Page 16 of Mile High Coach

“Of course not.” I tell her the story about him following me out to the patio, about how I’d asked him not to tell anyone. And how it seemed he wouldn’t. “Dating him could be catastrophic. This position is important to me. The last thing I need is to get HR on my bad side. Or to appear like I can’t do my job.”

“Well, I don’t see why you’d get in trouble,” Chrys says, and I hear something on the other end of the line—the sizzle of onions in a pan? My stomach gurgles as I spear another bite of spinach and carrot. “You only kissed. And it was before you ever really started the job. Maybe they’d be upset that you didn’t even recognize their head coach, though.”

“He was way more tan!”

Chrys laughs, then I hear the low rumble of Dad’s voice in the back of the room. Chrys is muffled for a second, saying something to him about dinner. I close my eyes and imagineI’m there with them, sitting at the counter, watching Chrys cook because I burn everything I touch.

“Whatever you have to tell yourself,” she says, returning to the phone. “Dad says hi, but I have to go. This meal is gonna turn out like you made it if I don’t focus.”

“Ha.” We say our goodbyes, then I end the call, placing my phone face down on the table. My apartment is quiet, though I can hear the sounds of my neighbors—running water, shifting floors, the general sounds of people returning from work and winding down for the evening.

When I look up, I see an empty seat across from me.

Rather than sit with how alone I am in this apartment—and this city—I push my salad back and pick my phone up again.

Harrison Clark is, of course, on Instagram, his tanned face and white teeth glowing at me from his profile picture. His profile is a collection of high-definition photos from the season—winning games, getting ready for the Stanley Cup—and beachy, athletic photos—him surfing, standing in the sand, the sun shining off his oiled chest, a volleyball tucked under one arm.

His Instagram starts shortly before he retired as a player, before he became the coach for the Blue Crabs. And in the very first few photos, there’s another woman with him. I alternate between his Wikipedia page and his Instagram, matching the woman to the information about him online.

Harrison Clark was married to Eliza Clark—now Eliza Greene—for the duration of his career with the Blue Crabs. The couple publicly announced their split in September 2010.

I didn’t even know he had been married.

Shifting in my seat, I try to tap back over to his Instagram, but I’m too quick with it, and accidentally double-tap his first photo—him with his arms around a golden retriever.

A little red heart appears on the photo, and all the blood drains from my body.

Oh—no. No, no, no. Not after the conversation we had today—fuck.

I hastily unlike the photo—though I know that, realistically, that’s not going to help me—then set my phone down on the table, pick up my fork, stab it into the salad. I drop the fork, put my hand on my phone, then draw back like it might burn me.

What am I doing? In all my years of internet stalking, I’ve never been so careless as to like an old photo. And especially not one from over ten years ago.

“Fuck,” I mutter out loud, standing up and thrusting my hands into my hair, starting to pace back and forth beside the table. What is he going to think when he sees it?

What if he thinks it’s flirting? What if he thinks it’s some sort of desperate attempt to make friends after our little spat today?

I’m still pacing, still deep in my thoughts, when I hear the tiny little telltale buzz of an Instagram notification on my phone. My heart turns over in my chest, and I approach the device like it’s an active bomb, picking it up and turning it over in my palm so the screen lights up and shows me the notifications.

Harrison_Clark has followed you.

Harrison_Clark liked a photo.

Heart thudding, I tap on the second notification and it takes me to the photo he’s liked—the very first one I ever posted on Instagram. In it, I’m home from college for spring break, one arm around Chrys, the other around my mom. It’s grainy, the kind of quality I could manage with my second hand smart phone. The three of us have dye from Easter eggs on our fingers, staining them blue, purple, and green.

I completely forgot about that day and our mother’s insistence that we still dye eggs from our chickens, even though the brown didn’t take color well.

I’m still staring at the picture when the notifications flood in.

Harrison_Clark liked a photo.

Harrison_Clark liked a photo.

Harrison_Clark liked a photo.

Stifling a laugh, I shake my head and tap back over to his profile, giving him the same treatment. It’s juvenile, and it’s not smart, considering the fact that I just gave him a talk about keeping what happened between us a secret, but I can’t stop myself.

I’m starting to get the feeling that might be a strong theme for me when it comes to Harrison Clark.

---