Free The Game of Love by Jeanette Murray Page B

from the moment she’d taken the job that she wouldn’t put that kind of pressure on anyone she coached or taught. She hopped down the steps until she stood at the bottom looking up at the girls. There were—she took a silent headcount—sixteen in attendance. A solid number. Manageable without being overwhelming.
    “Hello, everyone. I’m Christina St. James, the new head coach for this year.” She bit her cheek during the polite applause. “I’ll also be teaching math this year, so you might be in my class, as well. In the classroom, I’m Ms. St. James. But on the court, you may call me Coach, or Coach Chris, or Coach St. James.”
    She dropped her bag on a nearby chair and pulled out a clipboard and pen. She handed them to the first girl on her left—a cute redhead with two French braids. The girl bounced her legs like she had too much energy to sit still for long. “Please fill out the information on the list so that I’ll have a roster. Has everyone turned in their paperwork to the office?” They all nodded. “Good.”
    As the clipboard made the rounds, she dragged through her welcome speech, talking about practice times, passed around a schedule for the matches that year, and the team rules.
    “There were no rules last year.” A perky blonde in a lacy camisole with a superiority complex. Great. She was one of those. One who wouldn’t let any leader go untested. That was fine. After experience in the trenches—also known as first-year teaching—she was prepared.
    “Name, please?”
    “Alexa.” She gave a smug smile.
    “Well, Alexa, there are rules now. I’m strict, but I’m fair. There’s nothing on that list that I wasn’t asked to do myself when I played and I doubt there’s anything you could argue against.”
    “But I like chewing gum while I play. It helps me concentrate, which helps me win.” Alexa gave her a pointed glare. “Isn’t that the point of playing?”
    Her father would have said yes.
    Her father was an ass.
    “No.” She waited while Alexa’s brows rose in surprise. “The point of playing is to enjoy it. If you don’t enjoy it, there’s not much of a point.” Trust me, I should know. “And you are representing your school. It’s my personal belief that if you act respectfully and speak respectfully, people will treat you with the same respect. As ambassadors of the school, you are obliged to show your best face. And the best face is not one that’s smacking on gum.”
    “Nobody cares what our best face looks like.” The black-on-black-on-black girl rolled her eyes beneath lids so heavily caked with coal-colored shadow and liner it was a wonder she could blink.
    “Name?”
    She mumbled something out the side of her black-slicked mouth.
    “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
    “Brittany.” She enunciated each syllable with disdain.
    So the goth-girl had the name of a pop teenybopper superstar. Life’s little ironies. “Brittany, why do you think nobody cares?”
    For a moment, uncertainty flashed across her face. Then she looked to her left, and a brunette wearing a Northeastern track T-shirt shrugged, then nodded. Brittany squared her shoulders and took on the role of spokesperson.
    “Nobody comes to our matches but our parents. Students don’t come, we don’t have fans. We’re the redheaded stepchild of fall athletics. Well, us and golf,” she added with what almost would pass as a smile.
    “I understand.” Oh, boy did she ever understand. “But that’s not the point. When you decided to play for this team, you decided to be a face of Northeastern High School. And therefore, these simple rules will be followed.” She let her gaze pan over each of the sixteen girls. “When you put on that uniform, you’re important, no matter who sees you.”
    “Uniform. Ha. Moth cloth you mean?” This came from a leggy blue-eyed china doll of a girl with hair so light it was white. When she saw Chris looking at her, she ducked her head and mumbled,