Basketball had been her life, her salvation when she left here. It was all she had then and, it seemed, all she had once again. She didn’t want this taken away from her and it wasn’t going to be. Not without a fight.
Unfortunately, in this case she was relying on this team to help her win that fight and so far things were not looking good.
She looked at the scoreboard; the team was down. She chanced another glance at the bleachers and saw a few other parents talking among themselves.
Probably thinking the same thing Logan and Trix Setterfeld were: she wasn’t doing her job.
Stop. Stop right there. You can do this. You can help these boys win. You can help them work to their potential. You’ve already seen so much improvement.
Billy had the ball again and Sarah saw him checking to see where his other teammates were. Okay. Maybe this time…
An opponent swung around him, deked him out, stripped the ball away, charged down the lane and made an easy layup.
Sixty-four to fifty.
Sarah signaled a substitution and then crooked a finger at Adam, who bounded to his feet.
When she called Billy’s number he stopped, frowning at her when he realized what was going on, and slammed his fist against his thigh. He came charging across the court toward her, but she looked down at her playbook and ignored the angry young man who stormed past her.
She felt like throwing the ball at him herself. He had promised he would do what he could and he had failed. From here on in the ball was, literally, in his court. If he didn’t want to play, then he should quit.
And wouldn’t that make his brother happy.
Sarah didn’t dare look at Logan for the remainder of the game. She had to remove herself from what she might read in his face. She had to remove herself from the opinions of the people around her.
She made a few more lineup changes on the fly, mixing it up, subbing in players, using plays they’d only touched on in practice. She cajoled and urged and used every trick ever used on her by her own coach, trying to read the opposing team and get her players to respond. Slowly they inched ahead, gaining ground point by point. And the whole time they did, Billy sat on the bench, glowering at her.
Five minutes to go and the game was tied.
The other team called a time-out and Sarah took the opportunity to give her boys a last-minute pep talk.
“Great work, guys, good hustle. Stay on top of these guys. Box out. Use your feet and hands, but don’t lose sight of the guy you’re guarding. You guys are doing great.”
The whole time she spoke, Billy’s anger and frustration seethed from him. Then, seconds before the time-out ended, he pushed himself in front of her. “Put me in, Coach.”
Sarah shook her head. She was not going to be intimidated by this young man.
The referee lifted his hand to signal the end of the time-out.
“Please, Coach. My brother and mom are here,” Billy said. “I promise, I’ll put in a hundred ten percent.”
As if her eyes had a will of their own, they drifted to where Logan sat hunched on the bleachers, his face set in hard lines, his mother sitting beside him.
She remembered again the faint stirring of attraction between them, so fragile that a breath could put it out. Logan caught her gaze and for a sharp moment it was as if he was the only person in the gym. If she put Billy on, he would be happy. Donna would be happy.
She closed her mind to those tantalizing possibilities. Closed her mind to all the things peripheral to what she had to deal with right now.
“You better brush up on your math, Carleton,” she said, turning her attention back to the game. “I expect one hundred percent every minute of every game, no matter who is or isn’t in the stands. Sorry.”
Chapter Nine
Sarah bounced the basketball a couple of times and looked around the empty gym. Only moments ago it had been ringing with the sound of parents and friends and classmates, shouting themselves hoarse with encouragement.
I made the right call. I made the right call.
Sarah repeated the words to herself even as she considered that losing this game would come back to haunt them. But for now she had to concentrate on the next game and figure out what to do about Billy Carleton. This half-effort business wasn’t doing them any good—and it was giving more ammunition to Logan’s “get rid of the Westerveld coach” campaign.
The angry buzz of departing fans had slowly faded away, the crowd taking their disappointment with them. But her neck still felt warm from Logan’s blazing glare. Sarah wished she could tell them all she felt the failure more keenly than they did.
Even when she could no longer play the great game, she would always remember charging down the court, the thrill of the game singing through her blood—ducking, spinning, guarding, blocking and making those glorious shots, the sight of the ball arcing through the air and, in spite of the countless practices, the thrilling uncertainty of her aim.
And that moment of perfection when the ball would fall through the net without touching the rim.
She remembered Marilee standing up, waving her scarf and getting her friends going.
Sarah tested the memory of her sister, explored it like touching an old wound that had scabbed over.
It hurt to think of her, but below that a deeper, harder ache throbbed.
“I forgive you.” His words resounded so clearly in her mind, it was as if they had just been spoken.
Sarah bounced the ball once. Then again.
“I forgive you.”
She grabbed the ball, took two steps and launched it high into the air. It bounced off the backboard, her shot wild.
Playing with the wrong emotion, she could hear Mr. DeHaan’s voice remind her. He was always helping her channel her hidden frustration with her father and turn the burning in her belly into focused energy.
She grabbed the ball again, other memories blending, layering over the most recent, painful one.
Logan watching her, cheering her on. The sight of his dark head, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, just as he watched Billy play, always gave her heart a hitch.
Logan. Marilee. Her father.
Too intertwined. Thinking of one brought up memories of the others. She dribbled the ball again, focused on the net, ran to the side, pivoted, jumped and sent the ball out and up.
Retrieving the ball, she ran across the gym to the other side. Back and forth she went, scoring, running, purging her father’s skewed confession from her thoughts and her heart.
She didn’t need him. She had her purpose here. She could prove herself worthy here on this court, with these boys. They had come so close to winning. She had a good line-up. They were improving. They had a real shot.
But even as she tossed the ball in the net again, her father’s words twisted in her soul.
Forgiveness grants us freedom. The words from last Sunday’s worship service rang in her ears. Did her father feel free? She didn’t.
She ran to the other side of the court, her hand working the ball furiously, her feet darting, dodging imaginary opponents. She was in charge. This was her court. No one was going to take this away from her.
She would finish what she had started. At the end of the season she was going to get these boys to the provincial tournament. If only for them, somehow she was going to make this work, by force of will if she had to.
There was going to be a happy ending. It was going to be like those sports movies where the team comes from behind and wins, and then everyone appreciates all the hard work the coach put into the team, and the parents say they’re horribly sorry and everyone is happy and the soundtrack swells.