The Long Game (Long Game, #1)(27)

I remained like that for long time, I wasn’t sure if it was a minute or five. I tried to find peace in the September crisp air, slowly bringing the pounding in my chest to a normal pace, searching for the comfort of the late afternoon sun on my face. It felt good. Or as good as something could feel when one was standing on the real—seven feet under bottom—rock bottom.

A bird chirped in the distance, the sound echoing through the absolute silence surrounding me.

I frowned from my post at the bleachers.

Why were we in absolute silence?

My eyes dashed to the spot where the team had been but found no one there. No kids in tutus doing cartwheels, no incessant chatter, no one lying on the grass.

Panic entered my system in one powerful and overwhelming wave. Phone in hand, I jerked up and climbed down the bleachers at supersonic speed.

“Hello?” I called, my growing desperation loud in my voice. “Girls?”

But no one answered.

I speed-walked along the sidelines, my gaze searching every corner and edge in the facilities. Where in the world were they? I couldn’t believe I’d just lost a whole team’s worth of children. God. This was a new low. This was also why I wasn’t fit to be their coach. I didn’t belong on the sidelines and I was useless with kids. If they’d wandered out into the nearby woods or the street, I’d never forgive myself. I—

A loud noise followed by a burst of giggles came from the opposite direction, and I immediately veered that way. The supply shed? More clattering sounds followed the first one, as if all sorts of things were crashing against the ground, making me speed up and wish I wasn’t wearing a pair of heeled sandals that were digging into the grass.

“Please don’t be hurt. Please don’t be bruised or bleeding or…”

I came to a stop the moment I spotted a ball rolling out of the shed. The metallic doors were thrown wide open, one of them was hanging off its hinges, and hushed voices came from inside. Another ball rolled out. Then a third. And a fourth.

Chest heaving, I ventured inside. The space was larger than it seemed—it had a tall ceiling and it was at least half the size of my cottage—and… all kinds of things were scattered on the floor. Vests were spilling out of cabinets. Cones were scrambled on the ground, nets filled with balls that had seen better times were strewn all over the place. There were even cardboard boxes with other sports’ equipment.

It was a mess. And in the middle of it all, there were the girls.

The giggling came to an abrupt stop.

Making an effort to settle my breathing, I asked as calmly as I could, “Is anyone hurt?”

They all shook their heads.

“No bruises? No bleeding? Nothing? Everyone’s whole?”

They all nodded.

Only then, I let myself relax.

The girl with the short, auburn hair, Juniper Higgins, as per the roster I had memorized, stepped forward. She hugged her middle. “Miss Adalyn, I tried to stop them, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“Juni!” one of them complained. “Snitches get stitches.”

Juniper flushed. “It’s the truth. I told you we would get in trouble. And now Miss Adalyn is looking furious.”

“I’m not furious,” I said. Not at them. I was angry at myself.

Someone whispered, “But she always looks like that.” That seemed to get a grumble of agreement, bringing a different kind of heat to my cheeks. “Didn’t you see the video?”

Something in my stomach soured.

“She’s not the monster she seems on that video!” a muffled voice countered, dragging my eyes to a corner and finding María with a yellow cone locked over her head.

“Oh God. How did that even happen?” I walked to her and tried to extricate the thing off her shoulders, but it wouldn’t come off. Shoot. “It’s not coming out.” I groaned. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” María answered. “See? Would a monster try to help me?”

“Butt-kisser” was murmured.

“Okay,” I said. “Rule number one: no name-calling in the team, okay?” I took the reluctant group grumble as a yes and continued my attempt to free María from the cone. “And I’m not angry. Or furious. I was…” I pulled at the thing but it remained stuck. “Worried.”

Unlike they believed, I wasn’t a monster. I might not be good with kids, but I’d never forgive myself if something happened to them because of my own irresponsibility.

The same kid whispered, “That’s what all grown-ups say, but we get in trouble no matter what.” She turned her head toward Juniper and said more loudly, “You’re so getting stitches.”

“Rule number two,” I dictated with a hand in the air. “No one is getting stitches.”

Except maybe me. This was all my fault.

In my haste to take control of things, I’d clearly miscalculated and misjudged the situation. The fact that these were kids wouldn’t make my job here easier or my workload beneath what I was used to back in Miami.

It’d probably be the opposite.

And now I had a kid stuck in a cone and a supply-room pandemonium.

Giving up on María for an instant, I braced my hands on my hips. If I wanted to make a success story, like my father had put it, out of this I didn’t just need someone to look after them during practice. I needed a coach. Someone who would make a difference. Someone—