Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(33)

“Yes, Miss McCarthy.” Callie nods.

She shoos us with her hand. “Now get to class.”

After one last glance at each other, Callie and I head off in opposite directions.

And I think I just discovered the fountain of youth—getting busted by your high school principal. Cause, god damn if I don’t feel sixteen again.



~



Here’s the thing about teenagers—they have the ability to turn even the simplest event into a major production. A life or death type of drama.

Case in point: two of my team captains, John Wilson and Anthony Bertucci, and my receiver, Damon John, approach me in the hallway just after fourth period. They’re wearing their suits and ties—and serious as hell expressions.

“We’ve got a problem, Coach,” Wilson tells me.

I step back into the classroom and the boys converge around me in a huddle.

“What’s up?”

Bertucci tilts his head towards Damon John, and his voice goes low.

“DJ’s gotta take a shit.”

I blink at them.

Then I glance at DJ. “Congratulations. Why is this a problem?”

“I gotta go home,” DJ says.

“There’s a bathroom in every hallway in this building.”

DJ’s already shaking his head. “I can’t go here. I get like . . . stage fright . . . the pipes lock down, you know?”

“Well . . . try,” I tell him.

“I have tried.” He sighs miserably. “It doesn’t work, and then it feels like I’ve got concrete in my stomach. How am I supposed to play tonight with concrete in my gut?”

Yeah, that could be problem.

“What about the faculty bathroom?” I suggest. “I can get you in there.”

“Nah, Coach, no other place feels right. It’s gotta be my house. That’s where the magic happens.”

God damn, kids are fucking helpless these days.

“Can you hold it until after school?” I ask. “Coach Walker can drive you home then.”

Again, it’s a negative.

“That’s hours from now. The turtle is rearing its head—once it’s back in its shell, there could be muscle strain—”

I hold up my hand. “Yeah, yeah, thanks . . . I get it.”

Wilson presses his lips together. “But we have a plan.”

Oh boy.

“What’s that?”

“I go out and talk up Officer Tearney in the parking lot. My brother was in the academy with him.” Wilson motions with his hands and if we had a white board, he’d be illustrating his play on it. “I block Tearney’s view of the south exit while DJ goes out the bathroom window in the locker room and Bertucci stands guard to make sure he can get back in.”

DJ adds, “I can sprint home in ten, do the deed, and be back here in fifteen.”

Apparently, DJ shits as fast as he runs—there’s something I could’ve gone my whole damn life without knowing.

I squeeze the bridge of my nose. “And why are you telling me this?”

“We wanted to make sure you were good with it,” Wilson says. “In case things go south and we get pinched. We didn’t want you to be pissed.”

Now that’s respect. Yes, technically they should be able to take a shit without my blessing, but still, as a coach—I’m touched.

“Text me if you get busted. I’ll cover for you.” I point at DJ. “Don’t twist an ankle getting home. And save some energy for the field—don’t sprint and shit it all out.”

They all nod and we bump fists.

“Cool.”

“Thanks, Coach D.”

“You the man.”

“Good luck, boys. Go with God.” As they walk tall down the hallway, I can’t help but think . . . this is my job, this is my life, this is what I do. This is the stuff no one tells you about when you’re in college earning that teaching degree.



~



Operation DJ Takes a Shit is a success, and a few hours later, my team is in the locker room suiting up. Music is big—it helps them get in the right head space—so I play a lot of Metallica, some Bon Jovi and “Goodnight Saigon” by Billy Joel to instill that brotherhood, we’re-all-in-this-together kind of feel.

Parker Thompson looks small and shaken in his shoulder pads as he stands in front of Lipinski’s old locker—his new locker.

I move to the center of the room, Dean turns the music down, and all eyes turn to me, waiting for me to say the words that will inspire them, that they can take onto the field and lead them to victory.

Speeches are serious business with me. I spend the week writing them, because they matter to these kids. Some weeks are easier to write than others.

“I’m proud of you.” I look at each of their young faces. “Every one of you. You’ve worked hard, put in the time, put your heart into this team. For some of you seniors, this may be the last season you ever step out onto a field . . . and things have happened in the last few weeks that aren’t how you thought this would go.”

I turn slowly, meeting their eyes. “And I know you guys talk . . . like my mom and her club ladies . . .”

Muffled, guilty chuckles reverberate through the locker room.