The old coach sat bristling in his chair. He took no comfort in the fact that he was inside his school administrator’s office rather than out in the evening’s elements, the rain pounding against the room’s thick glass windows in relentless waves. A tall lamp in the corner was the lone source of light in the room. Its dim glow created shadows that stretched toward the far walls like reaching fingers.

There was a large oak desk in the center of the room, as well as another man, and the coach was not at all pleased with being in the spotlight before the desk rather than the shadow behind it.

A phone rang in the coach’s pocket. He pulled it out with a ham of a hand and paused a moment to look at the number. The man behind the desk watched with a furrowed brow that belied compassionate concern. The look turned to sadness when the coach clicked ignore and tucked the phone away.

“Was that him?” the man behind the desk asked.

The coach didn’t respond to or acknowledge the question in any way.

“Still not answering that phone call then, eh Robert?” the man followed up.

The coach growled an answer.

“Let’s talk about what you brought me here to talk about.” He spoke with a threatening edge to his rumbling baritone words.

“Yes… of course,” the man behind the desk said. “I want to thank you for coming here to speak with me tonight, despite this weather we’re having.”

The coach simply grunted in response. The other man paused for a moment before continuing.

“I assume you know why I have called you here,” he said.

“Yes James, I think I know why you called me here.” The coach let out an impatient sigh as he spoke. His voice filled the tiny room. It was the sort of voice that demanded to be respected.

“Alvarez, you know I hate to do this,” the man behind the desk said with sincerity, “but it’s a conversation that needs to happen.”

The coach glowered.

“You see,” the man continued, choosing his words carefully, “certain members…of the board…they aren’t very happy with your results these past few seasons. They have made it increasingly clear to me in recent days and weeks that they feel something isn’t working right, and that whatever isn’t working right needs be fixed.”

“We have an excellent plan ready for the coming season,” the coach’s voice boomed as he interrupted. He sprang into his statement with the tone of a commanding officer speaking to his superior. “We have better pieces in place, game plans drawn up, we won’t have an injury problems like last year —“

The man behind the desk cut the coach off.

“Alvarez…” he spoke firmly. “The board isn’t listening to your excuses anymore. They’re tired of it. Last year it was injuries, the year before that they were too young, and the year before that it was something else.”

A brittle silence hung in the air, daring the man to shatter it with what was coming next.

“Alvarez,” he spoke softly. “They are starting to doubt your ability to lead this program.”

The veins on the side of the coach’s neck bulged as his face turned red. His 60-year-old heart raced and his temper rose.

The insolence of this man to question ME! The coach nearly burst.

“Goddammit, James, I will not tolerate you questioning my ability!”

“Robert Alvarez, I will not tolerate my employees disrespecting me!” the man shouted back.

The coach realized he was leaning forward from his seat like a predatory animal ready to strike. His fingers were clawing into the armrests.

He eased himself back into his chair, maintaining an intense stare at the man sitting across from him who had managed to stand his own ground unflinchingly.

“Robert,” the man said softly. “You’ve been at this school and done more for it than just about anyone else.”

The coach nodded and listened, continuing his heated stare.

“District titles, undefeated seasons…heck, you won state a couple times! For more than 30 years, you have remained loyal to our program and for that, I feel we will forever owe you.”

“I sense a but coming…” The coach stabbed accusingly.

“But…” the man exhaled as he spoke. “This is one of those things where the board and I do not see eye-to-eye.

“The members of the board have made it be known to me that if you do not make the playoffs this year, they have the votes this time to let you go.”

“Bullshit,” the coach said.

“Alvarez,” the man tried to cut in.

“Bull-fucking-shit, James!” Alvarez’s voice rose in a bellow. “Tell the board they can go fuck themselves. I built this program from nothing. I gave my career to this school. This school isn’t jack SHIT without ME!” The coach jammed a meaty thumb into his chest to drive home his point at the word “me.”

“Listen,” the man contended, “you don’t have to convince me of any of this. You’ve practically been around since before I was born. My brother played for you growing up, for Pete’s sake. But Robert, it’s out of my control. I had to fight tooth and nail to get you this one last chance at a season.

“It’s all up to you now. Make the playoffs or… well, just make the damn playoffs.”

The coach simply sat there, frozen in place like the statue of a wrathful Greek god. His heavy breathing was the only sign he was even alive.

“James,” he finally said, “I appreciate what you’ve done for me. But you can tell those pig-fuckers on the board that they had better spend the coming season at home with their thumbs up their asses because if I see a single one of their faces on my field, then that’s just gonna be one less son of a bitch alive enough to cast a vote against me by the time I’m through with them.”

With that, the coach reared up from his seat, made a violent motion with his arm, and stormed out the door, slamming it behind him.

Other available chapters:

Chapter one

Coach Alvarez stepped off the bus with his team at the Student Sporting Complex. After three decades of coaching, opening night was hardly a novel sensation to him, but this time it felt different.

This time, he knew he might be stepping off to the start of his last season on a sideline.

Fuckers.

He’d been telling his boys all week he knew he had a team of winners on his hands. Together, they could beat anybody. No matter how many people wrote them off, Alvarez would always be there making sure they held together and stayed competitive.

But now that the game was at hand, even the grizzled coach felt his nerves giving him a little rattle.

Alvarez’s worries grew when he reached the field and saw the night’s opposition. Tthe San Pablo Roadrunners looked bigger than they’d appeared in their scouting tape.

He knew they were slow and one of the lesser teams in the valley —hell, they’re probably the LEAST team in the valley — but damn if they didn’t have some size.

Alvarez walked onto the field and used his first tentative steps to gauge the feel of his weight on the grass beneath his feet. It was an old tradition of his, something of a good luck charm, to test the turf on which his team was to battle. It put him in the mood of the game, stepping onto the playing surface, gazing up at the heavens and then southward to the horizon to check any incoming weather.

Like a general before battle, he took measure of his theater of war.

A bold front of clouds was advancing from the south, but it looked like it would swing west of the stadium. If the clouds brought rain, they would let it loose upon Mexico. It would be a dry game tonight, a subtle yet persistent wind pushing north toward the heart of Texas was the closest thing to inclement weather.

As his boys rushed past him to take the field for their pre-game warm-ups, Alvarez crossed his arms and grinned widely beneath the brim of his straw hat.

It’s going to be a good night.

He could feel it.

“When I was a little girl, I used to visit my mother a lot at work,” Catherine said. “She was a nurse at San Angelo’s hospital near Laredo high – though she works for a hospital in Mexico now – She’d always tell me to sit still, but I never listened. When she wasn’t looking, I’d wander around to spy on all the patients in their beds. I’d watch who came to visit them.

“There was one man – your coach, I think, though I can’t be sure – who was there every day one summer, about fifteen years ago. Every time I walked by his room, he’d be seated at the bed side of a woman, I think it was his wife. He never spoke, he never looked out the door or away from the bed, he just always sat there and held her hand.

“For three months he was there every day, and every day the hand he held grew thinner and thinner and thinner. I could see it from the doorway as the pain he bore grew heavier and heavier. One day, I looked in the room and the bed was empty, but he was still there. His eyes were closed and his hand was still resting on the bed. It was as if he was still reaching out for another hand to hold on to.”

“Wow,” Jake said softly. “I never would have expected that from Alvarez.”

“When someone spends a lot of time in a hospital, it can have a way of changing them,” Catherine said. “Atheists can become believers, the strong can become the weak and noble men can have their faith stripped from them.

“Maybe Alvarez is one of those once noble men. Maybe everything that was good in him grew weak and died when he lost his wife that summer. In the ultimate test of faith, maybe his failed.”

Jake said nothing. He looked up at the ceiling; trying to picture the Alvarez Catherine had seen in her youth.

Many things can make a man lose touch with his humanity, Jake thought. I hope I never lose touch with mine.

He pulled Catherine closer to his side and kissed her. In silence, the two fell asleep.

His once prolific career is in shambles now. When his superintendent tells him he has one last season to turn it around before the school board fires him, he resolves to get the wins he needs, whatever the cost.

A compilation of character bios can be found here.

Santiago “El Corredor’s” bio can be found here.

Jake Jones’ bio can be found here.

A compilation of character bios can be found here.

Robert Alvarez’s bio can be found here.

Jake Jones’ bio can be found here.