“Why don’t you give him a call, sweetie?” my mom suggests, placing her hand on my arm. “You’re both in Chicago again, so it makes sense.”
I hold up the picture and say, “Thank you.” I set it down and start moving boxes around, not really sure to where, but I need to busy myself.
“Indie”—my mom comes up to me, pressing her hand to my back—“when was the last time you talked to him?”
“A year ago,” I say, still remembering the most awkward dinner of my life. I didn’t want to bring Anthony. I wanted to have a private conversation with Lincoln where I told him everything, but Anthony wouldn’t have it. He was a jealous man and hated my relationship with Lincoln, so as he said it, there was no way in hell he was “letting” me go to dinner with Lincoln alone. After the dinner was done, Anthony demanded I not talk to Linc anymore and I foolishly listened, trying to appease him, to make things easier.
Well, it only made things worse.
And now, I don’t have a relationship with Lincoln.
“Indie, that’s far too long. You should reach out to him.”
I shake my head. “He wouldn’t want to hear from me. Not after the last time I saw him, trust me.”
“Is that when he met Anthony?”
I nod. “You should have seen the look in his eyes when I said fiancé. It was as if I’d betrayed him. The rest of the evening was awful. Anthony talked the entire time, filling in the silence, and then we awkwardly shook hands when we left because Anthony wouldn’t let me go long enough to give Lincoln a hug.”
“You shook hands?”
I cringe, remembering the confused and hurt look on Lincoln’s face. “Yeah, it was awful. Trust me, calling him would not be the best idea. I think we just need to go our separate ways.”
“But—”
“Mom, please, not right now, okay? Let’s just enjoy the rest of the day together.”
I can see that it’s painful for her to not push me, but thankfully she nods and then reaches into the box, pulling out the oven mitts. “These silicone ones are the absolute best and they make great puppets when you’re waiting for your food to cook.” She moves one in front of me and opens it and closes it. “I love you, Indie.”
Rolling my eyes, I take the oven mitts from her. “Love you, too, Mom.”
“And here’s your office,” Tyler Morrison, the head coach of the men’s soccer team says. I know him as Coach Morrison, so calling him Tyler feels strange, but he thinks it’s weird if I call him Coach Morrison. Guess who won?
I sigh, looking out the window, still in disbelief that this is where I ended up. “The field looks amazing,” I say. We’re midway through the season, but the old assistant coach had to move because his wife was transferred to North Carolina. It worked out great for me.
“Attendance has increased over the last few years, and sponsors have picked up, so we’ve been able to add to the stadium. We’re very proud of it.”
“I can imagine.” Sighing, I say, “Do the guys know?”
“You mean do they know that Indie Mayhem, one of the top soccer players in the country is going to be their assistant coach? Yeah, they know. And they’re terrified.”
“Why’s that?” I ask on a chuckle.
“Because they’re nervous you’re going to make them do the physical tests that the women’s soccer team has to do.”
A sly smile crosses his face. “Then they should be terrified.”
He laughs and says, “I knew you were the perfect hire.”
One of the sole reasons Tyler hired me is because he wanted my knowledge in building strength and endurance that’s geared to our sport. During my interview, I discussed the many different training techniques I’d bring to their program, with my strength and conditioning knowledge, and how I had no problem showing the guys what it took to perform each workout. In other words, I was going to make them hurt.
Tyler liked that a lot.
We spent an hour going over strategic workouts on the whiteboard in his office and when I was done, I could see it in his eyes, he was impressed.
I always knew I wanted to teach, but I just didn’t realize it was going to be soccer . . . to college-aged men.
“Let’s get you to the admin office. I think there were a few more papers you had to sign and then we’ll head to the equipment room so we can get you fitted with some gear. We’ll be ordering clothes for you since all we have is men’s fit, and I have a feeling that’s not going to work for you.”
“I mean, I’ll take what I can get but if you want to order the women’s cut, that would be appreciated.”
He winks at me and pats me on the shoulder. “Trust me, we want our coaches looking professional, and you drowning in a man’s shirt is not going to do the job.”
He leads me through the coaches’ hall and up one floor to the admin building where I meet up with Sariah, a lovely lady who remembers me from when I used to play at Brentwood. We reminisced for a few moments, she had me sign papers, and before I knew it, I was being escorted to the equipment room.
“I think the best thing to do is circle whatever you want out of this catalogue and then we’ll have everything screen-printed,” Nolan, in the equipment room says.
“That works,” Tyler says, taking the catalogue. “I have about a one-thousand-dollar budget you can use, including screen-printing, so time to go shopping.”
He hands me the catalogue and I smile. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”
He looks at his watch and says, “Shoot, I have a meeting with the athletic director I have to get to. Head to your office and start picking things out and I’ll meet you there.”
“Sure,” I say as he takes off.
I thank Nolan and then take the long way to the offices, walking past the weight room where I used to work out almost every day. Fresh faces are lined up with the equipment, trainers are walking around spotting athletes, and the dull beat of techno music is playing through the speakers. Nostalgia washes over me. The smell of the weights, the feel of a completed workout with your team, the fighting over what music we’re going to play . . . all of it. I’ve missed all of it.
“Indie?”
Oh God.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight and apprehension crawls down my spine as I turn to see Lincoln standing in the hallway, hands in his pockets, a baseball hat sitting low on his brow.
What the hell is he doing here?
He’s probably thinking the same thing about me.
“Lincoln, hey.” I wave awkwardly.
His brows pull together in confusion. “What, uh . . . what are you doing here?”
An athlete moves by us, completely oblivious that he just pushed past Lincoln Castle. Noticing that we’re standing smack dab in the middle of the hallway, I pull off into a corridor with him but the minute I do, I realize it’s the same corridor he once confronted me in.
That moment hits me hard, the emotion of it all. Six years later, here we are again. It’s too much, especially since I wasn’t ever expecting to see Lincoln here. If he’s in Brentwood, he’d be at the stadium, right?
I know he’s waiting for a response, and lying won’t get me anywhere, so I say, “I was just hired . . . as a coach.”