a smile. He says something that makes her roll her eyes before slowly dragging a tool on the other side of the decal, eradicating all the trapped air.

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