by Ginger Scott
“Just say it.”
I let out a heavy breath as my chair rights itself and my posture sags into the plastic seat. Coach’s eyes drill mine for a few more quiet seconds before he talks.
“You’re being stupid.”
I start nodding and discounting his critique the moment he begins to deliver it.
“Right, says Mister Two-Packs-A-Day,” I say, throwing his careless regard for his health right back in his face. My nickname makes him laugh, and he pulls a half-smoked pack from his front pocket and throws it into my lap.
“You think I should quit? Here…my last pack. Take it—I’ll quit. I tell you what…I’ll quit if you quit. Sound like a good deal?” His tone is hostile, and I shrink a little because it reminds me of my youth—of those times when our relationship was he yells, I listen.
“Reed, I don’t have a family. Hell, I barely have a life outside of this stale-smelling classroom and that football field out there. My brother’s the one that had the kids, and I went right from the military to teaching and coaching. I’ve been here in the same place for thirty-two years, and I’m tired son. But you know why I keep doing this? Why I show up?”
He waits for me to answer.
“Because you love this goddamn game,” I say, leaning forward to stare him in the eyes, elbows on my knees.
He matches my posture, his voice getting louder.
“You’re damn right, I love this game. I love it! It’s my family, son. You, your teammates, those boys I’m coaching right now—family.”
I stand up and circle the chair as I thread my hands together behind my head.
“Exactly,” I say. He’s proving my point—this game is family. It’s life. It’s air. It’s what I know.
“But when I go out there on that field for practice…on Friday nights…” He leans back in his seat again and crosses his arms, the tattoo of a weeping rose faded on his forearm. “There’s no question for me, Reed. I show up. I do my job, and I go home. I call every shot because I get to. I get to say what’s best for my boys, and I get to see them safe. That’s my job, Reed.”
He stands and paces a few steps toward the wall where he flips on the lights. The harsh glare makes me squint for a few seconds.
“You don’t get that luxury.” Coach stops and leans into the wall, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his shorts. “Your job is different. It isn’t safe—not any more. And if I didn’t tell you that, I wouldn’t be doing mine.”
I breathe in hard through my nose, exhaling heavily in frustration. He had to say it to me because yeah, it’s his job. This is his family. It isn’t mine.
The blaring sound of tubas and drums echoes through the hallway, and the disruption is just enough to break up this moment that is making me feel trapped.
“I should go rescue Noles,” I say, not liking the way Coach is looking back at me. His face is full of expectations for me to ride this season out, play up this injury and finish up clean. That fire in my belly is still begging for a single shot, though, to prove I’ve got a few thousand-plus yards left in this arm.
Coach stretches forward with his hand and I grip it. He holds me captive with a firm squeeze for a beat, a silent deal made between us that I’ll really think about things.
The halls are filling up between classes and the band is starting to snake through the hallways, a tradition on homecoming week. It’s hard not to feel young again hearing the sounds, and I find myself high-fiving players as they walk by me, feeling like I’m a part of their team. Weirdest fucking thing in the world is the fact that I’m somehow their hero.
I catch Nolan’s eyes across the parking lot, and I hold up my hand to tell her I’m coming. I weave through the crowd, but just before I pass the last building, I catch sight of something that stills me in my tracks. Between two portable buildings—in the exact spot I would have gone if I were in his shoes—that little shit Bryce is kissing my baby girl.
“Mother fuck,” the words come out under my breath. Without pausing to wait for reason to kick in, I change course and am walking toward them. I get to the edge of the building when Peyton hears my steps coming. She flips her hair from her eyes, glaring at me.
“Mr. Johnson…sir…”
Little shit is wiping his mouth on his sleeve. I’m gonna hit him.
“God, Dad. Don’t you have some place to be?” Peyton picks her backpack up from the ground and jerks it over her shoulder. The irony of what she said punches my funny bone.
“Uh, don’t you?” She bunches her lips and brushes past me. I wish like hell I could swap places with Nolan right now. This is not a situation for a dad, not a dad like me—not a dad with a daddy’s girl.
“I’m real sorry…” Bryce stammers and his lips keep moving even though he’s not saying any words. Or maybe he is, and I’m deafened by rage.
“Big game Friday.” I decide to keep it cool with my words, even though I know my mouth is a hard, straight line and my eyes are narrowed on his jugular.
“Yes, yeah. It’s against Liberty. They’re number one.”
I watched Bryce practice, and he does look smooth out on that field, but he’s built like a feather. Liberty’s gonna hurt.
“Rankings are just numbers. You know their defense?” I can’t believe I’m thinking what I’m thinking. I still want to strangle him, but damn it—it’s like a fucking mirror.
“They’re big,” he says, his mouth dejected. He sees the hurt coming.
“Big means slow,” I say.
“That’s what Coach says.”
I catch Nolan in my periphery, so I take a step back to let Bryce off the hook and unblock his way out of this very narrow pathway—in which he was making out with my baby girl!
“Coach Baker knows what he’s talking about. You got lucky to be his QB.” I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze a little, mostly to drive home the point that I can still crush him anytime I want to.
“We moved here just so I could play for him,” he says, and the coincidences pile on even more. The only thing missing is for this kid to tell me his last name’s Johnson and he’s my long-lost baby brother…which would be good, because then he couldn’t date my daughter.
“I tell ya what…” I stop next to Nolan and catch the bend in her lips as she silently laughs at me. “How about we meet up on the field today before practice—you guys still go at five?”
“Yes, sir.” His formality is winning some brownie points.
I glance at Nolan and she tilts her head in a subtle warning that I ignore completely.
“Be out there and ready at four,” I say, and this baby-faced punk lights up.
“Cool,” he says, the word half teenaged giggle. Jesus Christ.
“Who’s your next class?” I ask, noticing the hallways and walkways are completely empty now. He’s late, which given who he is and the jersey he wears, he probably won’t be in trouble anyway, but just in case.
“Lit, with Walker,” he says, and I catch the little roll of his eyes. Mrs. Walker’s tough. She’s also probably close to retirement. I could walk him back to class and give him an excuse, but I’ve been too easy on him. I can’t let him off the hook completely.
“Ah yeah, she hates late students. I tell you what…” He leans in, eyes widening like a kid on the precipice of the best show-and-tell moment of his life. Nolan’s gonna kick my ass for this, but it’s worth it. “Just tell her I caught you making out with my daughter and spent a little while making sure you don’t do that again. Think that’ll work?”
His swallow is audible, and I recognize the forced smile and laugh he gives. I’ve given those.
“Sorry, sir.” He gets my point. That isn’t for his teacher. It’s my warning.
I wink and nod over his shoulder, shooing him along. His scrawny body looks smaller now, or maybe it’s just the dad-colored glasses I’m wearing. I wait for him to get his hand on the hallway door handle before I give him an inch of room to breathe.
“And don’t forget. Be there
at four,” I remind him as his eyes are still on mine for a few seconds before he turns back to the door.
My shoulders roll and Nolan’s hands find them, her palms sliding down my long-sleeved T-shirt until she’s wrapped them around one of my biceps. I flex to show off because I can’t help it, and she nestles into that space under my arm as she loops my arm over her head. I kiss the top of her head as we walk back out to the lot and her hand comes up to pat my chest a few times.
“You didn’t have to yell at your daughter’s boyfriend,” she says, and my gut tightens at that word—boyfriend. Ugh!
“Hey, look…what I want to do is make plans with him and not show up, just to make him wait out there for an hour all nervous and shit…”
“But you won’t do that because that isn’t nice,” Nolan cuts in, and I wince remembering all of the times someone did something like that to her. This would be for entirely different reasons, and I think this Bryce kid will be just fine socially, but I get what she means.
“I won’t stand him up.” She squeezes my arm in approval. I bite my tongue and keep the follow-up to myself. I won’t stand him up, but I’ll work his ass really hard and maybe throw a little extra zip in those hard-to-catch places.
We reach the Tahoe, and I open the passenger door for her to get inside, wondering how I got so lucky to have a girl like this in my life at all. She’s the same sweet girl who’s at her happiest in a pair of jeans and wearing Chucks. I reach down and tug the top of one of her mismatched socks that shows when her jeans rise up. I know she put them on this morning because they were the only things she could find that were clean.
“They’re Peyton’s,” she admits. Somehow, that’s even cuter.
“We should go on a date.” I kneel down next to her and twist her legs so they’re facing me, which makes her giggle.
“Wouldn’t that be amazing.” Sarcasm always suited her.
“I’m serious,” I say, wrapping my hands under the underside of her knees. She quirks her lip up as she looks down at me then runs both of her hands through my hair, grabbing hold and leaning forward just enough to meet my eyes.
My phone blares from the center console and the light dims behind her eyes.
“Hey,” I lift my chin and move one hand to her face. “We’re discussing our date.”
Her gaze sits with mine while Drake repeats for a second time through. They’ll leave a message.
“Go on. Answer,” she says.
I know exactly how long I have before that call slips to voicemail. I should wait it out, but I give in and lean around her, grabbing my phone in time to answer. I catch a glimpse just before I bring it to my ear. It’s Stacia. The only reason she would call me is because she needs help with Trig. My stomach sinks and I stand and walk away from the car a few steps, automatically bringing my fingers to the bridge of my nose to prepare for the worst.
“Hey, Stac. What’s up?” These calls used to begin with her yelling at me because Trig wasn’t around to yell at. Then they slipped into her calling me because she couldn’t find him. I haven’t talked to her in a few months though now, so I’m thrown when the only sound I hear coming from the other line is heavy, choking sobs.
“Reed…he’s gone. He just…I don’t know what to do, and I didn’t know who else to call. Trig…they found him.”
My eyes lift just enough to find Nolan’s, but my mouth doesn’t know what to do. I’m barely able to breathe, and there’s a good chance I’m not. I just talked to him four days ago…maybe five. He was getting ready to go on some yacht with some girl who wasn’t Stacia. He was living “the life,” as he said. To think of life without him…it cripples.
Nolan’s hand is on my arm and I have no idea how she got here. Stacia’s been repeating the same awful truth. And I’m frozen.
Chapter Seven
Nolan
Nothing is confirmed. They don’t confirm things like this for months, because there’s always a chance that their guesses are wrong.
They’re not wrong.
Trig did get on a yacht like he told Reed he was going to do. He never had any intention of getting off of it, though. They found an empty bottle of the Vicodin he’d been taking for back pain for years and Oxy that he didn’t have a prescription for. He washed it all down with Jack, then fell into a forever sleep with the boat tethered to the dock. It wasn’t his boat. He didn’t even know the owner.
Reed keeps playing their last conversation over and over again, looking for something he missed, and I don’t know what to do for him. I don’t think there’s an answer to be found. Trig didn’t want anyone to think he was anything other than in love with the life he’d finally gotten. But there was so much self-destruction.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
“I’ll be back in time for the dinner,” Reed says, suddenly standing from the chair he’s been glued to in the living room since we got home. He made calls from that chair, consoled Stacia as best he could, told his dad and Jason, and stared into my eyes waiting for me to tell him what to do next. Mostly, he just sat there staring into empty space…avoiding.
It’s like a switch flipped suddenly. He has his keys in his hand, the Jeep’s keys, and he’s smooshing his head into a hat that’s too small—one he hasn’t worn since college.
“Where are you going?” I’m cautious as I stand, treating him like a feral cat that’s just getting used to my scent. His eyes don’t settle on anything—on me—for long. Instead, he looks around at everything and nothing, forcing expressions in an effort to show me nothing’s wrong.
Everything’s wrong.
“I promised Bryce I’d meet him at four, so…ya know…” He flashes me a tight grin and lifts his fisted keys as a gesture of goodbye.
“Reed!” Long strides get me to him before he can swing the side door closed. There’s no way I’m letting him leave the house right now alone. He’s not driving, either. And I don’t give a shit if now’s not the time for a fight.
He turns halfway, expecting me and my words.
“Bryce would get it. You don’t have to…”
“Noles, I’m fine. Really.” His eyes still can’t fully connect with mine, and he’s palming his keys so hard that his knuckles are turning white. He’s avoiding feeling things and dealing with this by going right to that masculine aggression of his. The only way for me to combat it is to speak his language, so I hold his stare and take small steps toward him until I can feel the heat of his breath.
“I just wanna go do something normal,” he says.
“Then I’ll drive you.” I hold out my open palm.
“I’m fine,” he argues, but I flex my fingers and flash my hand again, my face growing more serious.
“Not. A. Debate.”
He blinks finally and his eyes flit down to my hand. One heavy sigh and they’re in my grasp, my husband already marching to his precious vehicle.
I’d rather drive my car. I hate the Jeep. It’s been rebuilt twice now, and the motor idles so damn hard I can feel the fillings in my molars jostle against my nerves. My husband is already climbing into the passenger side, though, and I think if I made him change cars at this point he would scream obscenities and run his ass to the field.
That might actually be good for him.
I consider it for a second, and dismiss it quickly, opening the driver’s side door and lifting myself up. I catch his smirk as I struggle my way in.
“You know I can never get in this thing gracefully,” I say, shimmying my hips into the very well-worn bucket seat. I buckle and shove the key in and realize he’s still smiling at me, that special kind that’s subtle but sorta just for me.
“What?” I whisper.
“I was remembering you driving this thing pregnant. Sometimes…ha…” He rubs his chin and relaxes back in his seat, amused with our past. “Sometimes, it would take you three or four attempts.”
“Or six…or seven,” I add, remembering how embarrassing it would be at the groc
ery store. Reed thought he was being kind when he bought me the super-responsible “mom car.” He was so proud of doing something so responsible. I didn’t want to tell him it was hideous, that it smelled like hot plastic, and that the interior color made me look jaundiced in the rearview mirror. I just told him that I missed the Jeep, but damn this thing—it’s sentimental, but it rides rough as shit!
His cheeks lift with the slight growth in his smile and his eyes dance over my face until I blush. Somehow…still, after all these years, this guy can make me feel special just by the way he looks at me.
“You’re beautiful.”
His compliment warms my chest, and I take it in quietly, the golden glow of the falling sun touching off the red in the ends of his hair as it shines through the side windows. I can’t even imagine my life if I lost this man. He’s half of me, even when we’re living a thousand miles apart.
I back out enough to turn the Jeep around, and that little moment of bliss slips away. Reed’s eyes trail back into nothingness, never leaving the space inside this cab. He’ll be leaving soon, and then I suppose we’ll both meet again in Santa Fe for the funeral. Trig’s parents still live there.
It’s close to four in the afternoon when I pull around to the backside of the football field, parking behind the bleachers just like the visiting team does. Bryce is standing out in the middle of the field running patterns and pretending to take snaps. I bet he’s been here waiting for an hour just to impress Reed.
My husband starts to open the door before I completely put the Jeep in park, so I grab his arm to get his attention. His eyes move my direction but don’t meet mine. He’s on auto again.
“Hey, take it easy on this kid.” There’s double meaning in my request. Bryce might deserve a little more ribbing from his girlfriend’s father, but he doesn’t deserve the emotions that accompany the grief inside Reed right now.
Reed nods to acknowledge me, then slides out from his seat, pushing the door closed behind him. There’s no way I’m leaving, and Reed knows that. I drive around to the other lot, though, and pull into a spot to watch from more distance. Peyton’s practice is starting on the other side of the field, and I hope like hell Bryce clued her in on this impromptu session her dad set up this morning. I hope Peyton gets in the Jeep before Reed’s done. I want to be able to prepare her about Uncle Trig. It’s going to crush her.