Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

LEMON “LEM” FROST

I stand in the doorway with a frown and a hand on my hip. “Someone is going to get fired,” I mutter. The equipment room should be filled with boxes of the purchases I made two months ago. I’d deal with one or two running late, but the only thing here is a small package the size of a shoe box.

“Maybe they were misplaced?” Winston suggests. I can feel him peeking in over my shoulder.

This time of year is always the same. Practice begins next week, which means I come in this week with a few of my favorites from last season and we get ready. First thing on the agenda is putting away the new equipment, then making sure the practice jerseys are distributed, and finally running new play ideas for a couple hours.

I’m not even sure what I ordered that might be shipped within a shoe box!

Spinning on my heel, my three students break apart quickly as I stomp between them and down the hall toward my office to see who I’m going to be yelling at. My students trail me, keeping a healthy distance.

“Go make sure the locker room is in order,” I bark as I turn down the hallway with the six rainbow stripes on the wall.

A chorus of “Yes, Coach” echoes through the hallway before I hear their footsteps fade down a different hall.

Shoving open the door, I nearly trip over the bag I dropped in here earlier. Cursing to myself, I kick it out of the way, and an undignified yelp leaves my mouth as I stumble backwards. I must have added a couple cement blocks to my bag considering the way my foot aches now.

Glaring at my entire office, I make my way to my big, teal desk and sit behind it to turn on my teal laptop. While it boots, I look around.

I have the best office. It overlooks the football field in the distance; I can just barely see the green over the stands from the height of my office windows and the distance I’m at. The second set of windows is perpendicular and faces a green area for the students. During the school year, there will almost always be kids outside—lounging on the grass, against trees, at picnic tables. There’s always laughter and textbooks. Kids throwing a ball or a frisbee or just wrestling around.

I have a lovely pink couch with two matching chairs in the corner, a gourmet coffee station against the wall next to my desk, and a large display shelf with awards and shit. There are also two additional doors that hide my personal bathroom and closet. I’m lucky to have one of the few offices with both.

But it’s because I earned this shit. My athletes are damn good. More football players from Rainbow Dorset get drafted each year than every other California university combined! I deserve the praise. Some of those students were a pain in the ass!!

By the time my computer turns on, I decide that I’m ready for a new one. Laptops only last a couple years before they slow down so much that watching pee wee football is more entertaining than the blue screen and spinning circle under the welcome message.

My email says I have 362 unread messages. I can’t wait to get a work-study student back in here to deal with all my emails. Losing them at the end of the year is the absolute worst.

There are a handful of people that an email concerning my orders could have come from and it takes me scanning through over 200 emails to find the one concerning my order. Scowling, I see it’s from Zarek Weaver. I really fucking hate that man. I’d love to discover he dropped the ball, and I could get him fired.

Harsh maybe, but that fucker stole my man!

My frown deepens as I read Zarek’s message, telling me I’ve overspent by more than $10,000 and I need to prioritize what I’d like to order before it’s placed.

That doesn’t make sense. Maybe I ordered 1,300 of something instead of 130. Adding an extra zero could definitely fuck with my numbers. I’ve done that before, but usually the email from Zarek says as much and they’ve modified my order.

He’s reattached my order and with it, a letter from the Administration office notifying me of my budget. It’s dated January 19, but somehow I’m just now seeing it. But it’s not the date that’s concerning. It’s that my budget was reduced by almost $20,000!

This seems like an easy enough remedy. Someone messed up my budget and I just need to get it fixed. Hitting print on the letter, the email from Zarek, and my order, I shut my laptop with an unnecessary snap and get up.

I love this campus. It’s like living in a different world. One that’s completely inclusive of every diversity imaginable—race, gender, orientation.—Everyone has a home here. It’s bright with a whole rainbow of flags lining the quad as if we’re the U.N.; though these flags aren’t representing different countries but different people.

I’m not a very sentimental person, but the warmth and pride that fills my chest whenever I look at them is immense. Finding Rainbow Dorset was like coming home. It’s an amazing feeling knowing that you’re in a place without judgment based on your looks, how you dress, your orientation, or anything else.

My very first year, I met a football player who, on the very first day, broke down entirely because he finally found himself in a safe place. The home he’d come from had been abusive in all ways and here he was allowed, encouraged, and praised for being himself. Authentically himself.

I’ll never understand how there are people in the world who strive to bring others to the breaking point like they did that man. Every single year, there are hundreds of students who experience the same liberating feeling that brings them to tears.

Not that I share my experience, but I understand that feeling first hand. I’ve been told I’m excessive and high maintenance, as some of the nicer insults I’ve faced over the years. The mountain of people in front of me that laughed and said a ‘pocket fag’ would never make it in professional football or professional coaching was astounding.

Not everyone would agree that coaching at the college level is considered professional. Many refer to it as academic, which is ridiculous because I don’t teach anything. My only focus is coaching football.

Two years ago, I had an offer from an NFL team to coach for them. It felt like I’d won the lottery. I could finally tell all those assholes who said my queer little heart couldn’t do this. Yet look what I received—a multimillion-dollar coaching offer from one of the best teams in the league!

But I turned it down.

Rainbow Dorset is more than just a safe place. It’s home. Every time I imagined coaching in the NFL with all the cameras on me and attention pointed my way, when I thought about the kinds of headlines I’d be making for all the wrong reasons just for being me, I decided I didn’t want that life.

The outside of the administration building is probably one of the most profound of the entire school. The facade changes yearly with a new installation from art majors in the current graduating class. It’s always moving in some way. This past year’s artwork might be one of my favorites to date. I can feel the emotion in it.

Maybe because the tears are as big as my entire body.

Pushing open the doors, I take a breath of the cool air that brushes my skin. It’s still early August so the temperature and humidity outside are disgusting. The woman at the desk gives me a pinched smile. I’m familiar with the look—I receive it often.

“Amelia,” I greet as I stop in front of her desk. “That’s a very pretty top.”

Her eyes narrow. What I don’t tell her is I have the same one and it looks far better on me.

“What can I do for you, Coach?” she asks.

“I need to speak with Dean Devaroe,” I tell her.

“Do you have an appointment?”

This is why receptionists irritate me. If I had one, she’d not be asking me that question.

“You and I both know I don’t,” I say and slap my papers onto her desk, keeping my hand over them. “This is sudden and time sensitive since my team will be here next week.”

She presses her lips together and stares at me before looking at her computer and clicking around. If not for the fact she’s constantly barring my way to the people I need to speak to, I’d probably really like Amelia. Her amount of petty is exactly the kind I appreciate.

“Have a seat, Coach. I’ll see if Mr. Devaroe is available for a few minutes.”

Because I’m fairly confident Amelia is as petty as I am, I don’t think she even tells the dean I’m here until twenty minutes later. Just long enough that I’m fuming further. I end up sitting there for almost forty minutes before Amelia tells me he’ll see me.

At least she didn’t wait that long just to tell me the dean couldn’t see me.

When I walk in, I see it’s not just Dean Devaroe in his office, but two others from his team are there as well, one of whom is Zarek Weaver. It takes a lot for me not to scowl at him. Especially when he doesn’t even look up as I enter.

He’s always frustrated me because he’s not actually part of the administrative team; he’s a tenured faculty member. But apparently, he’s something special because he’s always included in email chains concerning money. More times than not, I get redirected to him for purchasing, which truly pisses me off. What does he know about sports? He should not be the one deciding whether something is necessary or not.

It's like an insurance company deciding what tests and treatments are necessary based on their infinite education!

Pfft.

“Good morning, Coach,” Dean Devaroe greets with a wide smile. “How’s the team looking this year?”

He’s a football fan—something that usually works in my favor. I nod as I take a seat and cross my legs at the ankles. “They look good on paper,” I tell him. “As always, I’m eager to see what they can do on the field. I’ll have a better idea next week for you.”

“Wonderful. What can I do for you?”

“There’s been a mistake in my budget,” I say. I don’t miss the way Zarek rolls his eyes, even though he still hasn’t looked up. Yep, I hate that guy.

“Has there?” Dean asks as Zarek hands him a piece of paper. I watch as he reads it and then shakes his head. “There’s no mistake, Coach.”

I frown. “That’s a great deal less than usual,” I explain.

“It is. As stated in previous emails, we are moving around some money within the athletic department to accommodate more talent. Our football team is the star, but we have other teams that we’d like to be just as impressive.”

I’m speechless as I stare at him. “But why football? I produce stars every year!”

Zarek huffs. He finally looks up at me. While I think his expression is pretty indifferent, I know he doesn’t like me. “The finance department sent emails throughout the last school year—September 8 th , November 1 st , January 11 th , with your individual budgets on January 19 th , February 10 th , April 22 nd , May 18 th , June 3 rd , July 24 th , and just last week concerning budgets and ordering, as well as the changes we’re making to the school.” His eyes touch on the papers pointedly in my hands before meeting my eyes again. “It’s clear that your email is working, so you must have read all this in the ten emails that address your concerns, Coach.”

There are a lot of things I want to say right now. Such as the fact that obviously my previous work-study student wasn’t doing what I needed them to and telling me the important things in my email, like my damn budget being cut. Or that I have better things to do than read every single email that comes through.

“More professional athletes leave my field each year than in all of California!” I demand. “Surely I’m allowed some reward because of that.”

Zarek rolls his eyes and doesn’t bother to hide it.

“You are,” the third presence in the room says. Someone who I believe must be new since I don’t recognize her. “As is reflected in your pay—which we haven’t touched—as well as your budget still being quite a bit larger than any other departments. As Dean Devaroe said, we’re looking to grow our other teams, which means bringing in more talents and giving them the resources they need to be great.”

“You don’t need resources to be great,” I argue.

“Then why is your budget cut such a big deal?” Zarek counters.

Fuck, I hate him.

“Four months ago, we introduced our new hockey coach—retired NHL player Hansley Bardot. He’s promising us great things,” Dean says, clearly excited about this.

Hockey! Who gives a shit about hockey?! It’s a barbaric sport.

“But I already have talent on my team,” I insist.

“Yet, it’s been more than a decade since you’ve made it to the championship,” Zarek says.

Dean nods. He fucking nods in agreement!!

“I’ll tell you what,” the new lady interjects. “You get your team to the championship this year and we’ll take a look at your budget for next year. What do you think, Dean?”

Dean Devaroe grins excitedly. “Yes. That’s a great idea. Some incentive for you, Coach!”

I’m fuming. Like, I seriously have steam coming out of my ears.

“In the meantime,” Zarek says, “feel free to get creative to supplement your budget.”

“What does that mean?” I grit out.

He shrugs. “That’s up to you to determine.”

We’re silent for a minute before I get to my feet. “Thank you for seeing me, Dean.”

“I always enjoy our visits, Coach,” he says, and while I know he’s genuine, I can’t help but feel that there’s a heavy dose of sarcasm in it.

“Coach, you’re late placing your order. I suggest submitting your essentials by the end of day, to make sure we have what you need by the start of the season. You’re going to need to factor in rush delivery now too.” I don’t have to infer that smugness in Zarek’s voice as he says this.

If I could set him on fire with my eyes, I would. Instead, I give him a clipped nod because we’re still in front of the dean and then walk out. Somehow, I manage to close the door without slamming it, but I can’t contain the way I stomp down the hall.

This is stupidly unacceptable.