Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
What did “soon” actually mean? Did it have a timeline? I wasn’t getting any younger, and I’d always thought I’d be married for a year before we had children. My clock was still ticking, but not as loudly as it once had.
Two hours later, I arrived in Grove Hill. I asked the AI system in my car to call Miriam. When she answered, I said, “I’ll be there in fifteen. I just pulled onto Main Street, and there’s a tractor in front of me. Slow mooooving.” I said “moving” so it sounded like a cow mooing—something Nova would’ve appreciated.
“I’m in the hospital, Toni.”
I slammed on the brakes and signaled to pull over. In a small town like Grove Hill, there always seemed to be a parking spot along the curb.
“What did you say?”
Miri coughed. “You heard me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this when you called earlier?”
“Because I didn’t want you to worry. I know how you get when your mind is elsewhere, and I needed you to get here in one piece.”
Miri wasn’t wrong. I hated driving because my mind was often preoccupied with work. “I’ll be there in a minute.” We hung up, and I turned around and headed toward the other end of Main Street, where the hospital was. I had no idea what I was about to walk into, but my gut told me it wouldn’t be good.
Chapter 2
Weston
I stood in the middle of the gym and scanned the kids along each wall. They had their toes on the line, waiting for me to blow the whistle. Along the half-court line, rubber balls stretched out in a neat row.
“Are you ready?” I called out.
The kids mumbled a halfhearted, “Yay.”
“I can’t hear you, Timberwolves. I asked, Are you ready?”
This time, their response was louder. One kid might have even roared, but it was hard to tell because I had several linebackers from the football team in my PE class.
I gave them one last look before heading to the sideline. No way was I standing in the middle of the court during a game of dodgeball. The last thing I wanted was to get pelted with a rubber ball.
As soon as I’d stepped over the black sideline, I blew my whistle. Both sides raced to grab a ball, and I watched their strategies unfold. Some kids hurled the balls as hard as they could, while others teamed up, throwing simultaneously to catch their targets off guard.
The first kid out was Cutter Vaughn. I’d never admit it if anyone asked, but Cutter was one of my favorite students. Coaching him in basketball and baseball was a privilege. He was the kind of athlete every coach dreamed about—dedicated, hardworking, and never one to complain. Baseball was his golden ticket, and I planned to call some old major league buddies and Division I and II coaches once the season started about getting him signed. With their help, maybe I could get Cutter some looks. Otherwise, I doubted he’d go to college; I knew his mom probably couldn’t afford it.
The Vaughns lived two houses down from me on a dirt road just outside town. Every day, I drove past their house and wondered how it was still standing. Miriam Vaughn was always outside fixing something, whether it was spring, summer, or fall. I’d lost count of how many times I’d stopped to offer help, only for her to politely decline.
She needed it, though she’d never admit it.
And every time I passed by, Cutter was outside, too, shooting hoops or throwing his baseball against the pitch-back net. His determination and work ethic never failed to impress me.
“What happened?” I asked Cutter when he walked over the court to stand next to me.
He shrugged. “I saved Eleni.”
Eleni was his girlfriend, according to the Grove Hill rumor mill. From what I’d seen in the hallways between classes, it was easy to believe the rumors were true. But that wasn’t something I could ask my student or player. As his teacher and coach, I had to keep my boundaries—unless he came to me for advice.
One by one, more students joined us on the sidelines, some panting and out of breath, others fuming about getting out.
“Are we playing again, Mr. Schmidt?” Malik Carter asked, his tone eager.
“Do you think you can stay in the game longer this time?”
Malik gave me the “Come on, Coach, are you serious?” smirk and nodded confidently. He was our basketball team’s point guard—a smart, strategic player who always thought two steps ahead and saw the floor better than anyone in the state. He played on a travel team during the spring and summer and already had a select number of colleges recruiting him. Malik had a bright future and was a great kid to coach.
When one last student stood victorious, I blew the whistle before he had a chance to celebrate and told everyone to get on the line. They did so quickly.