Page 22 of Redemption
The day after my mom mentioned the head coach position, I called Lily, and we set up a time to meet.
I don’t want it. I walked away from football, promising myself never to look back, and this job feels like looking back.
For the past six years, I’ve spent my time running, physically and mentally, from my past—or at least doing a really good job of ignoring it—and now, in a span of a week, it’s all catching up to me.
But I guess you can’t run forever, and maybe it’s time I start looking at those pieces of me, especially with MJ back in town. It’s a small town, and just like today, we are bound to run into each other. I would prefer not to have a black eye every time it happens.
“Are you listening to me?” Lily giggles, reaching across the desk and squeezing my hand.
When I called her, I felt bad for the type of friend I’ve been lately. We promised to keep in touch when we decided dating wasn’t for us, but I’ve not held up my end of the bargain. I’ve been avoiding people for longer than I like to admit, preferring solitude to anything else.
So, to make up for it, I asked Lily out for coffee before we headed to the school to discuss the position.
During our meal, she caught me up on being the new principal, and I avoided telling her about my black eyes.
I’m sure she’s heard the rumors around town anyway.
To her credit, she didn’t ask about it, and when MJ walked into the coffee shop, her eyes merely bounced between us, letting it drop once MJ and her mom left.
Lily knows about MJ, not because I’ve told her anything. That’s a subject I avoided like the plague. But with Abigail’s involvement with the school and Lily’s penchant for committees, it was like a match made in heaven between the younger woman and Abigail. They quickly became friends, and the rest is history.
Now we are sitting in her office, and sweat trickles down my forehead as I brace myself for the pain of talking about football.
“If I say yes, will you believe me?” I ask, hiding my worry behind a smirk.
“No, Hayes Miller, I will not. Do you want to tell me what you’ve been thinking about with that far-away look in your eye, or would you prefer to listen to what I was saying?”
She glowers at me under her eyebrows. There’s no wonder the school board offered her the principal position. That look is intimidating.
“The second option, please,” I say with an apologetic smile.
Rolling her eyes, she pushes her chair away from her desk and leans back. I want to cower under her gaze, which seems to see right through me, but I don’t. Instead, I lean forward, placing my elbows on my knees, and settle in for this conversation.
“We are out of options, Hayes. The board meeting is in three weeks, and we have to hire someone by then. None of the other coaches want it. You know what football means to this town—the pressure to win is a weight none of them want to carry.” She pauses, her mouth working as if trying to think of how to say this next part. “From what I hear, you were good—like NFL good—and you walked away from it all. Why did you never tell me that? That’s a heck of an accomplishment.”
I shrug. “Because it’s just a game.”
If my sixteen year old self heard me say that, he would whip my butt, but I’ve lived a lot of life since then—and it’s a lesson I had to learn the hard way.
“Just a game? You realize that you could have been making millions right now. You were a top pick in the draft, Hayes. I looked after several people on the board who mentioned you for the job. That seems like more than just a game.”
“And that right there is why I didn’t tell you.” My voice is sharp, tension aching in my shoulders.
Taking a calming breath, I rub my neck, trying to work out some of the knots that have made a permanent residence in my muscles.
Lily opens and closes her mouth, not used to seeing this side of me, but doesn’t this prove my point?
I no longer love football like I once did.
My love for the game died, and I couldn’t get it back, no matter how hard I tried.
“You’re right,” Lily says, surprising me. I frown at her, wondering where she’s going with this. She gives me a soft smile, standing and walking to my side of the desk. Her hand falls to my shoulder, but I refuse to look up at her. “It is just a game—and maybe I can’t understand your decision to walk away from it, but I do know that our students would benefit from a coach who teaches them it’s just a game. I see the pressure they put on themselves to succeed at this sport. The whole town shoves it down their throats. I think we could all benefit from having a coach like you.”
A thick silence blankets the air between us as her words hit home.
In all my years playing football, none of my coaches ever sat me down and taught me that it was just a game. To them—losing would have been the end of the world, so I made it my mission to be the hero who saved them. Then my world came crashing down, and none of them thought to save me.
But can I be the difference for these kids? I’m not sure.
