Page 36 of Coach Me

“You’re a saint,” I asserted.

Catya grinned, then her smile fell away. “Actually,” she said, “it’s a bit more selfish than that.”

“What do you mean?”

She explained, “My mom had breast cancer when I was a kid. Thank God, she’s long since in remission. But I had to grow up with her getting chemo, and a double mastectomy, and if I could save a single child on earth, not to mention a single cancer patient, from experiencing the horror of that fucking illness — then I’ll have spent my time well.”

I stared into her eyes, devoid of any words. What was there to say? All thoughts of her age disappeared from my mind. She’d lived more than most middle-aged people, and she’d certainly acquired more wisdom than them. Her integrity, her gravity, it began to make sense. And who would’ve known that when I scratched beneath her surface, I’d find so much of myself?

Generally, I never opened up, never did what the therapists called “sharing.” Too dangerous. But with Catya, it had been as easy as breathing, and listening in return had been even easier. Being in her presence was like getting handed a key to parts of my own soul I’d never known to exist.

And then I reflected on the reality of our situation. Becoming emotionally involved was even more precarious than becoming physically involved. Once feelings were in the mix, there was no sweeping it under the rug, or lying to your superiors or your team. You wore love on your sleeve like a badge of honor.

At that thought, I recoiled from my conversation with her. I had to fight my heart, in the name of her happiness and mine. This was too close for — well, not comfort, but for safety.

“How about we go for a run?” I said abruptly.

Catya’s face was a mask of confusion. Did she think she’d done something wrong? I hoped not. No, the wrongdoing was all mine, the misstep of opening up too much, and not considering the consequences.

What she said was, “Okay, sure.”

“Then let’s go.”

She stood up, and I relaced my shoes.

Catya turned to me and asked, “Race you to the finish line?”

I grinned. “Deal.”

Chapter 16

Catya

I’d consider myself to be fast. Actually, most people, save for maybe Usain Bolt, would consider me fast. I can hustle with the best of them.

This is worth mentioning only so that you know how high a compliment I’m giving when I say — Simon was really fast.

We nearly sprinted through the forest — which, mind you, wasn’t easy to do, given all the rocks and branches. The only way I was able to keep pace was through sheer competitive spirit. I refused to let him trounce me. As we were tearing through the woods, Simon turned once to give me a side-eye, a small, mocking expression that suggested he knew how hard I was working. Harumph.

Eventually, after about a solid two-mile dash, we were deep in the woods, in an area I didn’t think I’d seen before. The grass grew thickly, trod by few — if any — feet, and the trees had this powerful scent, an unpolluted aroma that was new to me. It was beyond secluded, it could have been the land equivalent of Gilligan’s island.

But I didn’t pause long to take in the majesty of the place. Instead, I flopped to the ground, panting and sweating. Simon remained standing.

I gulped out, “You’re not tired?”

He grinned. “Apparently not as tired as you.”

Damn him. We’d just run two miles at a clip impossible for most humans, and he wasn’t even sitting down. If I didn’t feel inferior before, I certainly did now.

After I’d regained my breath, I sat up and eyeballed him.

“We’re just doing the same thing we do in practice,” I complained. “Running, running, more running.”

He nodded. “Running is a big part of soccer.”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” I replied, sarcasm thick in my tone. “But it’s monotonous. Can we try something, I dunno, cooler?”

Simon thought for a moment, then replied, “Like this?”

With no warning, he leapt into a front handspring, landing neatly on his feet, his knees tucked into a lethal crouching position.

My mouth plopped open like a fish.

“Uh, whoa?!” I exclaimed.

He laughed. “Whoa indeed.”

“How’d you do that?” I demanded.

“The same way you do anything — with practice.”

I dug further, asking, “It’s for throw-ins, right? Like you hold the ball overhead, then flip and throw it with the extra momentum?”

“Based on the question, it seems like you already know the answer,” he replied with a chuckle.

By now, I was fully on my feet, excitement having dispersed the remainder of my exhaustion. This trick was kind of legendary. Like, it was so cool that sometimes people just used it to intimidate their opponents. I had to learn.

“I’ve always wanted to do one,” I explained, “but I’m not sure I’m, like, gymnastically inclined enough.”

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