Page 7 of The Goalie's Gamble
At five fifty-seven, I clap twice.“Three-minute warning!If you’re packing up, tuck in your chairs.”
At six, parents trickle in with weary faces and relieved smiles.A mom in scrubs thanks me for making sure her daughter got to tutoring.A grandfather slips me a ten-dollar bill and says, “For snacks,” like it’s a secret, generous crime.I tuck it in the petty cash tin and tell him it matters because it does.
CJ lingers at the door, fist-bumping kids who leave like they’re teammates after a win.When the last one disappears and the gym settles into its nightly sigh, he turns to me with a sheepish expression I don’t think he learned on camera.
“I forgot to clock out,” he says, holding up the clipboard like a confession.
“First day,” I say, making a note for him.“You were here on time.You stayed until the end.Those are the points that count.”
He shifts his weight.Shrugs.“It was… good.”He sounds surprised by the admission.“Like… the part of practice where you can hear yourself breathe and the world gets simple.”
“Simple,” I echo, thinking of the spreadsheet that awaits me and the landlord’s email marked urgent.“I’m happy someone found simplicity today.”
He studies my face, then the dim corners of the gym.“What can I do before I go?Chairs?Trash?”
“Trash would be great,” I say, because letting him be useful is safer than letting him be kind.
We take the bags out together into the chill that’s starting to thread through Maple Creek in the evenings.The alley smells like the pizza place two doors down and last week’s rain.He ties a knot with one hand because he’s the sort of person who ties knots like it’s flirting, and I pretend not to notice.
“You sure you don’t need a ride?”he asks when we’re back at the door.
“I’m sure,” I say.“I have more work.”
He nods.“Right.The hustle.”
I lean on the frame and cross my arms.“You remembered.”
“I’m a goalie,” he says.“We notice things.”
“Not always the right things.”
“Nope,” he agrees, bright and unbothered.“But sometimes we get lucky.”
He backs away down the steps, walking backward because he’s constitutionally incapable of doing anything the straightforward way.
“I’ll see you Monday, Director Walker.”
“Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He turns at the curb, lifts a hand, and then he’s gone, swallowed by the neon of the pizza sign and the gold of the streetlights.
The gym is quiet when I lock the door.The copier light blinks its small green patience.In my office, the utilities spreadsheet still waits like a dare, and the email from the landlord glowers like the subtitle on a horror movie.I take off my flats, rub a foot over the cool tile, and sit.
My phone buzzes.A text from Jada:He’s trouble.
I type back:We don’t do trouble.
Three dots.Then:He made Malik feel like a star.That isn’t nothing.
It isn’t.It’s the kind of thing that saves a kid for a day, and sometimes a day is the only unit you’re allowed to measure progress in.
I close my eyes for one breath.Then I open them and start another grant application.In the line for “Describe your organization’s mission,” I write the same words I always do:We provide safety, structure, and possibility.I add,We tell kids they’re not alone.
Somewhere down the block, a car horn honks twice, bright and jaunty, and I don’t need to look to know who it is.
“Don’t get attached,” I tell the empty room.
