Chapter 3 - The Phone CallFriday night brought a heavy rain that rattled against the windows of my small apartment. I was sitting on the couch, reviewing team statistics on my laptop, when my phone buzzed on the coffee table.
An unknown number with an Arizona area code filled the screen.
I answered. “Caleb Porter.”
“So you’re the gym teacher playing savior to my son,” a sharp, condescending voice drawled from the receiver.
I leaned back against the cushions, setting the laptop aside. “Who is this?”
“Brendan Mercer,” he said effortlessly. The background noise suggested he was sitting in a high-end lounge—the clinking of ice in a crystal glass, muted laughter, smooth jazz playing quietly. “I hear you’ve been driving my boy home after practice.”
“I drive him home when his mother is working late and he’s left waiting alone on the bleachers,” I replied, keeping my tone strictly professional.
Brendan let out a dry, mocking chuckle. “Let’s get one thing straight, Porter. Sloane is an ER nurse who refuses to accept proper alimony because she wants to play the martyr. And you’re a high school coach earning forty grand a year trying to impress a woman way out of your league.”
“I don’t care about the money, Mercer,” I said calmly. “I care about the kid who sat in the cold for an hour waiting for someone who didn’t show up.”
The line went silent for two sharp seconds.
“I pay for his private school, his gear, and his medical insurance,” Brendan said, his voice dropping its charm, replaced by a cold, sharp edge. “I don’t need a glorified babysitter filling his head with ideas. Stay away from my son, or I’ll make sure the school board looks very closely at why a male coach is giving private rides to an eleven-year-old boy after hours.”
The implication was disgusting, designed to intimidate and humiliate. Anger flared hot in my chest, but I forced my voice to stay level.
“If you want to talk about responsibility, Brendan, show up for his game tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. Field 3. He’s starting at shortstop.”
“I have a charity luncheon in Columbus—”
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“Field 3. 10:00 a.m.,” I repeated firmly. “Show him you care more than a gym teacher does.”
I hung up before he could respond.
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