Chapter 5: : Chapter 5

Two landlines ring simultaneously on my desk in my office in the field house. My cell pings next to them. I ignore them and stalk to the walk-in closet, unbuttoning my dress shirt from class, then grabbing a polo for practice. Just as I’ve slipped it on and tucked it in my khakis, I hear the squeak of my office door opening.

I step out, and Lois stands there in a denim skirt and a Bobcats jersey with Milo’s number on it. “Hey!” She tips her hat up. “I just want a minute—want me to get those phones?”

I slip a cap on my head, then put my hands on my hips. “I want you to find me a personal assistant.”

She plops down in one of my chairs. “I’m working on it. You seem tense, Coach. I’ve got this book about breathing exercises that help you relax. You should read it.”

I nod absently as the team spills into the locker room, and I watch them with discerning, eager eyes. We’ve got a good crew of athletes. Even though I don’t play in the NFL anymore, my competitiveness hasn’t dwindled. In Texas, it’s a necessity.

Toby, Milo, and Bruno stop at my door, three of my best. All juniors. I’ve been working with them for a year, shaping them into winners.

Toby, my quarterback, sends a head nod. “Coach. What you got for us?”

I point to the folders. “Get the playbooks. Study. Then we hit the field. I want to see some quick play action. Got it? How’s the arm? Loose?”

Tall and dark haired, he grins and rolls his shoulder. “I’m ready. More than ready. Sir.”

“Did you get enough hours in at the bookstore this weekend?” He works to supplement his family’s income.

He nods. “Saturday and Sunday. I ran five miles before I went in.”

“That’s good. I like the dedication.”

Bruno, my running back, reaches over and scrubs Toby’s head. “He’s been jawing all day about how we’re gonna decimate Wayne Prep, bragging to all the girls, especially Sabiiiiine.”

Toby shoves him, and they scuffle around.

“Cool the ribbing, boys,” I say. “Wayne Prep went seven and three last year. Their defense wins games. Never underestimate an opponent.”

Bruno touches his chest with his fist and calls out, “Win the heart! Win everything!”

Several whoops come from the guys out in the hall, echoing our motto.

“All right, all right,” I say. “I like the spirit, Bruno. Now get those binders.”

He snatches them up off the table, and he and Milo leave, while Toby lingers, a hesitant expression on his face.

“Coach? Um, my mom’s fortieth birthday is coming up. She doesn’t know a lot of people, and I—I know how y’all are friends . . .” He licks his lips. “She hasn’t had many good days lately, and I thought . . .”

I’ve spent a lot of one-on-one time with Toby. Visits to his house. Talks with his mom.

“We’d love to do something for her,” Lois chimes in as she gets up and pats Toby on the back. “I’m the party planner. What day, dear?”

“The Friday of our bye week. I don’t think she wants to do anything big. Just . . . she’s been talking about getting out of the house, maybe going out to eat.” Red blooms on his face. “My dad . . . he hasn’t called in a while . . .”

His mom has a debilitating heart condition. She gets breathless easily and tires fast. His father works in the oil fields. When he’s home, he hangs out in bars. Toby hasn’t seen him in months.

I nod, my gaze steady on his. “Lois will plan something. I’ll be there.”

Toby gives me a broad smile, a relieved look on his face as he walks to the locker room.

“He’s a good kid,” Lois murmurs.

“Yes.” His situation—and his talent—reminds me of my own childhood.

Skeeter pops his head in. “Cheerleaders have lice. I’m shook. It’s gonna be everywhere by the end of the week.” He whips his hat off and scratches his head.

“And?”

He gives me a glare. “You ever have lice, Coach?”

“Not that I recall.”

“It’s awful! My mama used to put mayonnaise on my head to kill ’em. Then she’d comb out my hair with this tiny little pick. She gave up one time and shaved my head in fifth grade. Worst school picture I ever took.” He takes a breath. “We need to disinfect the helmets, uniforms—hell, maybe Lysol the whole field house. I’ve got a pressure washer at home. We can mix up some chemicals and let it rip.” He motions spraying the walls.

“No pressure washer or man-made chemicals, please,” I say as I pinch my nose. “Get someone on it—”

“Who? We’ve got practice. Our flunky left us.”

Frustration flares. Hayden, our all-around helper and my PA, was a local college kid who ran errands and did whatever we didn’t have time for. He got married last year, and his wife delivered a new baby a couple of weeks ago. He quit for another job, and no one has thought to hire anyone else.

I lift my arms at him. “We’ve got five assistant coaches on staff. Figure it out. If you’re that worried, do it yourself.”

He ambles away, muttering.

The lights on both landlines start up again, and I groan and snatch one up. It’s a news station asking for an interview before the Huddersfield game two months from now. “Fine,” I growl and pencil in a date on my calendar. I grab the other phone. It’s Randy’s Roadhouse offering to host a celebratory party after we beat Huddersfield. “We may not win,” I mutter, then get off.

“You’re going to get a reputation as rude,” Lois murmurs as she files her nails. “You should try some peppermint oil for your stress. Just rub a little on your temples, and voilà. It smells nice.” She points her file at me. “I’ll bring you some.”

“Not rude. I don’t have time for this . . .” I wave my hands around at the office. “Extra stuff.” When I played professionally, I never had to worry about answering phones, arranging fundraisers, getting interviews. My agent did it. I just kept my body in top physical form, listened to my coaches, and performed.

Bruno juts his head back in. “Coach, the cheerleaders want to know if we’re doing a big pep rally before the Huddersfield game. Their sponsor wants to do this dance routine to ‘

Another One Bites the Dust,’ and I was thinking, you know, we need to be lit too—like jazz it up a bit. Usually, we just walk around the gym in our uniforms and wave. Miss Tyler is nice, but she has certain ideas . . .”

Melinda planned pep rallies last year, but I asked Principal Lancaster at the beginning of the year to find someone else. It just created more time when she was around me.

I point at him. “Bruno. Where are those plays? Sit your butt down, and study. Worry about Wayne Prep, son. Cheerleaders and pep rallies can wait.”

“My girlfriend—”

“Has lice. I don’t care. Locker room. Now.”

He leaves, and I plop down with an exhale, then give Lois a long look. “My birthday party was over the top.”

“It was a small thing.” She tucks her file away in her big purse. “But I understand. I can’t always plan the perfect gig. Apologies. It won’t happen again. Also, I’ve been making sure we send meals over to Bonnie and Toby a couple of times a week. I heard you bought her house, then gave it to her.”

I narrow my eyes. Bonnie’s disability checks weren’t enough to cover her bills. I stepped in this summer to help. Toby needs to know his food and shelter are taken care of. A kid can’t perform if he’s worried about basic needs. “Who told you that?”

“Someone at the bank.”

“That’s confidential information.”

She gives me a half smile. “Nothing is secret in Blue Belle.”

Fine. I’m not surprised. I wave it off . . . “Lois. The women you invited to my house—”

“Were so sweet! Don’t you love how Texas girls can cook? Those coconut-battered shrimp . . . delicious! I saw you chowing down. It was unfortunate that Jenny showed up. I mean, y’all broke it off in New York—that’s what you told me—but she never got the message. It’s good she saw you with Melinda. Jenny really isn’t your type. You need—”

“No more matchmaking.”

“Don’t you get lonely in that big house? With that ugly dog?”

“Football is why I came to Blue Belle. It’s why you hired me. I don’t want every woman in town throwing their hat in for me.”

“Noted, but here’s the problem: Melinda is smitten. She’s a teacher here, and dealing with her is a slippery slope. Her dad is our biggest booster. Plus, you want to maintain a decent working relationship with her.”

“No relationship.”

She sighs. “We don’t want you to leave.”

“I’m still here, Lois,” I say in an exasperated tone.

“But I want you to stay forever. For Milo.” She pulls out her inhaler and toys with it.

“He’s going to be fine next year if I don’t come back. Hell, we don’t even know if I’m leaving or not, but you’re trying to set me up. And it’s not just you. Everyone is. The checkout lady at the Piggly Wiggly put three different phone numbers in my bag. A woman at Ace Hardware followed me out to my car last week. I can’t go anywhere without someone suggesting I meet their daughter or niece or cousin.” I exhale. “I was clear with the board from the beginning. I signed a yearly contract for a reason.”

“How do you feel about Escalades? In black? Or we could give you a bonus?”

“No.”

She bites her lip. “Fine, but I can’t stop a moving train, Ronan.”

“What do you mean?”

“Melinda claims to be in love.”

Jesus! No! That’s just not true. She’s just caught up in the competitive nature of being the one to snag the coach . . .

The landline rings, and I curse, pick it up, and then hang it up.

Lois gives me a smile. “What did you think of Nova? You know, as a neighbor?”

I pause, remembering that first kiss in the elevator, the fact that I hadn’t touched a woman in a year—

For the past few days, I’ve been circling around that night, waffling from being pissed off that she was part of a plot to wanting to, shit, atone for how it ended? Fuck if I know. The best thing to do is pretend we don’t know each other.

“She’s beautiful . . .” Lois keeps talking, but I’ve zoned out as I think back over the past few years with women. I’ve shunned commitments, isolating part of myself for simple self-preservation. No serious entanglements means no anguish, no responsibility for someone else’s safety. Jenny once said my heart was made of stone, and I guess she’s right. I’m just a lurker, watching the world go by as I coach football. I can easily go on like this for the rest of my life.

“Not interested in her.” I stand, grab my clipboard, and put the whistle around my neck.

She follows me out the door. “Funny. I didn’t ask you if you were interested.”

Ignoring her, I walk down the hallway, past the locker room, and outside to the field. My eyes rake over it, scanning the perfectly trimmed grass, the bright-white lines, the Bobcat in the center. Calm washes over me.

I g rew up in a poor neighborhood outside C hicago with a mom who waited tables and worked at a paper mill. My dad deserted us by the time I was six. I can’t even recall what he looks like. Tall, I guess.

He spun out of our driveway on a rainy March evening, my mom with one baby on each hip, me at her feet, crying. Too much too soon, she told me years later, which was a fuck of a lot nicer than how I’d put it. He was weak. A loser. My jaw clenches. A kid never forgets being abandoned, and if anything, it’s made me more determined, smarter, and very, very careful about my commitments.

When my middle school gym teacher saw I’d sprouted six inches over the summer, he took me to the coaches. I tried shooting hoops but couldn’t make anything from the three-point range, but when the football coach placed that pigskin in my hand, my body hummed. I threw a perfect spiral down the field—and my life goals were born.

I never looked back.

Whitney came along at a time when I longed for something permanent, tired of the revolving door of girlfriends. I loved her deeply and planned a life with her.

“Have you ever met her before?” Lois asks, making every step I do. “In New York?”

“Who?”

“Don’t pretend—”

I stop. “Lois. Get your ass off my field.”

She sucks on her inhaler. “Got it.”

The waitress at Randy’s Roadhouse stares at the long scar on my face, and I pull down my hat and look at the menu. I meant to sit in the seat across from me, the one that puts my scars to the window, but Skeeter took it first. “I’ll have the brisket with steamed broccoli, a plain salad, and water to drink.”

She turns to Skeeter, who orders a double cheeseburger, large fries, and a draft beer. We eat together most weeknights after practice. He was already doing offense when I came, and I kept him. Mild mannered and jovial off the field, he becomes a force of nature when he coaches.

After our food comes, Sonia Blackwell, the science teacher, walks in the door, pauses when she sees us, and then comes over. Petite with shoulder-length dark hair and glasses, she’s wearing a bright-green shirt with an avocado on it and slacks. We murmur our hellos.

She adjusts her glasses. “Skeeter. So I heard about the lice—”

“What? Has another team got it?” He slams down his beer. “I knew it. It’s gonna be an epidemic.”

She shrugs. “No, um, I was just wondering if you come across one, maybe save it for me? You could bring it to the science lab in a cup or something.” She smiles, a dimple in each cheek. “We’re studying reproduction, and the female louse doesn’t need the egg to be fertilized to have a nit. Those things are bloody fascinating.”

I put down my bite of brisket. Ready to watch the show.

Skeeter shakes his head, a large bite of burger in his mouth. He chews furiously, then wipes his face. “Hell no, Sonia. I ain’t touching those things with a ten-foot pole, and neither are my boys. They’re a menace. Remember fifth grade?” He glares at her. “I do. And today I cleaned fifty-two helmets with Lysol. If I see a louse, I’m gonna stomp on it, then flush that fucker.”

Red steals up her face. “Oh, yeah, well, I, um, just thought it would be cool through a microscope.” She looks away from us.

This is what I know. They’ve known each other since school. Sonia has a crush. Skeeter is clueless. She’s a fearless teacher, but when it comes to him, she flops around like a fish. My take is he was popular and she was the shy nerd.

“If I see a louse, I’ll text you, Sonia. You want to join us?” I ask, noticing she came in by herself.

She glances at Skeeter, and I kick him under the table. He grunts, then darts a look at me. I nudge my head at her, and he gets a confused look on his face; then realization dawns. “Um, yeah, you wanna eat with us?”

“You guys have already gotten your food.” She shrugs. “I guess not.”

“We don’t mind,” I offer as Skeeter focuses back on his burger.

The hostess, who’s been lingering, asks Sonia if she wants to go to her table, and she gives her a jerky nod. She stops about halfway to her table, her voice rising. “Nova!”

My head snaps around to the girl who just breezed in the double doors and heads to the bar area. She’s wearing denim shorts and a blue T-shirt with red cowboy boots, and her hair shines under the light, straight as an arrow down her tanned shoulders. She sees Sonia, then rushes over to give her a hug.

Skeeter follows my eyes. “Nova really let you have it at the party.” He chuckles. “She’s usually sweet, but you had to go and ruin her roses.”

I scowl. “It was Jenny.”

He smirks as he chews on a fry. “In college, she talked me into a tattoo. She couldn’t get anyone to go with her, and I was game.” He pushes up his shirt and shows me the number fifty-seven. “That’s my high school number when we won state. She got Trouble at the top of her ass. With yellow roses around it. Those are her thing, so you really messed up when you ruined them.”

“I didn’t,” I growl.

“She was crazy fun. Spunky.” A frown flits over his face. “Then everything went to hell . . .”

“And?” I give him a look after the pause goes on too long.

The waitress interrupts us, asking if we want refills, and when she’s walking away, Skeeter gets up to go to the bathroom. I bristle. What went to hell for Nova?

I glance over as Nova wraps up her chat with Sonia, then heads back to the bar, where she plops down on a stool.

Before I think too hard about it, I grab my water glass, which I didn’t want refilled, and head to the bar. Tuck’s words keep tumbling around in my head. Who is she? Really? Why did she agree to come to the party if it wasn’t for money? Is she just like the other crazy fans who would do anything to see a player? Was the emotion I felt in her arms fake?

My chest twinges. Did I hurt her? Or did it mean nothing at all?

She’s leaning in over the bar, her face supported by her elbows, chatting to the male bartender, when I slide in next to her. I motion to him. “Water, please.”

She stills, then turns to look at me, those blue eyes cool. “Hello.”

“We meet again. Nice boots.”

“Bound to happen. It’s a small town.” She kicks out a long leg. “The shoes are a throwback to high school. I begged for Mama to buy these, and she wouldn’t, so I saved my money from my tips at the diner.”

“I used to work at a diner. I washed dishes.”

She shrugs. “We have something in common. Did you buy boots?”

“No.”

The bartender slides my water over, and a tense silence settles between us when I don’t leave.

A server walks behind the bar, and Nova raises her hand. “Hey. I’m here for a pickup order. Under Morgan. I called it in about half an hour ago.”

I take a sip of water. “So. How are you?”

She frowns, probably wondering why I’m trying to talk to her. “Fine. How are you?”

“We have lice at school.” Ugh. Stupid.

“I’ll check Sabine tonight.”

“You want a Coke or something else while you wait, Nova?” the bartender asks. He’s in his early twenties with a baby face and a trendy fade hairstyle. His eyes roam over her breasts. “On the house, darlin’. Anytime you come in, ask for me, and I’ll fix you up.” He taps his name tag. “Riley.”

“Aw, thanks, Riley; that’s so sweet. I’d love a Coke,” she says, batting her lashes as he slides one over. She tips it up at me, a little smirk on her face. “Free drink. Yahoo.” She glances back at the bartender, who’s moved away to help someone else. “Hmm. He’s cute. You think I’m too old for him?”

“Yes.”

“But you can date a twenty-year-old?”

“What? No.” Whitney was my age. Jenny was young, but I also thought since she was, she wouldn’t expect much. Wrong.

My waitress shows up next to me, a disappointed look on her face. “Coach, I would have gotten your drink for you.”

“I got it,” I say. “No worries.”

She shrugs, then pulls a piece of paper out of the green apron that’s tied around her waist. “I was told to give you this. It’s that lady’s”—she points at a young, attractive brunette across the bar, who smiles brightly at me—“phone number. I know you said to stop giving them to you, but she used to babysit me, and she’s super nice. She just came out of a nasty divorce and got a big ranch in the settlement. I think y’all would make a cute couple.” She leans in. “She also gave me twenty bucks.”

I grimace/smile at the lady, then tuck the number in my pants.

Nova smothers a laugh. “Wow. Women are paying for the hope of you calling them. Will you?”

“She owns a ranch, and I do like horses.”

She chuckles.

I take her in over the rim of my glass. Her beauty is like a blow to a man’s chest. With her height and that face, she could have been a model. Somehow, I don’t think it’s something she ever aspired to be. Not with that serious glint in her eyes. She might be trouble, but there’s a deeper side to her than what’s on the surface.

“Order up for Morgan,” the server calls and sets a white bag on the counter.

Nova swipes the bag, then jumps off the stool. “See you later, Fancy Pants.”

And before I can think of anything else to keep her here, she’s waltzing out the front door, those boots accentuating her perfect ass.