Hamilton’s face screws a bit. A recognizable pain fills her eyes and I know I’ve tugged on her heartstrings. Our gazes lock and she finally says, “I’ll work on Howard. I’ll call her mother if I have to. She gets away with shit like this when I contact her dad, but as you know, her parents are divorced and her mother doesn’t take too kindly to Melanie’s tantrums and she doesn’t cater to Mr. Howard.”
“Right.”
“In the meantime, I’ll pay Lakes a visit. The last thing I want is for her to feel like she doesn’t belong here. It was my choice to recruit her. I wanted to diversify this team and the staff. She won’t pay for my decisions like this.” Hamilton picks her head up. “Thank you for telling me, Joaquin. And thank you for not reacting the way you really wanted to when you saw it happen. I know how that temper of yours can get.”
“Of course.” I turn and open the door, walking right out.
Hamilton will do the right thing. She and I have a lot in common. Interestingly enough, when Hamilton first came to Bennett University, she was only an assistant coach for the track team. It was an all-male staff and they were all assholes. They felt women were inferior, which made Hamilton feel like she never really belonged on the staff. Eventually, all of that changed. The men left, Hamilton moved up to head coach, and the staff needed replacements and upgrading. Hamilton took initiative and handled all of it.
She now has more women on staff and she has me, a thirty-year-old Mexican man. She diversified the staff, and now she’s working on diversifying the team. Hamilton’s biggest fear was that Lakes wouldn’t choose BU because of the racial stats. The number of black athletes at BU is extremely low for track, and a lot of them don’t choose this school because of that sad fact. But Lakes did, and now she’s facing the one thing girls with black and brown skin have always faced: discrimination.
Hamilton has no choice but to make this right for her.
“So, how was practice today?” Mamá walks into the dining room with a white dish in her oven-mitten clad hands. Placing the dish on the center of the table, she smiles and then steps back. I stand, pulling her chair out for her. “Gracias, hijo.” She pats my hand as I push her chair in.
After sitting, I say, “Practice was not so good today. One of the girls got hurt.”
“Hurt?” Mamá takes off the lid from the dish, revealing baked chicken and Spanish red rice. “How?”
“One of the girls on the team tripped her.” I drag my palm over my face, remembering the fall. The tears in Amber’s eyes.
“What? Why would she do such a thing?” Mamá’s voice is angry now, and her eyes are on mine, a spoon in her hand.
“The girl who was tripped is black. The one who tripped her is white. I’ll let you put two and two together.”
“Ridiculous,” she hisses. “What did you do about it?”
“I couldn’t do anything about it, Má. The girl who tripped her, Melanie Howard, her father donates heavily to the track team and the college. She gets away with stuff around there because the school respects him. He’s the reason I was suspended two years ago for two games.”
“Eso es mierda!” she snaps. That’s bullshit!
I sigh as she dumps some rice on my plate and then uses a fork to grab chicken and place it on my plate too. “I spoke to Hamilton about it. I’m sure she’ll handle it.”
“She’d better. I told you I didn’t like the idea of you coaching at that school, Joaquin. You’re the only Hispanic coach in that school.”
“There’s a black assistant coach on the football team,” I say, as if that will settle the issue.
“And what about all the other teams? Soccer and lacrosse and basketball and all the others?”
I shrug. I don’t want to answer, but I know all the coaches are white.
“Exactly,” she says, acknowledging my silence. “If more of them were like Hamilton, then it wouldn’t be so bad, but they aren’t all like her, are they?”
I dig into my food. I hate getting my mother started. She’s experienced blatant discrimination herself many, many times. Hell, she lost her husband due to a ruthless act of violence and discrimination, and I lost my father.
“That poor girl.” Mamá sips her lemonade. “You have to make her feel happy to be on the team, Joaquin. She had hopes—she chose to attend that school. A girl her age shouldn’t be bullied by her own teammate. She’s supposed to feel like she’s with familia, you know?”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I know.”
And she’s right. The last thing anyone needs right now is to be bullied or made to feel lesser than. Especially someone as gifted as Amber Lakes.
FOURTEEN
The last thing I expect is Coach Hamilton to show up at my doorstep the next day. Coach Veronika popped up yesterday afternoon with the crutches and a smile. She appeared to be in a chipper mood, which proved that she truly did need to eat breakfast before getting her day started.
I also spoke to my mom about what happened, and she was only two seconds away from jumping in her car in the middle of her shift and driving here. I managed to calm her down.
“Amber,” Hamilton says at the door with a sigh. “May I come in?”
“Uh—yeah, sure.” I hop back on one of the crutches to let her in.
She shuts the door behind her and looks around the apartment. “How are you liking the apartment? Spacious, right?”
“Yeah, lots of space. It definitely beats the dorms.”
“And Ramirez? She a good roommate?”
“Oh, Kendall is great. She’s pretty much my best friend now.” I smile.
Hamilton nods, then looks at the sofa. She gestures to it, and says, “Have a seat, Amber. I have something I want to discuss with you.”
My heart beats too hard for its own good. I know she’s here about Melanie. I grab the other crutch that’s leaning against the wall, tuck it beneath my armpit, and hobble my way over to the sofa.
I sit in the recliner and Hamilton takes the loveseat, sitting on the cushion closest to me.
Oh, God. Please don’t let her be like Coach Foster. The last thing I need is the head coach hating me too.
Hamilton looks me over as I place the crutches down on the floor and then push the loose strands of my hair out of my face. Doesn’t matter if I wear it in a ponytail. Some of it always comes spilling out.
“Tell me what happened on the trail,” Hamilton murmurs. Her voice is gentle. Kind. I can sense that she’s nothing like Foster.
“Um…I’m assuming you mean with Melanie?”
She nods, nothing more.
“Well, we were ahead of everyone else. Melanie was struggling to keep up with my pace. I was running and getting close to the football field and right before I could get there, I tripped. I felt the front of my ankle catch something and I tried to jump over it at the last minute but ended up catching onto it, rolling my ankle, and falling instead. Melanie had on these bright yellow shoes. I saw them beneath me before I fell.”
Hamilton sighs.
I clear my throat.
“Did you say anything to Melanie?”
I shake my head. “I wanted to…but, no. I was in too much pain and I didn’t want to lash out while I was hurt and angry.”
Hamilton is quiet for a few moments. Her eyes move from mine to the patio door behind me. “Torres is the one who brought this situation to my attention. He told me what he saw. I also spoke with Nicole Maynard, who came to me, and she said she saw the same thing Torres did. That Howard purposely tripped you on the trail.”
I nod. Where is she going with this?
“Torres also told me that you said you don’t like it here and that you feel like you don’t fit in.”
My throat thickens as her green eyes swing back over to mine. He wasn’t supposed to tell her that. Damn him.
“Is that true, Amber?”
“I—I was just emotional, Coach.”
She presses her lips, as if she doesn’t believe that and is waiting for a better explanation.
“I—I mean, yeah, I do feel like some of the teammates don’t like that I’m here, but it was whatever to me until yesterday when Melanie purposely tripped me.” I’m on the verge of tears again, but I stay strong. No use in crying over spilled milk. It happened. My ankle will heal soon.
“Amber, first of all, there is nothing wrong with you being emotional about what happened yesterday. What Howard did was unacceptable and she is not getting away with it. Period.” Her face is serious, her eyes still boring into mine. I notice she has freckles on the bridge of her nose, small reddish dots that suit her. “Secondly, Mills and I repeatedly came to your high school because we really wanted you on our team. We wanted to recruit you and to bring you to Bennett University to join our track family, so don’t think for a second that you don’t belong here. When we scouted you, we didn’t care how you looked, or what others may have thought when we brought you in. We wanted you for your dedication and your passion for track. You’re a sweet girl and so, so talented and there was no way I was passing you up.”
A tear skids down my cheek. I roughly wipe it away, then stare down at the floor.
“Amber, I am so sorry that you feel this way, but I promise you what Melanie did will not happen again. You belong on this team, just like everyone else, and you deserve to be here, just like everyone else. Please don’t ever forget that.”
I nod. It’s all I can do.
Hamilton stands and exhales. “If something like this happens again with anyone on the team, you let me know personally. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Now you rest up. Make sure that ankle of yours heals well ‘cause we’re gonna need you when the season starts.” I peer up and Hamilton has a small smile on her lips.
She turns away and walks to the door, swinging it open and stepping out. Before she goes, she gives me an assuring smile and a wink over her shoulder and then she’s gone.
And when the door clicks shut, I exhale with so much relief, and then sob and laugh like a maniac.
FIFTEEN
By day six, my ankle is feeling a lot better. I do have a slight twinge in my ankle, but it’s not so bad that I can’t walk, and it’s not too noticeable. I’m good enough to go to class today. Torres emailed my professors and asked them to send me my work online, so I caught up on all my assignments while I lounged around the apartment.
I stop at the café for a coffee first, in dire need of one. Kendall was bringing me coffees while I was at the apartment, and Janine would cook and rant about how much of a bitch Melanie is. They really are good friends.
As the barista takes my money, I hear laughter to my right. There are three tables by the window, and one is occupied by four girls. One of the four is Melanie. I don’t recognize the other three. Melanie’s back is to me as she sits in a silver chair, talking animatedly.
“Yeah, my dad doesn’t give a flying fuck, but my mom totally flipped the fuck out on me. She’s all ‘you need to learn how to be better!’ and ‘why can’t you be like your sister! Stop being such a selfish brat all the time!’ and the whole time I was on the phone with her I was rolling my eyes. My mom is so overboard, but not as overboard as Hamilton. Hamilton is a fucking cunt, girls. She suspended me from practice for three weeks and told me that when pre-season starts, I don’t get to compete in the first two games. Such bullshit, right? All because of some dumb, new black girl who doesn’t know how to control her weird hair. Have you seen it? It’s all over the place! Her hair literally blocks everyone’s view on the track. It’s no wonder we can’t fucking beat her in the practice races!” She scoffs. “I don’t get what they expect. Just because she’s the only black girl on our team we have to pretend to like and befriend her? Hell no! And I mean, girls, she’s good, but she’s not all that. It’s like Hamilton worships the ground that girl walks on. I can’t stand it.”
“White chocolate mocha, double espresso for Amber?” The barista pops up behind the counter, sliding a drink my way with a smile.
When my name is said aloud, Melanie turns her head rapidly and spots me. I don’t miss the way her face turns cherry red, or how the other girls’ eyes grow as wide as golf balls when they notice me too.
I pick up my drink after sliding it into a sleeve, and since there is a door next to their table, I decide to go for that exit. I look at every single girl at the table, absorbing the details of their faces, and even how much blood has rushed to their cheeks. They don’t look like athletes. More like sorority sisters with their gobs of makeup and skin-tight clothes.
I press on the door with my hip and it cracks open, letting in a cool breeze. I finally put my focus on Melanie. “For the record, Melanie, this dumb, new black girl you’re talking about? There is nothing wrong with her hair, but there is something wrong with you, considering how much ignorance you have.” I shake my head as she scoffs again, clearly embarrassed. “Oh, and you can talk all the shit you want, but I’m not going to let it get to me anymore. I know my worth. And if you ever try to do anything to me again, Hamilton won’t be the one punishing you next time. She’ll be punishing me for beating your sorry ass.”
And with that, I’m out the door, sipping my coffee and then smiling because, seriously, fuck that bitch.
In psychology, there is a moment where I feel like I’m crazy. Someone is watching me, or at least that’s what I think. Every time I look around or look behind me, there are no eyes on me.
Did Melanie tell the whole school about being suspended from practice? How could she possibly blame what she did on me? It was her actions that got her into trouble.
I shake the feeling off and take as many notes as I can from Professor Glaspy. When class is over, I slide my laptop into the orange case and stuff it into my bag.
Someone clears their throat behind me, and I look over my shoulder. It’s Stephen Hunt. There’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He’s wearing a black-t-shirt today that hugs his body even more so than usual. Broad chest, wide muscled shoulders, a nice, kissable throat.
Ugh. What am I thinking? He’s a manwhore.
“Can I help you, Stephen?” I ask, standing, and slinging my bag over my shoulder.
“I heard about what happened to your ankle.”
My eyes shift up to his.
“I’m sorry that happened. Is it feeling better?”
“It’s fine.” I step around him onto the staircase that leads up to one set of double doors. “Did Melanie tell you?”
“No. My roommate’s girlfriend was talking about it. She was laughing about it and told me Melanie was bragging about tripping you. I didn’t find it funny.” His jaw ticks and his eyes avert from mine, as if he’s trying to save me from embarrassment. Luckily for him, that embarrassment has passed.
“It’s over with, so don’t stress too much about it. And I’m walking now. I’ll be back to practicing in no time. I’m okay, but thanks for checking in.” I give him a sweet smile, softening up. He was just checking on me. I can appreciate that.
I walk up a few of the steps and he trails behind me. Before I can make it to the door, he speaks again. “Would you…maybe want to catch dinner with me sometime?”
I turn quickly, brows drawing together as I focus on him again. “Dinner?”
“Yeah.” He runs a hand over his auburn hair, taking the two steps up to be on the same level as me. But, of course, he’s so much taller and I have to look up at him. “I was thinking burgers and shakes at Shake Shack. Something simple. I just…I’d really like to hang out with you. Get to know you—but I understand if you’re busy.”
I don’t want to, not after hearing how much of a player he is. But why is it that he seems so sweet right now? So…understanding? How long has he been thinking about asking me to dinner? Is this all just a part of his scheme? Is this how he ropes girls in? I’ve noticed he talks to a lot of girls. Automatically saying yes seems like a silly thing for me to do.
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’ll have to give it so
me thought and let you know,” I tell him, and then I walk out of the auditorium.
He follows me, catching me by the elbow and spinning me around to face him again. I gasp as his hand lowers to mine, and he says, “You’ll need my number if you’re going to let me know, right?”
My heart booms, feeling like the beat of a drum in my chest. I lift my chin and swallow, then reach for my back pocket to take my iPhone out. I’ll have his number, but he won’t have mine. Oh, what the hell.
Stephen collects my phone in his hand after I unlock it and dials his number in the keypad. He presses the call button and I shout, “Hey!” as I try to swipe it back, but he holds it above his head, laughing.
He takes his phone out too, and my number displays on his screen. “You aren’t going to get off that easily,” he says, handing my phone back to me.
“That was a violation, you know. Now I’m really considering telling you no to burgers and shakes.” I’m saying all this, but trying not to smile. What is wrong with me? Why am I being so girly?
“Okay then. Go ahead. Tell me no.” He’s standing too close. I can smell his cologne, and a manly, personal smell that I’m sure only belongs to him. It overpowers every single one of my senses. I take a step back, hoping it will help clear my head. Now I see why other girls get swindled by Stephen Hunt…but I am not like other girls.
“I’ll decide at my own time,” I declare, and then turn and walk away, much faster this time so he can’t catch my arm and reel me back again.
When I go around the corner that leads to the exit and am completely out of Stephen’s view, I look down at the screen of my phone, focusing on the number on my call log that he just dialed.
I bite back a smile, tuck the phone in my back pocket, and hurry for the exit, stepping out into the crisp, fall air.
Coach Me Page 8
