Claire looked from the clothes hanging above my bathtub to the pink hair tie beside them.
“Do you have company?” she asked again.
“No.”
“Then whose clothes are those?”
“They belong to Westbridge.”
Claire handed me one of the coffee cups and walked into the bathroom before I could stop her. She inspected the academy logo on the quarter-zip, then pinched the waistband of the navy pants between two fingers.
“Westbridge owns women’s clothing in your bathroom?”
“They’re coaching clothes.”
“For whom?”
“For me, temporarily.”
She turned around, holding the pants against her waist. Claire stood five inches shorter than me and had inherited our father’s broad shoulders. Even so, the trousers looked as though they might fit her.
“You’re wearing these?”
“The men’s uniforms in the cabinet were the wrong sizes.”
“And the pink hair tie?”
“That belongs to Celeste.”
Claire stared at me.
“Celeste Ward,” I added. “The head coach.”
“You brought home your boss’s hair tie?”
“She told me to keep it.”
Her expression grew far too pleased. I carried my coffee into the kitchen and opened the cupboard. The leaking tap had filled two bowls overnight. Claire followed, still carrying the pants.
“Put those back.”
“I’m examining the evidence.”
“There is no evidence.”
“You have women’s tennis clothes drying in your bathroom and a pink hair band from a woman named Celeste. There’s plenty of evidence. I just haven’t decided what crime occurred.” I took the trousers from her and returned them to the hanger.
Claire had always enjoyed any chance to embarrass me. As children, she told guests about my fear of the basement. During high school, she showed my friends a photograph of me dressed as a storybook princess for a kindergarten play. Nothing in our relationship suggested that maturity would improve her restraint.
“They’re practical,” I said. “That’s all.”
“Do they fit?”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
“Why does that matter?”
Her smile answered the question. I returned to the kitchen and checked beneath the sink. Water had pooled around the pipe again. The landlord had promised to send someone three days earlier, but promises from Mr. Halpern carried little value.
Claire leaned against the counter. “Mom thinks you’re avoiding her.”
“I spoke to her Sunday.”
“You ended the call after four minutes.”
“She asked whether I had applied for the insurance job.”
“Have you?”
“No.”
“Then I understand the four-minute limit.”
I tightened the loose connection under the sink with a wrench. The pipe groaned but continued dripping. Claire set her cup down. “You could stay with me for a while.”
“I’m not moving into your spare room.”
“You’re behind on rent, your sink is dying, and your heating barely works.”
“My rent is handled.”
“You borrowed three hundred dollars last month.”
“I paid you back.”
“After selling your television.”
I slid out from beneath the sink and wiped my hands on a towel. “Did you come here to check on me or conduct an audit?”
“To bring coffee. The audit became necessary when I found your new wardrobe.”
I gave her a look.
Claire raised both hands. “Fine. I’ll stop.”
She managed nearly ten seconds.
“What kind of pants are they?”
“Leave.”
Her laughter followed me down the hallway.
Before departing, Claire photographed the leaking pipe for her husband, who knew more about repairs than either of us. I watched closely to ensure the uniform stayed outside the frame.
At noon, she sent me a message. Your secret is safe. A second message arrived beneath it.
Coach Evangeline. I muted the conversation. That evening, I packed the academy uniform inside my gym bag. Wearing it remained a requirement, yet changing at Westbridge would prevent another encounter with a neighbour or family member.
The staff room stood empty when I arrived. I changed quickly and examined myself in the narrow mirror. The quarter-zip followed my waist more closely after washing. The trousers also seemed tighter, perhaps because the fabric had regained its original shape. The curved seams made my hips appear broader, while the high waistband narrowed my middle.
I turned away from the mirror. A black hair tie would have completed the outfit without drawing attention. Unfortunately, the one around my wrist snapped when I tried to use it. The pink band sat in my bag.
I considered leaving my hair loose, but Celeste’s warning from Monday remained clear: players watched everything. I gathered my hair into a ponytail and secured it with the pink elastic. The result looked intentional.
That bothered me. When I entered Court Three, Paige noticed immediately.
“You kept it.”
“Coach Ward told me to.”
Celeste glanced at my ponytail. “I told you to keep the uniform.”
“You also said I could keep the hair tie.”
“I said no such thing.”
Paige pressed her lips together, failing to hide a grin.
“You gave it to me,” I said.
“I expected it back.”
“I brought it.”
“While wearing it.”
A few players had begun listening.
I reached toward my hair. “I’ll return it now.”
Celeste waved me away. “Leave it. We have work to do.”
Morgan arrived from the locker room and looked me over.
“Full academy outfit today.”
“Correct.”
“Women’s academy outfit,” Zoe added.
“Yes, thank you. The distinction has been established.”
June placed a basket of balls near the baseline. “The ponytail matches the red stripe.”
“I didn’t plan that.”
“Still matches.”
Celeste blew her whistle before the conversation could continue. Practice opened with serve placement. I tracked each player’s accuracy on a clipboard while Celeste corrected their technique. The group settled into a serious rhythm, and the comments about my clothing stopped.
Halfway through the session, Marla Quinn entered the court. The academy director rarely attended ordinary practices. She watched from behind the curtain for several minutes before walking toward me.
“Evan.”
“Hi, Marla.”
Her gaze moved from the pink band to the fitted uniform.
“I see Celeste found you a temporary kit.”
“She did.”
Marla examined the red piping along my chest. “That’s from the women’s collection.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
“We can’t have staff mixing uniform lines during tournaments.”
Relief came quickly. “I’ll wear my own clothes until the men’s kit arrives.”
“No. Staff must wear academy apparel.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
Marla considered the question. “The performance group travels to the Mason Regional next Saturday. Our supplier won’t deliver before then.”
Celeste joined us.
“Mercer can keep wearing this,” she said. “Nobody cares.”
“I care,” I replied.
Both women ignored me. Marla studied the outfit again. “From a distance, the distinction is minor.”
“The players recognised it immediately.”
“They recognise everything.”
Paige called from the service line, “The red piping gives it away.”
“Thank you, Paige,” I said.
Marla lowered her voice. “The regional requires staff photographs for accreditation. We’re taking them Thursday.”
I looked down at the uniform.
“You want my official coaching photograph taken in this?”
“Unless another option appears.”
“What about the extra-large men’s shirt?”
“It would look unprofessional.”
“And this doesn’t?”
Celeste answered before Marla could.
“This fits. Stop treating fabric like a crisis.”
A ball rolled toward us. I trapped it beneath my shoe while Marla checked her watch. “Photography starts at four thirty on Thursday. Wear the complete uniform. We’ll replace the image when your order arrives.”
She returned to the front office. I watched her leave, then turned toward Celeste.
“You could have supported me.”
“I did. I told her the uniform fits.”
“That wasn’t the support I wanted.”
“It’s the support you received.”
Practice resumed.
My frustration sharpened my attention. I caught errors sooner, delivered clearer instructions, and challenged the players whenever their concentration slipped. By the final drill, they responded to my corrections without glancing at Celeste.
During a tiebreak exercise, Morgan rushed the net too early and lost three consecutive points.
“Stay patient,” I told her. “You’re approaching because you want the point finished, not because the ball invites you forward.”
She nodded, adjusted, and won the next exchange with a clean volley.
Celeste made a note on her clipboard.
After practice, the players gathered their bags. Paige lingered near the bench while I collected loose balls.
“You coached well tonight,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“And the photograph probably won’t look bad.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“The ponytail helps.”
“How?”
“It makes the uniform look less accidental.”
I stopped collecting balls.
Paige realised what she had said and tried to correct herself. “I mean, the whole thing looks coordinated.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“Sorry.”
She left before another explanation made matters worse. In the staff room, I changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. I folded the uniform, placed it in my bag, and removed the pink hair tie. Several strands remained bent from the ponytail. Without the uniform, the band looked like a small, harmless object in my palm.
I placed it inside the front pocket of my bag rather than returning it. At home, another message from Claire waited on my phone.
Her husband could repair the sink on Friday. Beneath that useful information sat a photograph she had taken that morning. The image showed the bathroom doorway. The academy clothes hung in clear view behind me while I stood in my old sleepwear, looking irritated.
Claire had added a caption.
My brother’s mysterious new life.
I called her immediately.
“Delete that picture.”
“I haven’t sent it anywhere.”
“Delete it anyway.”
“Why are you nervous?”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You called within twenty seconds.”
“Claire.”
She became quiet.
“I won’t show anyone,” she said. “I promise.”
I wanted to believe her. Claire teased constantly, but she rarely broke a direct promise.
“Thank you.”
“Though you should know something.”
“What?”
“Mom is coming with me on Friday.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why?”
“She wants to see you.”
“She wants to inspect me.”
“That too.”
My gaze moved toward the gym bag near the door. The pink tie remained visible through the open pocket. The women’s uniform lay folded beneath it, waiting for another wash before Thursday’s photograph.
My mother noticed more than Claire did, and she asked far more questions. Friday would require a convincing explanation. I still had none. Thursday arrived with sleet against the bedroom window and a message from my landlord saying the repair visit had moved to Friday afternoon.
That meant Claire, her husband, and my mother would all be inside my duplex while I prepared for Westbridge. I read the message twice, then placed my phone facedown. One problem at a time.
The academy photograph remained the immediate concern. Marla had instructed me to wear the complete uniform, though nobody had defined what “complete” meant. The quarter-zip and navy pants clearly counted. Court shoes counted. A jacket might have helped, but the matching women’s jacket in the cabinet had already been borrowed by another coach.
I considered wearing my old black jacket over everything and removing it moments before the picture. That plan lasted until I reached Westbridge and found Marla waiting near reception with a clipboard.
“Pictures begin in twenty minutes,” she said. “Staff room has grooming supplies.”
“Grooming supplies?”
“Lint rollers, combs, hair products. We use the photographs for tournament credentials and the website.”
“The website?”
She checked my name on the list. “Performance coaches get profile pages.”
Nobody had mentioned a profile page.
I entered the staff room and found three coaches standing near the mirror. Two worked with adult programs. The third, Rachel Kim, had recently transferred from the squad I now assisted. Rachel looked at the uniform, then at me.
“Celeste put you in the reserve set?”
“Apparently.”
“That set used to be mine.”
My hand paused on the locker handle.
“You wore this exact uniform?”
“Probably. There are only two in that size.” One of the adult coaches glanced between us and smiled.
“Looks better on Evan.”
Rachel laughed. “The pants certainly do.”
I turned toward the mirror and opened my locker. “Can we move past my pants?”
“Not while you keep saying things like that,” Rachel replied.
A basket beside the sink held brushes, elastic bands, clips, and several small bottles. Most belonged to coaches who spent entire days on court and needed to repair their appearance before meetings. I had brought a black hair tie. Using it would keep the ponytail low and plain. Then Marla entered.
“Evan, can you use the red band?”
I looked at her through the mirror. “What red band?” She pointed into the basket. “The academy one. It matches the piping.” A narrow red elastic sat near the top.
“I already have one.”
“The black won’t show against your hair.”
“That sounds helpful.”
“For the photograph, we need the academy colors visible.” Rachel picked up the red elastic and held it toward me.
“Management has spoken.”
I could have refused. No written rule required a matching hair band. Still, arguing in front of three coaches would create more attention than simply using it.
I gathered my hair into a ponytail.
“Higher,” Marla said.
I stopped.
“Why?”
“The logo sits beneath the collar. A low ponytail covers it.”
Rachel stepped behind me. “Here.”
Before I could object, she took my hair, lifted it toward the crown of my head, and secured it with the red band. The style pulled at my scalp and exposed my neck.
She adjusted two loose strands near my face.
“There. Clean and athletic.”
I stared at my reflection. The fitted uniform, curved seams, high ponytail, and red band formed a coordinated image. Nothing looked accidental now.
“That’s exactly what Paige said,” I muttered.
Marla nodded in approval. “Much better.” I disliked how naturally the pieces worked together.
The photographer had arranged a gray screen near Court One. Each coach stood beside a basket of balls and held a racket across the body. The process moved quickly until my turn.
“Evan Mercer,” Marla announced.
I stepped onto the mark.
The photographer lowered his camera for a moment. “Should he turn a little?”
Marla studied me. “Toward the left.”
I shifted.
“Other left,” Celeste called from behind the screen.
Several coaches laughed. I changed direction and held the racket against my hip. The photographer adjusted a light. “Chin down. Shoulders relaxed. Good.”
The flash went off three times. He checked the camera display and frowned.
“Hair is catching the collar.”
Rachel approached before I could respond. She divided the ponytail and pulled it over my right shoulder. The pale brown length fell across my chest, ending near the academy logo.
“That frames his face,” the photographer said.
“It also covers the logo,” I replied.
“Only a little.”
Another flash.
He turned the screen so Marla could review the image. I tried not to look, but the picture occupied nearly the whole display. My face seemed narrower under the raised ponytail. The uniform followed my body closely, and the racket obscured the small shape at the front of the pants. With my hair resting over one shoulder, the academy profile could easily be mistaken for a young woman’s photograph at a quick glance.
Marla pointed toward the screen. “That one works.”
“Can we take another with my hair behind me?”
“The current image looks professional.”
Rachel leaned closer. “You photograph well.”
“That isn’t the issue.”
Celeste crossed her arms. “Then stop creating one.”
The photographer saved the image and called the next name. My profile had been decided. Practice began soon afterward. I kept the high ponytail because removing it would require walking back past the coaches who had already commented. The players noticed at once.
Paige smiled. “You took my advice.”
“Marla required the academy band.”
“Sure.”
“She did.”
Morgan circled one finger near her head. “The height too?”
“The photographer needed the collar visible.”
Zoe nodded with false seriousness. “Very technical.”
I picked up a basket. “Anyone who mentions my hair during practice runs an extra lap.”
The comments stopped.
For twelve minutes.
Near the end of a return drill, Brynn asked whether the website would display my photograph before the Mason Regional. Paige answered before I could.
“Probably tomorrow.”
My stomach tightened.
The profile page meant parents, academy members, former classmates, and anyone searching my name could see the uniform. More troubling, my mother had a habit of searching Westbridge news whenever she wanted proof that coaching could become a real career.
“Marla might delay it,” I said.
“She posts staff updates on Fridays,” June replied.
Of course she did.
After practice, I asked Marla to wait until my men’s uniform arrived.
She sat behind the front desk, reviewing the photographs on her computer.
“Credentials need to be submitted tonight,” she said.
“Use the picture for the credential. Leave it off the website.”
“Why?”
“Because the uniform creates confusion.”
She enlarged my image. The screen confirmed every concern. The red stripes curved inward at my waist. My hair lay over one shoulder. Even my posture appeared more graceful than I remembered. Marla looked from the image to me.
“I see an academy coach.”
“You know which uniform line that is.”
“Most visitors won’t.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
She sighed and closed the preview. “I’ll hold the profile until Monday. The credential still goes through tonight.”
“Thank you.”
That gave me a weekend to prepare an explanation for my family or convince Marla to choose another photograph. Neither option seemed promising. I returned home near nine. Claire’s car sat at the curb. She had come early.
Inside, cupboard doors stood open around the kitchen. Her husband, Ben, lay beneath the sink with a flashlight. Claire sat at the table beside my mother.
My mother looked up and smiled. Then she noticed my hair. The red elastic remained in place. I had forgotten to remove it.
“Evan,” she said, “that’s a lovely ponytail.”
Claire examined me more carefully. Her eyes moved downward toward my coat, perhaps searching for the borrowed uniform beneath it. I kept the zipper raised to my neck.
“Work required it,” I said.
“Work required a ponytail?” Mom asked.
“The photograph required the collar visible.”
“What photograph?”
Claire lowered her coffee cup. I should have invented an answer. Instead, fatigue took control.
“My staff profile.”
Mom brightened. “You’re getting a staff profile?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s wonderful. Show me.”
“I don’t have the picture.”
“Westbridge must have posted it.”
“Not yet.”
Claire reached for her phone.
I pointed at her. “Don’t.”
She froze. Mom’s smile faded into curiosity. “Why shouldn’t she look?” Ben slid out from beneath the sink. “Did I miss something?”
“No,” I said.
Claire’s expression suggested the opposite.
Mom stood and walked toward me. “Take off your coat. You’re indoors.”
“I’m leaving again.”
“At nine at night?”
“I need groceries.”
The lie failed before the sentence ended.
Mom reached for the zipper.
I stepped back too quickly.
Everyone became quiet.
Her hand lowered.
“Evan,” she said, “what are you hiding?”
Behind her, Claire stared at the floor. She knew the answer, or part of it, and had finally decided not to make a joke. I could refuse. I could walk out. I could keep inventing explanations until nobody believed anything I said.
Instead, I unzipped the coat. The white quarter-zip appeared first, followed by the red piping and fitted navy waistband. Mom looked down at the academy uniform. Her eyes remained there long enough to make my face burn. Claire spoke carefully.
“They gave him the wrong staff kit.”
Mom looked at her. “You knew?”
“I saw it yesterday.”
“And nobody thought to mention this?”
“Mention what?” I asked.
Mom turned back toward me.
“The clothes.”
“They’re athletic clothes.”
“They’re made for women.”
“Yes.”
Ben returned his attention to the sink with remarkable urgency. Mom touched the red stripe near my shoulder, not mocking me, only inspecting the garment.
“Does Westbridge require you to wear this?”
“Until my uniform arrives.”
“And the hair?”
“For the photograph.”
Claire bit her lip.
Mom noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Claire said.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
I shut my eyes. Claire answered quietly. “The picture makes the outfit look more deliberate.” Mom studied me again, taking in the high ponytail, fitted top, and narrow-waisted pants. Then she asked the one question I had hoped nobody would ask.
“Do you like wearing it?”
The leaking tap dripped into the metal sink. Ben tightened something beneath the counter. Claire waited. I looked down at the uniform. The honest answer refused to remain simple.
“I like coaching in it,” I said.
Nobody laughed. That made the embarrassment worse.