The truck's vinyl seats stuck to Michael's sweat-drenched scrubs as Coach Harris peeled out of the parking lot. Morning sun glared through the windshield, highlighting the dust on the dashboard.
Don't puke. Don't puke.
Michael gripped the door handle, his stomach churning from the jerky turns. Coach drove like he coached—aggressive, no wasted motion.
"You look like death microwaved for thirty seconds," Coach grunted, eyeing Michael's shaking hands. "Talk. Why the rush on the fundraiser?"
Michael focused on the pine tree air freshener swaying from the rearview mirror. "Prosthetics cost $200k. Insurance won't cover it. Need cash now."
"So you're hustling car washes?" Coach snorted. "Should've called me sooner. UT's got connections. Corporate donors. Alumni—"
"They dropped me." Michael's stump twitched under the bandages. "No more scholarship next semester. Director said I'm 'not a viable investment.'"
Coach's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "Bureaucratic morons. I'll talk to the board."
"Don't." Michael pulled out his phone, checking the screen. Tatsuya's ETA: 14 hours. "I'm done begging. This car wash… it's my pitch. My terms."
Coach glanced at the phone. "You're playing games now?"
"It's part of the plan." Michael lied smoothly, minimizing the app. "Social media blitz. Viral videos. The game's just… stress relief."
Coach grunted, turning into a strip mall parking lot. A thrift store sign flickered: Big Al's Bargains!
"Clothes first," Coach said, killing the engine. "Can't have you looking like a runaway patient in my truck."
The thrift store reeked of mothballs. Racks of faded band tees and stretched-out jeans lined the aisles. Michael shuffled behind Coach, his legs still trembling from the track.
Michael's vision swam as he eyed a faded University of Tenesia hoodie hanging crookedly on a mannequin. The logo—a proud orange "T"—looked like it had been through a war. Just like me.
He reached for it with his remaining hand, but his fingers slipped. The hanger clattered to the floor.
"Pick that up," Coach barked without turning around.
Michael bent too fast. The world tilted. He grabbed the clothing rack to steady himself, knocking down three more hangers. A teenage employee glared from behind the cash register.
Coach finally turned, holding up a pair of black sneakers. "Size 10. These'll do." He tossed them at Michael. "Try 'em. And stop wrecking the place."
Michael collapsed onto a plastic chair near the changing rooms. His bandaged stump throbbed as he yanked off the shredded hospital slippers. Blisters oozed on his heels. Disgusting. He forced the sneakers on, ignoring the pain.
"They fit?" Coach loomed over him, arms crossed.
"Good enough."
"You look like a hobo." Coach grabbed a baseball cap from a nearby rack—navy blue, no logo—and shoved it onto Michael's greasy hair. "And you reek. When's the last time you showered?"
Three weeks? Four? "Yesterday," Michael said.
Coach snorted and marched toward the men's section. Michael followed, each step grinding his blisters raw.
"Jacket." Coach tossed a bulky windbreaker at him. "Hide the bandages."
Michael caught it awkwardly. The jacket smelled like cigarettes, but it was thick enough to mask his bony shoulders. I look like a drug dealer.
"Pants." Coach threw him faded jeans. "Try not to trip on the hem."
As Michael changed behind a flimsy curtain, Coach's voice rumbled through the fabric:
"This or the Metallica tee?"
"What?"
"You're the face of this pity party. Look trustworthy." Coach shoved the collared shirt at him. "Change."
Michael fumbled with the buttons, his stump brushing the fabric uselessly. Can't even dress myself. The humiliation burned hotter than his blisters.
Coach watched impassively. "You need $200k. A car wash gets you maybe five grand. If you're lucky."
Michael forced the last button through. "It's a start. "
Coach barked a laugh. "You're delusional if you think this would actually change your situation."
"I'm adapting." Michael met his glare. "You taught me that. Adapt or lose."
Coach's eye twitched. He turned abruptly. "Checkout's this way."
The total came to $27.50. Coach paid in exact change while Michael leaned against a gum-stained counter, trying not to vomit.
Outside, morning traffic roared. Coach tossed the thrift store bag into his truck bed. "Get in. We're hitting a diner."
"No time. Need to prep the car wash—"
"You'll pass out by noon. Eat."
The diner's vinyl booth stuck to Michael's legs. Coach ordered two steak omelets without asking. When the food came, Michael devoured his in six bites, grease dripping down his chin.
Coach sipped black coffee. "You got three hours before setup. What's first?"
Grease glistened on the Michael's chin, and his lone hand shook slightly as he reached for the water glass. Three months in a hospital bed had turned his once-athletic frame into a limp scarecrow.
But the fire in his eyes? That was familiar.
He's planning something stupid, Coach thought. He'd seen that look before—pitchers who ignored pitch counts, batters who swung at every fastball, kids who thought grit could outrun reality.
"So the car wash," Coach said, tapping his coffee mug. "You really think washing minivans will get you a prosthetic arm?"
Michael wiped his mouth with a napkin. "It's not about the cars. It's about the story." His voice had that rehearsed steadiness, like he'd spent the night scripting this. "People donate to comebacks. To underdogs. Not to some guy crying in a hospital bed."
"And you're the underdog now?" Coach leaned back, the vinyl booth creaking. "Kid, you can barely walk. How you gonna 'comeback' when your legs give out during setup?"
Michael's jaw tightened. He's scared, Coach realized. Not of failing—of being pitied. The worst fate for a guy who once struck out fifteen batters on a sprained ankle.
"I'll stand. That's all they need to see." Michael pulled out his phone, thumbing open a video of his old games—the crowd roaring as he blew a 95mph fastball past the catcher. "I'll play this on loop. Show them what I was. What I can be again."
Coach snorted. "You're not even strong enough to hold a sponge. What's the play here? Let people gawk at the one-armed ex-star so they toss quarters in your cup?"
Michael flinched. Good. Better he face the truth now than crash in public.
"It's not gawking. It's proof." Michael leaned forward, his gaunt face lit by the phone's glow. "Every donation is a vote. A bet that I'm worth something. If I can get enough people to believe…"
He trailed off, but Coach heard the unsaid words: Maybe I'll believe it too.
"And if you collapse? If the video of you face-planting goes viral instead?" Coach watched Michael's remaining hand curl into a fist. The kid had always hated admitting weakness.
"I won't."
"Bull. You're shaking right now." Coach pointed at Michael's trembling fingers. "You think I don't see it? You're running on fumes and fairy tales."
Michael shoved his hand under the table. "I'll last long enough. The team's handling the actual washing. I just need to… be there. Smile. Look determined."
"The team?" Coach barked a laugh. "Tyler's crew? Half those idiots are only coming because you threatened them with blackmail!"
"They'll show." Michael's voice hardened. "They owe me."
Owed him what? Coach wondered. Loyalty from guys who'd vanished the second his career flatlined? But arguing was pointless—Michael had that manic focus of someone clinging to a lifeline.
"Fine. Let's say they do." Coach signaled the waitress for a coffee refill. "What's your actual role? Stand there like a mascot? Wave your stump for sympathy?"
"I'm pitching."