The Assistant Coach (BOOK 1: OMEN KING SERIES)

|𝟹𝟶|

Leia Welsh

I drum my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, my gaze fixed on the weathered oak door.

The paint is chipped and worn, revealing the bare wood underneath. The lawn is a patchwork of yellowed grass and weeds, neglected and unkempt. The short metal fence that surrounds the property is bent and rusted in places, a testament to years of neglect.

I let out a sigh, my breath misting in the chilly air inside the car. I absentmindedly nibble on a perfectly manicured nail, my nerves getting the best of me.

The rain falls gently, creating a soft pitter-patter on the car's windshield. The only other sound is the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers as they clear the rain from the glass.

The sky is a dull gray, heavy with clouds that seem to stretch on forever. Occasionally, a flash of lightning illuminates the horizon, but the thunder is distant, a mere echo of the storm.

The house itself looms before me, its weathered facade giving off an air of abandonment. It's a small, nondescript structure, its light brown paint peeling in places, the windows dark and foreboding.

"Get the hell out," a loud voice shrieks, making me whip my head around to face my old childhood home.

The cold air in the car cuts through my thin jacket, sending shivers down my spine. I can feel the cold seeping into my bones, making me regret not wearing something warmer.

I absentmindedly bite down on my nail, a nervous habit of mine, and wince as I accidentally draw blood. I quickly wipe it on my jeans, not wanting to draw attention to my moment of weakness. I squint against the harsh sunlight that reflects off the rain-covered cement, making my eyes water.

My gaze falls on Oscar, standing in front of the rickety fence, his hands full of clothes that my mom is tossing out.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. The familiar scent of pine trees and wood smoke fills my nostrils from the slightly opened car window, bringing back memories of happier times. But those memories are tainted now, stained with bitterness and regret.

I square my shoulders, steeling myself for some unknown reason.

Oscar, my mom's not-so-charming boyfriend, the guy who somehow managed to convince her to kick me out. I've always had a strong dislike for him. He's a heavy drinker, always drowning his sorrows in alcohol.

While he's never laid a hand on me, his words cut deep. My mom, blinded by her love for him, does whatever he asks.

How could she love a man like that?

And I know he despises me, probably because I'm a constant reminder of the man my mother was once with, who tragically passed away before I could even meet him.

As I watch Oscar stumble around the dirty grass, I can tell he's had one too many drinks. His movements are clumsy and uncoordinated. His white muscle shirt is stained with an array of brown splotches, evidence of his frequent spills. The shirt barely covers his protruding belly, exposing his dirty, pale skin.

"I swear to god Marie, I won't come back this time," he shouts, his words cutting through the chilly air like a knife.

He stumbles before grabbing a red shirt and flinging it in my mom's direction. The fabric barely makes it past the sidewalk before falling to the ground, a sad reminder of his failed attempt at anger.

I tear my gaze away from the discarded shirt and focus on my mom. Her familiar brown hair is neatly tucked behind her head, strands escaping to frame her tear-streaked face. Despite the tense situation, I notice that she looks different.