Page 81 of The Do-Over Girl

NASH

With the tournament over and the APA Mariner hockey team’s record-breaking season wrapped up, I feel lighter. But we still have one final step to go—the Board of Trustees official extension of the school’s charter.

Our last meeting with board of trustees is in five minutes and I’m coming directly from my office at the rink. The phone there has literally been ringing off the hook—because I had to take it off the hook. At least most people don’t have my cell number thank fuck.

The last call that held me up was the same as a long line of previous calls, an offer for a coaching job with a promise of oodles of money and one-hundred percent control. Most of them are from colleges and a few from AHL and other minor league teams.

So far, I’ve turned them all down and it’s been—in the parlance of a New Englander—wicked easy. I don’t see that changing as I walk into the principal’s office at APA and take a seat next to my favorite alum.

I whisper in her ear, although I’m sure everyone can hear me because they’ve all stopped talking, “What did I miss?”

Fleshy face answers. “Nothing, Coach Lewis.” He’s the only one who calls me Coach Lewis. Everyone else just calls me Coach, like they should. “We’ve been waiting for you. Now we’re ready to hear the final report from Ms. Beauchamp.”

Nikki clears her throat, throws me a smirk and stands.

“You won’t be surprised at this point to hear that we’ve Met and surpassed our five million dollars goal. Also, there’s continued interest in Andrews Point Academy as a hockey powerhouse including interest from college and professional scouts and the media.”

She sits and Archie stands next without waiting to be invited.

“With that in mind, I’d like to request that the Board confirm the extension of Nash’s coaching contract as negotiated.” He remains standing, waiting for a response like they’re going to say yes and sign on the dotted line right this minute.

“You can be seated, Mr. Rinkowski.” Fleshy face removes himself to the corner of the room with two other trustees and they have a conversation.

“So how’s it going?” I say to the two trustees still at the table.

“Pretty well if your name is Nash Lewis,” one of the guys—my new favorite trustee—says.

I grin. “Not too bad for everyone associated with APA right now.”

“Especially the hockey team,” the other trustee says with half a smile because he’s trying to stay in line with the formal culture fleshy face has imposed on the board.

Speaking of fleshy face, he comes back to the table with his cohorts, a copy of my proposed contract—supposedly negotiated with Archie. Mostly he was telling me to ask for more, insisting that I should get my million clams back. I declined because I want to stay around for a long while, which means the school needs to stay around too.

“We’ve reviewed the contract and although we were reluctant to offer a ten-year deal, we recognize that the terms are generously in favor of APA.” He takes up his gavel and bangs it on the table. “Contract approved.” He looks at me and adds, “A final copy of the signed contract will be emailed to you tomorrow. Thank you.”

I nod, glad he got over his so-called reluctance. But I get the feeling that fleshy face likes to have conflict in his life, something he can fight for and overcome, something I respect. So I vow that in the coming years, as long as he’s around, I’ll give him some hell. It’ll be fun.

Nikki stands up spontaneously then. “I’d also like to request your approval of Kali Austin’s contract to stay on as an English teacher. For ten years.” She stops, waits a beat, then adds, “Ms. Austin is more than qualified now that she’s a published author.”

That gets fleshy face’s attention. I squeeze Kali’s thigh under the table.

She jumps to a stand, dislodging my grip, damn it. “Not yet. I’m not published yet. I barely signed the contract. My book won’t be released until next year.”

“Congratulations,” the chair says and the other trustees echo his words.

I take far too much pride in her accomplishment, something I didn’t contribute to one bit really, maybe even interfered unintentionally. The trustees take a minute to talk it over in the corner then they come back to the table and vote unanimously to approve the contract. I breathe a sigh of relief because I know Nikki offered her more than the average terms, a higher salary—not that it mattered to Kali—and a lighter workload so she could devote more time to writing.

We’re dismissed by the board and as we all leave, we hug and congratulate each other all over again. Then Kali and I walk back to the Inn—which I now legit think of as home.

“So what’s your book about?” I ask.

“Us,” she says, serious as fuck. My heart stutters and I stop walking.

“Are you fucking with me?”

“No—I mean it’s a fictionalized version of a couple in high school who have a problem with commitment and trust. But don’t worry, it has a happy ending.”

“Do they wait seventeen years?”