“You’ve got five minutes to get on the bus.”His voice deepens, gruff and begrudging.“We leave on time.”
“Perfect.”I brush past him, enjoying the way his breath hitches—barely, but enough.“Plenty of time to find a seat.”
The boys part like the sea before Moses as I walk through them.Every last one of them grinning, nudging each other like they can’t help themselves.
“Coach is toast,” one whispers as I climb the steps.
Maybe he is.Maybe I am.
I slide into a seat halfway down the aisle, notebook already open in my lap.A wicked little smile tugs at my mouth, because for the first time since this assignment began, I’m not dreading it.I’m looking forward to watching Maddox Hartley squirm.
Chapter6
Grace
The scoreboard clock bleeds red, ticking down the final ten seconds of a tie game.The gym is a cavern of screeching sneakers and rhythmic chanting, the air thick with the scent of popcorn and adolescent sweat.
I perch on the end of the bottom bleacher beside the team, my notebook braced against my thigh and my pen hovering as I watch Hartley.He isn’t pacing like the opposing coach, rather he’s a statue in a navy pullover, arms folded over his chest.
One of his players—a scrawny kid with ears too big for his head—fumbles a pass and the boy’s face crumbles in real time.Hartley doesn’t yell, only whistles once, sharp and clean.When the kid looks over, Hartley simply nods, a single, firm tilt of his chin that saysget it back.
The kid lunges, and in a blink, he steals the ball.The buzzer wails as the layup rolls around the rim and drops in.The gym explodes with a mixture of cheers and groans.
I’m nearly knocked off my feet by a sea of navy-and-gold jerseys as the team swarms the court.I fight for a better vantage point, my heart doing that annoying, bubbly thud against my ribs again.
Hartley is in the center of the chaos, being jostled, clapped on the back, and surrounded by a team that clearly adores him.He grabs the scrawny kid by the back of the neck, pulling him into a brief, rough hug.He says something into the boy’s ear—something quiet that makes the kid stand two inches taller.
The image startles me back into motion as I flip to a fresh page and start taking real notes, my pen flying.I record how Hartley shifts between stern and encouraging, how these boys straighten their spines the second he speaks, and how he doesn’t need to raise his voice to command the room.
He’s good at this.Better than he realizes.Better than he’ll probably ever admit.
The Vitale piece in LA feels a thousand miles away, and while still important, my guiding star, this isn’t the profile of a washed-up adrenaline junkie looking for a second act.This is a man building something.
Hartley looks up then, his gaze cutting through the crowd like a searchlight until it lands on me.The heat from earlier is still there, but now it’s tempered by the adrenaline of the win.He doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches before the coach of the other team taps him on the shoulder.
I snap my notebook shut, my pulse still humming.
On our way back to Winslow Grove, the odd cocktail of leather, sweat, adolescence, and adrenaline infuses the air.It shouldn’t be comforting, but it is.The boys fill the space with jokes and overlapping shouts, voices ricocheting like loose basketballs.
This time, I sit near the front of the bus, notebook braced on my knee, pretending to jot observations while mostly trying not to laugh.A row ahead, Hartley occupies the seat across from the driver, legs stretched into the aisle, clipboard balanced on one thigh.
His sleeves are pushed to his elbows, forearms flexing.“Keep it down, gentlemen.If you scare Mr.Powell off, I’m the one who has to drive you home.”
The driver chuckles, shaking his head as a chorus of apologies erupts, none accompanied by actual volume control.A smile threatens the corners of my mouth.
He glances back, catching me mid-amusement, and his stormy, gunmetal gray eyes draw me in.“You enjoying the pandemonium, Buchanan?”
“Very much.”I rest my pen against my lips.“It’s nice seeing you in your natural habitat.You almost look happy.”
“Almost?”One dark brow inches up.The corner of his mouth follows.“Don’t start psychoanalyzing me again.”
I lift the pen like a peace offering—or a challenge.Hard to tell.“Just observing.”
He mutters something under his breath before focusing back on his team.
Outside, night has claimed the mountains, leaving them in deep blue shadow beneath a starry sky.The win from tonight’s game buzzes through the bus with stories of close shots, clutch rebounds, and one kid insisting he definitely didn’t foul.He did.
The warmth of it fills the air, messy and alive, and it feels like everything my house in LA isn’t.For a moment—one reckless, vulnerable second—I imagine belonging to something this simple.Celebrating little victories.Believing that showing up and giving a damn is enough.