Coach's Number One

Chapter One

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© 2017 by LaurenJ22.

All rights reserved.

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Dedication: Charcoal_Face_Paint for the amazing cover! Thank you!

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THIS IS AN AUSTRALIAN STORY - THERE ARE MANY AUSTRALIAN CULTURAL NORMS MENTIONED THROUGHOUT THIS BOOK THAT MAY DIFFER FROM THE WAY YOU LIVE.

FOR EXAMPLE: School uniforms, times (start and finish), graduation dates, formal (our version of a prom), Australian slang (thongs are shoes!), driving on the opposite side of the road (the driver/passenger seats are different sides), the terms used for cars (a ute, for example), 'practise' is spelled with an S in Australia SO PLEASE STOP COMMENTING THAT IT IS WRONG BECAUSE FOR ME, IT ISN'T. There are heaps of Australian references in this book as I am Australian, this is what I know. When I read other stories, I understand that things are different. Please be respectful.

I should have known today was going to suck.

There were a few signs.

First, it was raining. I like rain, but not when I have to walk to school in it. I basically live in water and spend most of my time in it, but that doesn't mean I enjoy rocking a wet shirt during school.

Secondly, the guy I've been trying to get with for the past month asked my friend for her number. Not cool.

And third? Mum's car is in the driveway when I come home from school.

My mother is a cardiovascular surgeon. Her entire life revolves around the hospital and her patients.

For a long time, I've accepted the fact that her career is her life, not me. Her life is dedicated to people who need it. But since my father died when I was ten, mum is all I have. It's hard to share her when I have no one else.

My mother and I live together, but we rarely see each other. She is hardly ever home and when she is, she's exhausted. Sometimes she even sleeps at the hospital. We communicate through post-it notes, usually.

I know she is on a double shift today, which is why it's bizarre that she is home and now I have an uneasy, squirmy feeling in my stomach. As soon as my feet are through the front door, I shrug off my over-sized gym bag and slip out of my shoes. The weight lifting from my shoulders is refreshing and I stretch for a moment, trying to unwind.

A delicious smell wafting from the kitchen draws me towards it. Meanwhile, my stomach is tightening. Mum never cooks for me. The last time was when my nan died. Chocolate chip cupcakes were how she broke the news to me.

Wandering into the kitchen, feeling exhausted from my training session, I stop. There, spread neatly in front of me, is a line of delicious looking chocolate chip cupcakes. Dread spikes through my veins and my mouth feels unusually dry.

Now I know something is wrong.

"Hi, honey," Mum greets me, looking more exhausted than me. The bags under her eyes are so permanent that I don't remember what she looks like without them anymore. They're a prominent, dark purple shade, making her look malnourished and sleep-deprived. Which she is.

"Oh no," I whisper heavily. "Who died?"

A tired smile stretches over her lips. "No one. Don't be so dramatic."