Page 5 of The Goalie's Gamble
He hesitates.
“Good answer,” I say.
Bea giggles.I send her toward my office, then catch CJ watching me.Not like the other men who’ve looked at me while I told them what to do—annoyed, defensive, calculating, but curious, but like he’s counting puzzle pieces and finding a picture that surprises him.
“You grew up here?”he asks as we head for the supply shelves.
“In Maple Creek?Mostly,” I reply.“Not in this building.The center used to be a church basement with folding walls.We moved in here after the city decommissioned the rec center.”
“And you’re… what?An angel in flats who keeps the whole thing from collapsing?”
“Angels don’t write grant proposals at two in the morning,” I say, tugging down a box of markers.“We do what we can with what we have.The rest is hustle.”
He leans a hip against the shelf and studies me.I feel it even before I meet his gaze—the shift.Jokes as armor, meeting someone whose armor is competence.
“Okay, Hustle,” he says.“What’s the worst fire you’re putting out this week?”
I don’t owe him honesty, but the way he asks—no pity, no fix-it swagger—makes the truth easier than a deflection.“The worst?Our lease is up next summer, and the landlord can get more rent from a developer who wants pickleball courts.So, I’m trying to raise a down payment to buy the building before he sells it out from under us.Also, the tutoring grant we used for math fellows was cut.And the HVAC died on Monday and came back to life like Lazarus on Tuesday, so I’m praying it keeps believing in miracles.”
He whistles low and falls quiet for a moment.
“Pickleball,” he finally says with the gravity of a diagnosis.“Brutal.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.It’s small and disloyal to my principles.It’s also human.“You asked.”
“I did.”He nods.
For a moment, the gym narrows to the two of us and the unglamorous music of community: sneakers squeaking, pencils scraping, the clatter of plastic cups by the water cooler.His grin softens into something like attentiveness.It’s dangerous, that look.It says he’s capable of more than chaos.
“Hey, CJ!”Malik calls from the free-throw line.“You in or you scared?”
CJ straightens.The grin flips back on like a stadium light.He cups his hands around his mouth.“I fear nothing but bees, tax season, and your left hook, Mal.Give me that ball.”
He joins them.I go back to the office where Bea is pecking at the keyboard like a suspicious chicken.
“You don’t have to write ‘Dear Ms.Tran’ four times,” I say gently, pointing.“One salutation is plenty.Then your paragraph, then your conclusion.”
“I’m adding more conclusion,” Bea informs me, a focused furrow between her eyebrows.
“Of course you are.”
When I step into the hallway again, Jada is leaning against the doorjamb with two paper cups of coffee and a look on her face that says I’m about to have to be a person, not a director.
“So,” she says, offering me one, “our team-ordered helper is… something.”
“He’s a lot,” I say, accepting the cup.“But the kids like him.”
“The kids like cotton candy, too.Doesn’t mean it’s nutritious.”
“Fair.”I blow on my coffee.“We’ll see if he shows up tomorrow.Consistency is nutrition.”
Jada hums.“And you’re good?”
I know what she’s asking.Not, “Are you good at your job?”We both know the answer to that.She means, “Are you okay with a hurricane in a hat blowing through your routines?Are you steady enough to make space for someone who upends your rules?”
“I’m good,” I say.“I don’t have time not to be.”
She squeezes my elbow.“You never have time, Liv.Make some anyway.”
