A Guy With Long Girly Hair - Girls Tennis Coach - Part Two
My mother kept her hand near the red stripe on my uniform, waiting for a better answer.
“I like coaching in it,” I repeated. “The clothes don’t restrict my movement.”
“That wasn’t quite what I asked,” she said.
“It’s the answer I have.”
Claire stood and carried her empty cup to the sink. “He means the uniform works well on court. That doesn’t need to become a family investigation.” Mom looked at her. “You started calling him Coach Evangeline.”
“You saw that?”
“You left your phone on the table.”
Claire closed her eyes. Ben remained beneath the sink, where family tension apparently made plumbing fascinating. Mom turned back to me. “I’m not judging you.”
“I know.”
“You look uncomfortable.”
“Because three people are staring at me.” Ben raised one hand from beneath the cabinet. “I’m staring at a pipe.”
“Thank you, Ben.”
Mom stepped away and sat again. Her expression carried concern rather than amusement, which somehow felt harder to manage.
“Your father would make a fuss,” she said.
“My father makes a fuss when a restaurant changes its menu.”
“That’s true.” Claire glanced toward the uniform. “Nobody here thinks the clothes matter.”
“You took a photograph of them.”
“I deleted it.”
“Did you?”
She pulled out her phone, opened the recently deleted folder, and removed the image permanently while I watched.
“There.”
That small gesture lowered my irritation. Ben emerged from beneath the sink and announced that he needed a replacement valve. Claire volunteered to drive with him, leaving Mom and me alone in the kitchen. The tap continued its steady dripping. Mom studied my face. “You’ve always hated being laughed at.”
“Most people do.”
“You take it harder.”
I leaned against the counter. “The players joke, but they’re starting to listen to me. Celeste trusts my decisions more. I don’t want some uniform issue to distract from that.”
“Then don’t let it.”
“Easy advice.”
“You’re wearing tennis clothes at a tennis academy. Anyone who turns that into a scandal needs a hobby.” I almost smiled. Mom pointed toward my hair. “Though the red band draws attention.”
“Management chose it.”
“Management has bold taste.”
I removed the elastic and lowered my hair. The release eased the pressure around my scalp. Mom watched the pale brown strands fall across my shoulders.
“You still have beautiful hair,” she said.
“That sounds like something Paige would say.”
“Who’s Paige?”
“One of the players.”
“Does she tease you?”
“Constantly.”
“Does she respect you?”
I thought about her response to my instructions during drills, along with the compliment after practice.
“I think so.”
“Then the teasing may not mean what you fear.”
Mom helped me hang the uniform in the bathroom before Claire and Ben returned. She made no further comments, though she examined the care label and told me I had used too much detergent. Ben repaired the sink. Claire ordered pizza. By eleven, the duplex had become quiet again. I sat on the couch and opened the Westbridge website.
No staff profile appeared under my name. Marla had kept her promise. The relief lasted until Friday morning, when an email arrived from the Mason Regional accreditation office.
Your tournament credential has been approved. Below the message sat a digital pass containing my full name, coaching title, academy logo, and photograph. I enlarged the pass.
The cropped image looked worse than the original. The racket and lower half of my body had been removed, leaving my face, high ponytail, white quarter-zip, and curved red piping. The word COACH appeared beneath the picture, though without that label, anyone could have mistaken me for one of the players.
I saved the credential to my phone and tried not to examine it again. At noon, Claire sent a message. Mom said you handled last night well. A second message followed. She also wants to know where you buy conditioner. I ignored that one.
Friday practice began with video review in the academy classroom. Celeste played footage from the previous week while the squad analysed positioning and shot selection.
My clothing created no discussion. I wore the same borrowed kit with my hair in a plain low ponytail. After several days, the players had apparently exhausted their easiest jokes. Then Paige noticed the credential clipped inside my notebook.
“Is that your regional pass?”
I closed the cover. “Yes.”
“Let us see.”
“No.”
Morgan leaned across the table. “Why not?”
“You all watched the photograph happen.”
“We never saw the result,” Zoe said.
Celeste paused the video. “Are we discussing tennis or Mercer’s portrait?”
“Mercer’s portrait,” Paige replied.
“Then finish quickly.”
I looked at Celeste, hoping she might recognize the betrayal in her decision. She only folded her arms. Paige held out her hand. With no graceful escape available, I opened the credential on my phone and passed it across the table. The group crowded around. Nobody spoke for several seconds. That silence worried me more than laughter.
June finally said, “You look younger.”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“You look about twenty-one there.”
Morgan tilted the phone. “The ponytail changes your face.”
“Marla required it.”
Paige enlarged the image with two fingers.
“Don’t zoom in.”
“I’m checking the quality.”
“You’re checking my pores.”
“You have good skin.”
Zoe took the phone next. “This could be your player registration.”
“That’s enough.”
I reached for it, but she passed the device to Morgan. Morgan studied the photograph. “You need another name.”
“I already have one.”
“I mean a player name.”
“Absolutely not.”
Paige tapped the table. “Eva.”
Claire’s earlier joke returned to mind.
“No.”
“Evie,” June suggested.
“No.”
“Evelyn Mercer,” Morgan said. “That sounds real.”
“My name is Evan.”
Celeste took the phone from them and returned it to me.
“Enough. He’s your coach, not a group project.”
The players straightened in their chairs.
I slipped the phone into my pocket, grateful for her intervention. Celeste restarted the video. Five minutes later, a new problem appeared.
The classroom door opened, and Marla entered with a woman carrying a camera bag. I recognised her as the photographer from Thursday. “We need one additional promotional image,” Marla announced. “The regional requested a group photograph from each academy.”
Celeste looked at the clock. “Now?”
“Before the evening sessions fill the building.”
The squad reacted with mild excitement. Hair was checked. Jackets were straightened. Paige removed a loose thread from her sleeve. Marla looked at me.
“Evan, stand with the group.”
“I’m coaching.”
“You’re part of the performance team.”
“That uniform makes me look like a player.”
“The photograph needs both coaches.”
Celeste rose from her chair. “Then put him beside me.”
We moved to Court One, where the photographer arranged the eight players in two rows. Celeste stood on the left. I took the far right, leaving enough space to appear separate from the squad.
The photographer frowned.
“Closer together.”
I moved one step inward.
“Closer.”
Paige caught my sleeve and pulled me beside her.
The height difference between us barely reached an inch. Our white quarter-zips matched except for small variations in the red pattern. My navy pants also resembled the players’ warm-up trousers.
Celeste’s black coaching jacket marked her as staff. Nothing marked me. The photographer raised her camera. “Everyone face forward.” Marla looked across the formation.
“Evan, can you move to the back row?”
The taller players stood there, so the request made sense. I stepped behind Paige and Morgan.
My hair fell over one shoulder.
“Could you use the academy band again?” Marla asked.
I stared at her.
“We need color balance,” she explained.
Paige already had a spare red elastic around her wrist. She offered it to me without smiling. Refusing would delay everyone. I tied my hair high and stepped back into position. The photographer took six shots.
Afterward, the players gathered around the camera display. I stayed several feet away. Morgan looked over at me, then back at the screen.
“Coach,” she said carefully, “you may want to see this.”
“I don’t.”
Marla viewed the image and nodded. “Excellent. We’ll post it this afternoon.”
I approached despite myself. In the photograph, Celeste stood clearly apart on the left, mature and authoritative in her dark jacket. The rest of us formed a close group in matching white and navy.
At the back, between Morgan and Brynn, I looked like the ninth member of the women’s squad.
The red hair band completed the impression. “Could you add my title beneath the image?” I asked.
Marla considered it. “The caption will list both coaches.”
“Directly beneath it?”
“Along with the player names.”
That offered limited comfort. Practice moved to the courts. I tried to focus, yet the group photograph remained in my thoughts. Parents would see it. Other coaches would see it. Anyone following Westbridge online would see it. During a serving drill, Paige approached while the others collected balls.
“You’re angry.”
“I’m not angry with you.”
“You seem angry with the photograph.”
“I’m tired of explaining how I ended up looking this way.”
She rested her racket against her shoe. “You don’t look bad.”
“That isn’t the problem.”
“Then what is?”
I searched for a clear answer. “I don’t look like myself.”
Paige glanced toward the dark window beside the court. Our reflections appeared together: her in academy gear, me in nearly the same outfit. “You still look like you,” she said. “Just less guarded.”
Celeste called us back to the baseline before I could respond.
After practice, I checked the academy’s social page from my car.
The photograph had already appeared. The caption listed Celeste Ward and Evan Mercer as coaches, followed by all eight players. Yet most people would see the picture before reading the names.
Several parents had commented with congratulations and tennis-ball symbols. One comment came from a former college teammate. Mercer, which one are you? Another appeared moments later.
Wait. Found you. Nice ponytail.
I locked my phone and started the car.
Before I left the parking lot, a third notification appeared.
My father had shared the photograph.
My father had shared the team photograph with the entire family.
His caption contained six words:
Evan’s new team. Spot the coach.
He had added a laughing face at the end.
I sat in my car outside Westbridge and watched the reactions appear. My aunt placed three question marks beneath the post. A cousin wrote that my hair looked great. Someone I had not seen since childhood asked whether I had joined a women’s league.
Dad replied before I could.
He’s coaching them. At least, that’s what he tells us.
I called him.
He answered after four rings. “There he is.”
“Take the photograph down.”
“Why?”
“You didn’t ask before sharing it.”
“You work for a public academy. They posted it online.”
“That doesn’t mean you need to send it to every relative we have.”
Dad laughed once. “Come on, Evan. It’s harmless.”
“I don’t find it harmless.”
A pause followed.
Dad handled disagreement in one of two ways. He either spoke louder or acted confused that anyone had taken him seriously. This time, he chose confusion.
“I’m proud of you,” he said. “You’re coaching a strong group. I wanted people to see.”
“Then why tell them to spot the coach?”
“Because you blend in.”
“That’s exactly why I didn’t want it shared.”
“You’re making too much of a uniform.”
The same words carried another meaning from him. My mother could dismiss the uniform because she saw clothing as clothing. Dad dismissed it because he believed caring would prove some weakness.
“Delete the post,” I said.
“All right.”
“Now.”
“I said all right.”
The post vanished a minute later, though screenshots and family conversations would remain beyond my reach.
I drove home without turning on the radio.
The next morning, I found twelve messages waiting. Most came from relatives attempting kindness.
My aunt wrote that athletic clothing had become flexible and modern. A cousin sent links to male celebrities with long hair. Another relative assured me that nobody cared how coaches dressed.
Claire sent only one sentence.
Dad shouldn’t have posted that.
I thanked her.
Then my college teammate, Nolan Price, sent a cropped version of the group photograph. He had placed a red circle around me.
You free this weekend, princess?
I blocked his number.
That reaction may have seemed excessive. Nolan and I had traded insults throughout college, and he would probably claim the message carried no malice. Yet I could already imagine him forwarding the image to former teammates and adding comments each time.
I had spent years letting people turn my appearance into a public discussion. Long hair, narrow shoulders, clean-shaven legs, careful skin care—everything became material once someone decided masculinity required constant proof.
The academy uniform had given them more material.
At Westbridge, Saturday morning lessons occupied every court. I coached two junior groups before the performance squad arrived at noon. For those early sessions, I wore my own black athletic pants and an old academy polo.
Marla noticed before the second lesson ended.
“Evan, where’s your issued kit?”
“Being washed.”
“You wore it yesterday.”
“Yes. Clothes require washing after use.”
“We have sponsor representatives touring today.”
I looked toward the viewing gallery. Two men and one woman stood beside the front desk, each wearing visitor badges.
“They’re watching beginner lessons?”
“They’re reviewing the facility.”
“My polo has the Westbridge logo.”
“It’s from our previous branding.”
I glanced down at the faded emblem.
Marla lowered her voice. “Change before your performance session.”
“I didn’t bring the other uniform.”
“Rachel keeps spare clothing in her locker.”
“That sounds like Rachel’s concern.”
“It becomes my concern when a coach ignores presentation standards.”
She walked away before I could answer.
I finished the lesson, dismissed the children to their parents, and entered the staff room. Rachel sat on the bench tying her shoes.
“Marla sent you?” she asked.
“Apparently I’m damaging sponsor relations with an outdated logo.”
Rachel opened her locker.
Inside hung several academy tops, jackets, pants, and skirts. Everything followed the women’s uniform line.
“I have a navy jacket you can wear,” she said.
“That should be enough.”
She removed a fitted zip-up jacket and passed it to me. Red panels ran down both sides, curving inward near the waist. The sleeves looked narrow.
I put it on over my old polo.
The jacket fit, though the cut followed my body closely. A small zip pocket sat near the left hip, and the collar reached beneath my chin.
Rachel stepped back.
“Better than the white top.”
“Because this looks less feminine?”
“No. Because navy suits your hair.”
I stared at her.
She grinned. “You make this too easy.”
I zipped the jacket halfway and went to Court Three.
The players had already started warming up. Paige noticed the new garment during her opening lap.
“Another academy outfit?”
“Borrowed jacket.”
“Women’s line?”
“Yes.”
She slowed near me. “You sound less bothered.”
“I’m saving energy.”
“That’s progress.”
“It’s exhaustion.”
Celeste called Paige back into line.
We spent the session preparing for the Mason Regional. Celeste focused on match strategy while I ran a conditioning circuit. The work left no room for jokes. Players sprinted between cones, recovered toward the center mark, then struck a controlled ball from each corner.
Morgan struggled with the backhand station.
“You’re reaching late,” I told her.
“I can’t get there any sooner.”
“You can. Start recovering before you admire the previous shot.”
“I’m not admiring it.”
“You’re watching where it lands.”
“Isn’t that important?”
“Not when the next ball has already left the machine.”
She reset and completed the sequence cleanly. Across the court, one of the sponsor representatives watched with Marla. He said something to her, then pointed in my direction. My attention shifted for half a second. The machine fired another ball, and Morgan missed.
“Coach,” she said, “you’re admiring the previous shot.”
I smiled despite myself. “Fair.”
After practice, Marla asked me to meet the visitors near reception.
The three representatives worked for Harcourt Athletic, a regional clothing supplier considering a partnership with Westbridge. The woman introduced herself as Denise Larkin.
“We watched part of your session,” she said. “You communicate clearly.”
“Thank you.”
“Our company wants to feature working coaches rather than models in next season’s material.”
I expected her to address Celeste. Instead, she kept looking at me.
Marla smiled. “Denise liked the team photograph.”
My stomach tightened beneath Rachel’s fitted jacket.
“You saw that?”
“It’s a strong image,” Denise said. “The group looks unified.”
“I’m wearing a temporary uniform.”
“So Marla explained.”
One of the men examined the jacket. “That’s from the current women’s line too, correct?”
“Correct.”
He nodded. “The shape works on you.”
I glanced at Marla, hoping she might end the conversation. She appeared delighted. Denise opened a folder containing sample advertisements. “We’re arranging a local campaign around adaptable court clothing. Men and women wearing items across both collections.”
“I’m not a model.”
“We know. That’s part of the appeal.”
“What would I need to do?”
“A brief photography session. Perhaps some action shots during practice.”
Marla answered before I could. “Evan photographs very well.”
“I heard.”
Denise handed me a card. “Think about it. Harcourt would pay you directly.”
The word pay changed the situation.
My overdue electricity bill sat on the kitchen counter. The car needed new brake pads. I had borrowed money from Claire recently and sold my television to repay her.
“How much?” I asked.
Denise named an amount equal to nearly three weeks of coaching.
I looked at the sample advertisements again. Most showed athletes serving, stretching, or standing near the net. Nothing seemed embarrassing on its own.
“What clothing would I wear?”
“We’d test several pieces,” she said. “Tops, warm-up pants, jackets. Possibly court shorts.”
“From which collection?”
“Both.”
Marla folded her arms. “You already wear the women’s line here.”
“That’s temporary.”
Denise gave me a polite smile. “No pressure. Call by Monday.”
The representatives left to tour the second facility.
I remained near reception, holding the card.
Celeste approached with her clipboard tucked beneath one arm.
“You’re considering it.”
“I need the money.”
“Then consider the work, not the comments people might make.”
“You say that because nobody keeps mistaking you for a player.”
“No. They mistake me for someone who never had doubts.”
That answer caught me off guard. Celeste looked toward the courts. “People notice confidence after they notice clothing. Give them enough time, and the clothing becomes background.”
I looked down at Rachel’s jacket.
The red panels narrowed my waist. The sleeves hugged my arms. From across the lobby, someone could easily assume the garment had been selected rather than borrowed.
“Would you do the campaign?” I asked.
“At your age, for that money? Yes.”
“Even in men’s clothing?”
“I wore men’s tennis shorts for half my career. Better pockets.”
She walked away. That evening, Claire visited with groceries. She found the Harcourt card on my table and asked about it.
“They want me for an advertisement,” I said.
“That’s good.”
“They want me wearing clothing from both collections.”
Claire placed a carton of eggs in the refrigerator.
“And?”
“And people will see it.”
“People have already seen the team picture.”
“That experience didn’t go well.”
“Dad caused the problem, not the clothes.”
I sat at the table. “Nolan called me princess.” Claire stopped unpacking.
“Who’s Nolan?”
“College teammate.”
“Did you tell him to grow up?”
“I blocked him.”
“Also valid.”
She sat across from me and read the Harcourt card.
“You need the money, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then make them pay enough to justify the annoyance.”
I looked toward the bathroom, where the white quarter-zip and navy pants hung beside Rachel’s jacket. Three borrowed garments from the women’s collection now occupied my home. Only a week earlier, the pink hair tie had seemed like the main problem.
I picked up my phone and entered Denise’s number. My thumb hovered above the call button. Then a message arrived from Marla. Harcourt needs your answer tonight. They want to photograph you Tuesday. Beneath the message, she had attached a preliminary wardrobe list.
The opening items caused no concern: a navy jacket, a white quarter-zip, and fitted training pants. The final line read, "Red court skort styling test only."
I read it again. Claire leaned across the table. “What’s a skort?” I turned the phone face down. “Something I’m not wearing.”