When I saw Roger in the shower with his basketball team I thought, “Maybe that’s a little too close,” but I wasn’t overly concerned. His ability to turn disparate teenagers into a cohesive unit was legendary. He preached “team,” hosted barbecues, shared spaghetti dinners, and probably did a lot more I didn’t know about. While he never let players forget that he was in charge, Roger also could be their confidante and role model. At practice he participated in drills, running wind sprints and diving on the floor, reminding them that if a 50-year old could do these things, so could they. His players, current and former, loved him for it all, and I couldn’t blame them. If I was 14-18 years old I would love him too. Who wouldn’t want to be on a team that won all the time and had such a cool coach?

So while I questioned Roger’s judgment in standing there naked with his boys, joking and trading barbs, I figured it was just one more example of a man dedicated to his “basketball family.” For certain, despite my twinge of doubt about him standing in the shower, I never expected to see him do anything wrong, like rubbing up against a kid. The only problem was that I did.

I’d only known him since the beginning of the school year. It was my first job, and as a young math teacher I didn’t interact with Roger often, but from the moment we met in the faculty lounge he was warm and encouraging.

“Looks like you’re getting comfortable with the way we do things around here.”

He smiled, then pointed to my coffee and donut.

“Not really. This is the high point of my day. The rest of the time I’m just acting like I’m under control.”

“That’s okay. Acting is part of the game. Do you think I’m the same in real life as I am in school?”

“Actually, I do, if I had to guess.”

“It’s all an illusion, my friend.”

“Well, it’s a good one. You’ll have to give me lessons.”

“Nah. You’ll be fine. All you need is time to settle in.”

“Thanks for the optimism.”

“But here’s a tip. On Tuesdays, get your donut early before the administrators horde all the pastries for their weekly meeting.”

I laughed.

“Advice taken.”

“But seriously, if you feel like talking, I’m here. I know how hard it is to come into a new environment.”

“Thanks again. One day I might take you up on your offer.”

I didn’t think I ever would, but one cold afternoon, after I’d stayed late to prepare for the next day, I decided to wander over to the gym where Roger’s practice soon would be ending. I’m not sure why I changed my routine that day, but I’d been living alone for months and still hadn’t made any friends, so I probably was seeking pleasant company before heading home to my lonely apartment.

When I got to his office the place was quiet, so I opened my laptop. Then I heard laughing and loud talking, with Roger’s hoarse voice evoking the wildest whoops and hollers. Metal lockers opened and slammed shut, then water started running. As the team moved into the shower, the banter became muffled. I strained to listen, then tiptoed through the locker room. I felt silly acting like a clandestine operative in the movies, but I was curious: how did Roger do his job with such ease? In my classroom, students were near-catatonic as I bombarded them with math-nerd proofs and equations every day. By contrast, Roger’s boys were full of life, as teenage boys should be.

I stood to the side, still unable to make out specific words echoing off the tile walls, so I peeked around the corner: there they were, lively kids lathering up. Right in the middle was Roger, his still firm middle-age body standing out among the young stallions on each side of him. Roger said something to a tall, toned, boy next to him. The kid turned off his faucet, wrapped a towel around his waist, and said “Can’t do it now Coach, I gotta run.” Without hesitation, he rushed towards the opening. I also scampered away, back to Roger’s office.

I opened my laptop and kept my head down, no longer concentrating on my lesson plan, but listening… and wondering: What was that all about? Why did that kid look like frightened wildlife fleeing danger?  What could Roger have said to him?

Again, lockers opened and closed as voices rose to a crescendo then faded. After fifteen minutes or so, everything was quiet again. Had the entire team gone home?

I peeked into the locker room and didn’t see anyone, but voices still were echoing in the shower. Once again I took up surveillance, pressing my back against the wall next to the opening. I took a deep breath, then peered around the corner.

First I saw Roger, and next to him was a boy I hadn’t noticed before, both with their backs to me. Roger was doing most of the talking: “You’re the most talented kid I’ve had here in years” and “It’s rare for freshmen to get playing time, but if you keep working, I’ll make an exception for you.”

Roger was positive towards everyone, so I wasn’t surprised to hear him pumping up the confidence of his young player. But this time I had trouble believing his sincerity. First, the kid only came up to Roger’s shoulder. Second, the team won all the time. Did they really need this kid so much? Third, regardless of talent, why wasn’t Roger delivering his message in a more normal setting, like his office only fifty steps away, rather than in the shower where both of them were getting waterlogged?

I soon had my answer. When the kid asked, “Do you really think I can help?” Roger took a step to his right and casually placed his hand on the kid’s shoulder: “You bet. We’re good, but you’re the one who’s gonna take us to the state title.”

I watched the boy to see if Roger’s contact was making him feel awkward, and I think I saw him stiffen a bit, but Roger kept talking in what now seemed like an effort to distract from the sliding of his hand towards the kid’s other shoulder.

“You’re a great ball handler, and as we move through the tournament, we’ll really need you.”

With Roger’s arm around the kid’s back and his right hand dangling off the boy’s shoulder, the discomfort now seemed more obvious. The boy moved away and pumped soap from the dispenser beneath the shower head, rubbing lather into his face and under his arms. It must have been the tenth time he’d washed in the past half hour, but he kept at it as if he didn’t know what else to do. Roger was aware enough not to push the interaction any further, at least not right away, so he turned off his faucet and grabbed a towel hanging from a hook. Then he looked at the boy.

“We should talk more about this.” He dried himself. “After you get dressed, can you come to my office for a few minutes? If not, we can pick this up tomorrow.”

The kid turned and for the first time I saw his face: so young! He had big brown deer eyes that dominated his narrow, soft-skinned face, and in those eyes I saw uncertainty. He knew something was wrong, and that continuing would be even more wrong, but he also liked what his coach was saying and wanted to hear more.

“I have time,” he said, his voice shaky.

“Great. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

I again scrambled away, rushing to grab my jacket and laptop before flying into the hallway and out the front door. As I headed for my car, I couldn’t decide if I’d ever come close to the gym again, but how could I not? I just couldn’t let this go, could I?

That night I barely slept. I had to tell someone what I’d seen, but had no one to tell. Should I go to the head of the physical education department? The principal? Would anyone listen to me? Or would they chat with Roger who would deny everything and my life at the school would be ruined for no reason?

In the teacher’s lounge the next morning I buried my head in my laptop. But then I heard Roger. Even early in the morning he was an unstoppable force who greeted all and was greeted back, and while I didn’t look up, he soon breached the barrier I had erected.

“So, how’s my favorite math teacher?”

I had no choice but to lift my head. “Good. How are you?”

“Great. Playoff time always gets me excited.”

“How’s your team?”

“The best they’ve been all year, really hitting their stride. You should come watch tonight.”

“Maybe I will.”

“You’ll love it, I promise. When our gym starts rocking, there’s nothing like it. And now we’ve got this dynamic new kid– well, not new, but plucked from the JV team because he’s so good.”

“What’s his name?”

“Winston Avery. He’s not starting, but he’ll get plenty of time.”

The image of Roger with his arm around the naked boy filled my head. How could Roger be so casual? How could he say the name “Winston Avery” and not act at least a little uncomfortable?

“Hey, I was chatting with the head of the math department. He told me you’re doing an outstanding job.”

“I wish the students felt the same way.”

“They do. You really get the kids engaged. That’s not easy. When I was in high school, math wasn’t exactly my favorite subject.”

“I try.”

He looked at my laptop. “I’ll let you get back to work. But try to come by the gym tonight, okay? It’ll be fun for you.”

“Thanks.”

I didn’t plan on going, but when I finished dinner that night I had an urge to escape my dark surroundings, so I took the short ride to the brightly lit gym and immediately was pleased I did. Coach Roger hadn’t lied, at least not about the game. His team played pressure defense and ran an up-tempo offense, their frenetic pace matched by their coach sprinting up and down the sideline, clapping his hands, pumping his fist, and substituting players with a rapidity I couldn’t fathom. Through it all the crowd roared and stomped so loud that the wooden stands did actually rock.

With ten minutes to go in the first half, Roger pointed to Winston Avery who leapt to his feet, checked in at the scorer’s table, and entered the game. I thought he’d be nervous, but he immediately took control of the game, smoothly gliding right and left, making perfect passes or driving to the hoop for his own basket. The kid was small but good.

Maybe I had misinterpreted what had gone on in the shower that day. Maybe Coach Roger really was just motivating a young, talented, player. I did notice that Roger often slapped players’ backsides to acknowledge their effort, but no one seemed to mind. Besides, Roger had been coaching at the school for twenty years and no one had ever mentioned any questionable behavior. Who was I, a newcomer, to make such a snap judgment based on so little evidence?

I went home relieved. The game was thrilling from start to finish, it felt good to be out among the living, and I’d felt surprisingly euphoric when students in the stands came by to say hello. Maybe Roger was right: “acting” was part of the teaching game, and I was good at acting the part of a serious yet caring educator. But more importantly, as love for Roger floated down from the rafters, my suspicion of the beloved coach started to fade. It was just Roger being Roger. He was a “touchy” kind of guy. No longer would I have to wrestle with how to handle the shower situation. There was no situation.

I attended every home game and a few road games at nearby gyms. While I didn’t travel to the championship tournament upstate, I reveled with everyone else after each triumph. The day after we gained a glorious victory in the finals, I changed my lesson by doing computations related to the team: shooting percentages, points per game, turnover to assist ratios, and though at times I felt awkward mixing math and basketball, I was shocked at how the students joined in.

Gradually I became friendlier with Roger, grabbing lunch every so often, meeting his wife for one of her legendary spaghetti dinners, even dropping by his house for a barbecue when his two boys came home from college. The image of Roger sliding his hand across the smooth back of Winston Avery in the shower never left my mind completely, and sometimes I searched for other signs of “bad” behavior he might be hiding, but I never saw anything. I was lucky to have Coach Roger as a friend.

When year two started I was ready to go, no longer intimidated by teaching or fearful of putting my students to sleep. I sat in the teacher’s lounge every morning and engaged in the same chit-chat as my peers, and when Roger arrived I gave him the same cheerful greeting as everyone else. As often as not, he slapped me and others on the back as if we were old comrades. That was just his way.

One morning he didn’t show up. Roger never missed work, so my first thought was that the indestructible man finally had gotten sick. But then I heard whispering that grew into murmurs that spread across the room: Roger had been suspended.

Gradually the story leaked out, and though it was hard to separate gossip from fact, I pieced together a narrative. Two days after graduation the previous June, one of Roger’s best players, the tall, toned kid I’d seen leave the shower that day, went to the principal with his parents and complained that Roger had engaged in “unwanted touching” since sophomore year. The principal seemed shocked and promised to bring the matter to the head of the school district. He never updated the kid’s parents, so on the first day of the new school year, with their son away at college, their lawyer threatened to go to the district attorney unless an investigation was started. Roger’s suspension followed.

For the moment, everything was being done in private, though snippets snuck out of closed-door sessions. Again, I couldn’t tell for certain what was true, but every staff member who had known Roger for more than a few years was being called in for an interview. So far, no one had seen or knew anything that would support the kid’s accusations.

Now the kid was starting to look like a liar, so much so that when he came home from college to give his version of events, his story started to change. He had exaggerated. Yes, Coach could be a bit physical at times, but he was just being himself and hadn’t done anything wrong. The only reason the kid had filed the complaint at all was that his parents were upset. In fact, they weren’t even his words, but those of the lawyer his mom and dad had hired.

And just like that, the scandal was over. Roger would be exonerated. With no witnesses willing to say that Roger had sexually abused them or anyone else, Roger not only would be cleared, but the district attorney would not take up the case no matter how hard the kid’s parents pushed, and the media would have no story other than there was an accusation that fizzled.

When word spread that Roger would be returning before the new season, a buzz spread through the student body. They never believed he had done anything wrong. In the teacher’s lounge, whispered doubts about Roger morphed into loud criticisms of the kid’s parents, and a collection was started to throw Roger a party upon his return. The school loved Roger and loved winning, and it would take a lot more than a couple of whiny parents to change that.

But this didn’t solve my problem. I now knew that what I’d seen in the shower that day was exactly what it seemed like before my judgment was clouded by the glory of “team”: Roger was a pedophile. Poor Winston! I couldn’t help wondering: during the rest of the season, how many times had Roger pulled that same stunt in the shower? Did he eventually start washing Winston’s back and soaping up his buttocks while heaping on praise, daring the kid to run away from the bright future Roger was promising? And what happened after those showers when Coach “talked” to the boy in his office?

The picture had changed: now there was a second boy. I had to tell someone what I’d seen. If no one listened, fine, at least I had tried. If I lost my job, fine, I’d move elsewhere. But I had to make the attempt.

I realized that the principal would not be receptive because a scandal would ruin the school’s reputation and lead to questions about what he knew and why he hadn’t done anything sooner. However, I had no place else to go. At least I knew the man, and until he discovered the true purpose of my visit, he would welcome me into his office as a promising young teacher. We started pleasantly, then moved to the reason I was there:

“I guess Roger will be back soon.”

“Thank God. I’m looking forward to seeing him without a cloud over his head. And he’ll bounce back with no trouble. He’s got immense spirit.”

“I assume you think he’s innocent.”

“Of course! You don’t know him as well as I do, but the man is a prince.”

“Then why did his former player accuse him?”

The principal shook his head. “I have no idea. It seems like he told his parents about some innocent acts and they blew it out of proportion looking for an opportunity.”

“But that put their child in such a difficult position.”

The principal shrugged.

“So you don’t think Roger did anything wrong, do you?”

“I’m sure he didn’t. Not Roger.”

I couldn’t just let that go.

“What if I told you something that might change your mind?”

The principal’s eyes narrowed. “Did you ever see Roger touching that boy?”

“Not him.”

“Someone else?”

“Yes.”

The principal could have asked “Who?” or “Where did you see this?” but instead he ran for the escape hatch. “I don’t believe it.”

“Don’t you even want to hear what I have to say?”

“There is nothing more to say.”

“There isn’t?”

The principal leaned forward.

“Look, you’re a fine teacher with a great future. You have nothing to gain by stretching out this Roger thing. It’s done. It’s over. I’ve had a long chat with Roger, and he understands how lucky he is that things didn’t turn out worse.”

“So whatever happened in the past doesn’t matter?”

“It matters, but not enough to ruin his life- or yours.”

“How would speaking the truth ruin my life?”

The principal shook his head again, his warm smile gone.

“You’d be surprised.”

Then the meeting ended. After a few seconds of silence, a pleasant look returned to the principal’s face as he stood and stuck out his hand. I shook it and forced a weak smile.

“Let’s have a great year, okay?”

I nodded and walked away, deciding never to tell anyone else what I’d seen. I created plenty of rationalizations- I didn’t want to drag young Winston Avery through a scandal or dampen the school’s incredible spirit- but in the end I knew the real reason I didn’t push harder: self-preservation. I was just starting out and didn’t want to make trouble for myself, and if I went public, trouble definitely would have followed. You can’t take down a legend without harming yourself.

I kept acting with Roger as if nothing had happened, except I couldn’t bring myself to share his life anymore. He handled my rejections and those of a few others with grace, but that was made easier by the way he remained king of the hill to everyone else. Still, I’m guessing that deep down his loss of universal admiration hurt, especially since there was no way to get it back. As for me, I knew that at the moment of truth I could have undertaken a noble act and spoken louder, but instead I shrunk from the challenge.

I never spied on Roger or saw Roger touch a boy again. I don’t know if he continued taking showers with the team or ever “talked” to a kid alone in his office again. I liked to think Roger learned his lesson, but my best guess is he never did. He just learned to hide his inappropriate behavior.

However, I do know this: Winston Avery never played another game for Coach Roger. When asked why he quit before his sophomore season, the consistent answer was that his parents wanted him to focus on academics. Most people accepted that, and even those who were skeptical could not conjure up a different, credible explanation, let alone the real reason. How could they?  No one other than me knew about Roger and Winston in the shower.

For that reason, despite the passage of more than two decades, I was surprised by my urge to speak with Winston at his 20th year reunion held in our gym, the only gathering I’d ever seen him attend. I’m not sure if I was hoping to relieve my lingering guilt or merely searching for a sensational story, but my desire to “know more” was enough to overcome my fear of exposing what I’d done… or not done… when I had the chance.

Though the gym was crowded, I had no trouble finding Winston. His body was thicker, but his large brown eyes hadn’t changed. As a veteran faculty member, I felt free to start a conversation, even though Winston had never been in my class.

I squinted at his name tag: “Winston Avery?”

He looked at me with those deer eyes and it all came back to me: Coach Roger slowly sliding his arm around Winston’s soft-skinned shoulders, trying to seduce the neophyte with visions of hardwood glory.

“That’s me,” Winston said.

“I’m sure you don’t remember who I am, but….”

“Oh, I know you.”

“You do?”

“Definitely.”

My heart thumped: did he know about my cowardice?  He couldn’t. He knew me because he had walked the same halls as I did for four years. Everyone “knew” everyone.

“Well I remember you from your basketball days.”

His smile drooped a little.

“I didn’t play for long.”

“But you did win a championship. I’m sure you’ll never forget that.”

“I won’t.”

“Do you ever see anyone from the team?”

“Not really. Everyone was older than me.”

“That’s right. You quit before sophomore year, didn’t you?”

“My parents wanted me to focus on academics.”

“Do you regret that?”

“Not at all. I got into a good college.”

“Well, I’m glad everything worked out. Still, I’m guessing you must have missed playing.”

“A little.”

“And I’m sure you missed spending more time with Coach Roger.”

Winston no longer was smiling.

“What makes you say that?”

“I was just wondering.”

“Did you know Coach Roger well? I mean really well?”

“Not exactly. But all the kids seem to love playing for him.”

His eyes stayed locked on mine, but he finally relaxed and took a sip of wine.

“Well, that’s all history.”

I needed to change the subject.

“So what do you do now?”

“Lawyer.”

“That’s great. Where do you work?”

“Started at Legal Aid, now partner at a firm.”

“Here in town?”

He gulped down the rest of his wine.

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

The harshness of his tone made me flinch.

“Again, I was just wondering.”

He looked around the gym, nodded at someone, then turned back to me.

“I better get going. Lots of people to see.”

“Of course. I don’t want to take up all your time.”

“No problem.”

I stuck out my hand, and after a moment of hesitation, he gave me limp fingers for a two-second shake.

“Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will. As always.”

He began to walk away, then stopped, twisting his head around for some final words.

“By the way,” he said. “I’m not blind.”

I swallowed hard.

“And never was.”

Then he turned and melted into the crowd of forty-somethings joyfully reminiscing about the good old days.

He knew! Even though I’d never stepped close to Roger’s office or the locker room again, Winston had seen me that day. He knew I’d been a coward. He knew I could have stopped something that was dead wrong, yet said nothing.

I felt like fleeing, but before I could move, our new principal, in his first year, tapped on  a microphone.

“Testing. Testing.”

Seeing his fresh, eager, face helped clear my head, as he was young and didn’t care or even know about Roger’s “scandal.” For certain, he was unaware of my spineless inaction. So while I still was shaken by my encounter with Winston, I was slowly regaining my equilibrium… until suddenly, the evening took an unexpected turn.

The principal welcomed everyone, then announced that we all were in for a special treat. Two days earlier, Coach Roger had led his team to a tenth state championship. Tonight we were going to show our appreciation and help him celebrate.

“Lights please.”

As the gym went dark, a screen on the wall came to life. With cheers and applause, we watched Coach Roger sprinting up and down the sideline, clapping his hands, pumping his fists. There were headlines announcing championships and photos of Roger hugging his family after big wins. Interspersed were quick in-game highlights showing his boys flying high and harassing opponents.

The crowd was delirious. When the lights came back on, Coach Roger, in the flesh, dashed up the runway from the locker room, silver hair shining, body still firm. He could have retired years ago, but word was that he had wanted one final championship. Now he had it, so it was time to say goodbye.

Coach Roger took a seat next to the principal. When the crowd settled down, the principal called up ex-players, one by one, to pay tribute to the legend. There were emotional “you changed my life” stories and funny anecdotes and glorious tales of victory, and if I didn’t know better, even I’d think Coach Roger was a hero of epic proportions.

But I did know better.

I searched for Winston Avery, wondering what he was thinking. Then I saw him in the middle of the gym staring blankly at the stage.

The principal was back at the microphone, asking if anyone else in the crowd wanted to make a brief comment because it was getting late. When no one replied, and the principal looked from side to side, ready to make closing comments, I knew what I had to do.

I waved my hand, catching the principal’s eye. As I climbed steps to the stage and walked towards the microphone, I was on autopilot, not sure what I would say, but ready to say something that mattered.

I cleared my throat.

“There have been a lot a true words spoken about Coach Roger tonight. He has been a great coach and a great inspiration to many young men. But now, I have a different kind of story to tell. Most of you won’t like it, but the telling is long overdue.”

I described what I had seen between Coach Roger and Winston that day in the shower, and what it meant, and how the older boy’s story fit in, and why both of those stories had to be told. As I progressed, there were angry murmurs that grew into insults mixed with a cacophony of hooting and whistling. By the time I explained my reasons for not speaking out sooner, my voice could barely be heard.

And then I was finished. I had done what had to be done. But as I descended from the stage, I didn’t feel a rush of adrenaline or even modest relief that I finally had released years of pent-up pressure. Instead, I was glum. I’d finally been honest, and my worst fears had come true: my career at this school was over. They… students, faculty and administrators, including our pleasant new principal… would never believe me. I was a pariah, my rash decision to stop “acting” for a moment so I finally could tell the truth had tainted my past and doomed my future.

The booing grew louder. How could doing the right thing turn out so bad? I had no answer, no explanation for the equation failing to add up. But then I saw him: Winston Avery, striding forward, eyes focused on his shoes. When he reached the bottom step leading up to the bright lights, he stopped and looked at me, then resumed his climb, marched across the stage, and wrapped larger-than-normal hands around the microphone, his big brown deer eyes devoid of the slightest trace of fear.

Finally, after much delay, game time had arrived.

And for once, the gym was totally silent.

***

Stewart Bellus’ most recent major publication is a short story collection titled “Moments of Truth.” He previously published “The Villa,” a historical novel set in WWII Italy. Both works have consistently received 5-star ratings on Amazon. His e-novel, “Tip of the Tongue,” was a contemporary tale of respectable people acting in disreputable ways. He also has had short stories published in magazines such as Confrontation, RavensPerch, Mediphors, Washington Lawyer (a fiction contest winner), Wood Cat Review, Dumbo Press, SportScribe, WayWords and two anthologies. His story “My Friend George” was longlisted in the “History Through Fiction” short story contest and published as an independent work of fiction.