I can’t help but agree. Though this doesn’t match up with the guy I know. Sure, he’s a pain in the ass. But an inappropriate affair with a student?
“But . . .” she goes on. “They couldn’t prove it, and since it’s not technically illegal, they couldn’t press charges. Though they could fire him. No relationships are allowed between a student and a teacher. Ever. Which, thank God.” She continues talking and talking, “But can you believe that? Kensley High just hires him. Just like that. After he was caught red-handed with a student.”
“There was no proof though,” I point out because she said that herself.
“Well,” she scoffs. “Supposedly, but if they fired him, they must have seen something.”
Or heard something.
I think. Because gossip around small towns is the only entertainment available.
“Anyway,” she continues, practically foaming at the mouth. “That’s not even the juiciest part.” She’s way too excited about this. “The student he was accused of fooling around with . . .”
I sigh and just want this to be over. “Yeah?”
“It was a male student.”
“What?” I ask, the shock apparent in my tone.
“Yes!” She sits up slapping her hands on her knees. “He’s gay. Can you believe that? In Kensley.”
I stare at her silently for a moment, still in shock thinking about Chance being gay or bisexual or something . . .
Unable to make my brain jump off that bit of information. “There are gay people in Kensley,” I say carefully. “And you don’t know for sure he is, so maybe you shouldn’t be talking about it.”
Her mouth forms a small pout as she studies me—way too closely for my liking. “Well, I know there are rumors about Kingston and Camden . . .”
I suck in a tight breath because I can’t imagine how hard it was for those kids. Being gay in this town is hell. But they got out and seem to be living their best lives as far as I know.
Bates and Dixon too.
And I couldn’t be happier for them. They were young students with an option to get out. But a coach in this town?
It’ll never fly. They’re already gunning for my job and only because I dared to divorce my wife and my daughter fell in love with her former teacher.
The way she’s talking right here, right now, in the teacher’s lounge isn’t the exception, it’s the norm in this town. Gay is talked about as if it’s a curse, and I’m so damn sick of it.
A couple of other teachers come in—the history teacher, Mr. Walters, and Ms. Scott, a math teacher. Both of them immediately seem to smell the blood in the water and draw closer to Marilyn.
Immediately, it’s a frenzy of words about Chance and how he’s gay and had an inappropriate relationship. How he doesn’t belong here and that he should go back to Big Bend.
I feel dizzy when I stand up, their words swirling around in my head. I’ve known these people for years. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this sort of talk from them. And I know it won’t be the last.
But for some reason, it’s hitting me differently. Or maybe it’s hitting for the first time after being numb to it for so long. I grew up playing sports, in male-dominated, ego-filled locker rooms.
Then I started coaching around the same sort of things being said. I shut it down now. I have the authority to, but it doesn’t stop the talk around town. It doesn’t stop my goddamn colleagues from talking about gay people not being wholesome or saying they should go to a more progressive town.
It never occurs to them that they’re the ones who need to change. That maybe they’re the problem.
The door opens, and suddenly everyone becomes very quiet. Chance Leighton walks into the now totally silent room. “Hey, guys. What’s up?” He sounds light and carefree, but I can sense the edge to his tone.
He knows something is up.
“You okay, Coach?” He looks concerned and walks near me. I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. “You look pale.”
“Noah?” Marilyn looks at me, concerned now too.
“I’m fine,” I finally manage to choke out, pushing by Chance before my knees buckle and I totally embarrass myself.
I make it to my office and lock the door, sitting down at my desk and running my fingers through my hair, waiting for the day and practice to be over so I can go home and disconnect from this.
I just want to coach. That’s it. That’s all I ever wanted. I don’t want to watch my back, and I don’t want anyone’s personal life to have anything to do with my coaching. But it feels like the walls are closing in on me, like I have some dirty little secret that shouldn’t be dirty or secret at all.
I can’t believe I let them get to me.
I’m usually really good at ignoring and just moving on.
But it’s all becoming too damn much, and I’m growing more and more tired of it every single day.
EIGHT
CHANCE
Something was up today in that teachers’ lounge. Noah looked pale and almost green when I walked in, like he was close to passing out or throwing up. Then at practice this afternoon, he looked fine. He really did. His color was back, but I still can’t shake the feeling that something is off somehow.
That’s why I’m sitting in my car, parked in his driveway with a box of pizza sitting next to me in the passenger seat. Because that look on his face today was too much to ignore. He looked too haunted.
And I can’t get it out of my head.
He barely said two words to me at practice, and although I saw him pull Jackson to the side and have a quick conversation with him, that’s pretty much all he said at practice other than a few basic instructions.
He’s not a talker, that one. We all know this, but something is off with him. I feel it in my bones. So I ignore all my instincts telling me to leave and climb out of my car, grabbing the pizza before walking up to the front door.
Noah, of course, is already waiting for me with the door open as soon as I reach the top step of his porch. That stern expression on his way too handsome face. He’s dressed in a Kensley Panthers t-shirt which has seen better days, with holes in it and nearly threadbare, along with a pair of black joggers.
“Why are you here?”
He seems less annoyed and more worn-out. And quite frankly, that’s unnerving. I can handle him irritated. But exhausted?
I’m not sure I like that.
I hold up the pizza box. “Brought dinner.”
He folds his arms over his broad chest—and yes, I notice his biceps bulging when he does that—and leans against the door frame, not moving to let me in. But come on, I didn’t expect this to be easy.
“I don’t want dinner.” His eyes dart around the deserted area as if he’s nervous someone will notice I’m here, and then he’s focusing his gaze on me. “You shouldn’t be here. What do you think people in town will think?”
I raise an eyebrow, surprised he could give a fuck about their opinions. But then again, I suspect their gossip these days has a lot to do with his choices at the game the other night.
I think Coach has far more demons than he’s ever let on.