Page 15 of The Session

They watched the kickoff in silence. It wasn’t until ten minutes into the first quarter that Coach spoke again. “How’d that thing go down in Florida? They mention any openings? Florida Atlantic College is a good school. Not the biggest program, but pound for pound they put out some pretty good players and punch above their weight. It’d be a really good place for a guy like you to start.”

Mark didn’t know what to say. He wanted to ask about the email, but it didn’t feel like the right time. “They didn’t have anything at the moment, but it was a nice conversation. Really good guys,” he said.

The coach slammed his beer down and looked at Mark, indignant. “They didn’t offer you nothing? Not even a job as a trainer?”

Mark wasn’t sure how to handle this. He knew the coach’s pride had been hurt.

“Well, I didn’t ask directly,” Mark said, “and they said they would keep me in mind.”

“Assholes,” the coach snapped. “Let me know if you want me to call them. I’ll straighten them out. That’s just not how it works.”

“I appreciate that,” Mark said. “I’ll let you know.”

Coach Stevenson’s attention returned to the game. He leaned in, muttering about different plays and occasionally offering a compliment when he thought something had been done well.

At halftime, he picked up the remote, muted the volume, and stared into space for a moment before speaking. “You know, you’re a good guy. You’re a hard worker. Sometimes you gotta be more hungry. I knew a kid like you—good player. I used to go watch the game over at the high school. Had really good coordination, really, really smart—not the kind that had a physical presence. I mean, he was a good athlete, but just a real good thinker, a quick thinker. The kid hurt himself, twisted his knee. Wasn’t anything career-threatening, if you ask me. I’ve seen guys get better over things like that, but it kind of got into his head that that was it, and he stopped playing. Then he started helping me out. He decided he was going to be a coach instead of a player. I think he had a few more years in him, but he just felt like he was waiting for life to tell him what to do. I always wondered what happened to that kid.”

Mark said nothing. The coach was talking about him.

“Anyway,” Coach continued. “You don’t want to be like those old boxers whose job is just to take a beating. Some of those guys coming to the gym, they actually have talent, real capability. What they never had was the hunger. They just wanted a payday. They just wanted to be in the gym. They didn’t know what they could be. But all they ended up being were guys who would take a beating so the pros could get their practice in. Don’t get me wrong—some people are meant to be practice dummies. That kid wasn’t. He didn’t know that.

“Anyhow, how’s Marsha and Kaylee?” Coach asked.

Mark felt uncomfortable telling him that he wasn’t his nephew Scott. Coach confused them often; in the old man’s defense, they were close in age.

Mark waited a moment, and Coach’s attention returned to the TV as the second half started.

He glanced over at the iPad. Part of him—a small part, but a very loud part—told him to check the email account and see if Coach had ever sent the message. Mark held off. Besides being an invasion of privacy, if it had been sent, there was nothing he could do about it. And if it hadn’t, he’d feel worse.

Mark checked his watch.

“Hey, Coach. I’ve got a shift coming. I’ve got to run. I’ll call you tomorrow and you can tell me how the game went.”

“Okay, kid,” Coach replied, waving him off without looking away from the game. “See you tomorrow.”

Mark paused at the door and looked back at Coach Stevenson watching the game, dreading the thought that each visit could only get worse.

Devon was in the driver’s seat of the ambulance while Mark sat on the passenger side. It was 3:00 a.m., and they were parked in a strip mall adjacent to the highway, with a homeless camp a mile away. Strategically, this was the best spot for getting to the areas that had the highest incident rates.

Both of them quietly sipped from their giant cups of 7-Eleven coffee. Devon wasn’t originally going to take the shift, but he’d gotten into an argument with his wife and decided it was probably a good idea to get out of the house. Mark knew there were some problems going on, possibly financial, but he didn’t want to pry, and Devon liked to present himself as more happy-go-lucky than burdened.

Mark watched a raccoon scamper under the yellow streetlamp in the parking lot as it made its nightly rounds, foraging for food and visiting friends.

“Shame about the coach,” Devon said after a long stretch of quiet. Mark had explained how the visit went.

“Yeah,” Mark agreed. “At least his kids still visit him. So do some of the players. Not everybody in that facility has people.”

“Sometimes people can be more burden than they’re worth,” Devon said.

This was unusually glum for his friend.

“You talked to Uncle Byron yet?” Devon asked.

“No,” Mark said. “Is it about the sale?”

“Apparently, he’s been having more issues than he let on,” Devon said of Mark’s stepfather, Devon’s uncle. “It’s about the value of the company. Between insurance, equipment maintenance, and other things, it’s been a rough year for them.”

Although Mark was Byron’s stepson, his stepfather had always been closer to his children from his first marriage and nephews, including Devon. Byron was already in his fifties when he met Mark’s mother. So Mark had understood from the start that he was more of a side project to Byron than a full family member.