She snorted, hands on her hips, her confidence back. “Aren’t you sweet,” she said, accent put on thick. “No wonder you have a bevy of women.”
“You’re pretty,” I said, all kidding aside as I lay back down for another set. Charlie moved back to the squat rack. We each completed our second set, the terrible singsongy pop music as our soundtrack. “But your music really does suck.”
“It’s cute how you think I care what you think.”
God, I loved when she flicked her tongue against her teeth like that. She did it whenever she wanted to prove a point.
I pointed my finger at her. “But you think I’m cute.”
She held her palm up. “Don’t get ahead of yourself there, bucko. And don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I stood up and closed the gap between us.
“Like a villain with one side of your mouth curled up.” She took a step back, right into the squat bar, and I crowded her. We studied each other, eyes, noses, lips. Definitely lips.
“If I’m the villain, what are you?”
Her eyes went to the ceiling for a moment before she grinned at me. “The princess in the tower.”
“Ha. You are no princess.”
She shoved me away and ducked under the bar, lining up for another set. “Spot me or get out of the way.”
I leaned against the rack, watching as she completed her first four reps before slowing down. Her face twisted as she breathed deeply, her legs wobbling slightly from the strain. I stepped behind her, holding my palms out underneath her arms, just in case. “You got it. How many more?”
She breathed. “Four.”
“Let’s go. Nice and easy.”
Her face turned pink and then red as she worked through another rep.
“Three more. Keep it up . . . two . . .” I noticed her back beginning to fall, her shoulders bending in, and I got a bit closer, one hand on her lower back. “Don’t give in. Keep the form.”
One more breath, and a push to stand up straight. I patted her on the back before making sure she got the bar back on the rack okay. “Good job.”
“Thanks.” She lifted her tank top to wipe the bottom of her face, exposing some of her stomach, flat and tan. The first time I’d ever had the hots for a workout buddy made for some awkward silence.
I shook my head and went back to my bench for another set, firing off ten quick reps, the heat in my muscles taking my mind off the woman a few feet away from me.
We continued our separate regimens, ignoring the big, fat elephant in the room. But if she wasn’t going to bring up what had happened between us, I wasn’t going to either. Not to say that this cat-and-mouse game wasn’t fun.
We passed the time by teasing each other. I called her Rambo when she made some kind of guttural sound on an especially hard rep with a dead lift. She challenged me to do twenty pull-ups “like Henry Cavill.” I didn’t know who this Henry Cavill was, but I wasn’t going to back down . . . although I only got through eleven pull-ups before losing my grip. She gave me two thumbs down, and I yanked at the bottom of her ponytail. It might have been childish, but it felt better than angst-ridden silence.
We finished up and grabbed our bags.
“See you for lunch duty,” she said.
“Try to relax during your difficult day of gym classes,” I said, and locked the weight room door behind us.
“Try not to bore your classes to death.”
We started off toward the locker rooms. “I’m never boring. It’s Oregon Trail game day.”
“That old computer game?”
“Yeah. It’s a Wii game now.”
“I figured you for the write-a-vocab-definition-ten-times-each type of teacher.”
I clutched at my chest at the horror. “Now, that’s offensive. History is really interesting, especially when you get the kids to realize it’s all our shared history. None of us would be here now if not for something that happened three hundred years ago, or three thousand before that.”
She stared at me for a moment, her head tilted and brow raised. “You really do surprise me sometimes.”
“I’m not all bad,” I said, and a tiny smile appeared on her perfect lips.
“Just about two-thirds.” She laughed at her own joke, and I turned to my right to the men’s locker room, watching her walk to the women’s locker room, the curves of her body retreating from me. My eyes and my feet wanted to move in opposite directions, but if my feet knew the view my eyes had, they’d want to stay in place too.
It was much easier to ignore her when she wore ugly polo shirts and khaki shorts, not that tight purple and black getup that was practically painted on. It was easier to be mad at her when she was sarcastic and full of bravado, not when she showed her soft and sweet side. It was easy to not kiss her when she was just Gibb, but when she was Charlie . . . that was a different story.
Whenever I had a free moment between classes and quiet moments during the lessons, I thought of her. How her soft brown eyes seemed out of place among her hard features, her pin-straight hair and sharp mouth. I thought about the contrast between her witty comebacks and her nervous shifting when I got close to her—almost imperceptible, but I noticed.
I definitely noticed.
That’s what made her Charlie.
But it didn’t change the fact that she was Charlie Gibb. Coach.
That afternoon’s practice was dominated by focusing on defensive plays. But it didn’t go well.
“Spencer, did you eat too much at lunch today? You’re moving slow, Marcus is getting by you on every run. It’s like you’re not even trying.” She smacked him on the arm with her folded papers. “Come on, now, you’re better than that.” She turned her back to him and walked toward Dave, not seeing how Spencer rolled his eyes before heading back to the defensive huddle.
I ran my hand over my mouth as Nate passed for yet another touchdown, Brett giving no coverage at all.
“Oh, come on! Spencer, get over here!” Charlie threw her arms out.
He rolled his head back on his neck like he was too tired to move, and Charlie stalked out onto the field. “Move it, Spencer.”
He started to walk.
“We run on this field. Do you need a reminder?” He must’ve mumbled something, because she yanked on his jersey. “Excuse me?” She got right up against his face mask and said quiet but irate words to him, face red. She pointed her thumb behind her, and his feet were sluggish as he made his way to the track. “You know what to do!” she called after him.
Then on Wednesday while I stood in the hall, I heard her slamming around in her office before practice. I poked my head in the door. “Everything okay in here?”
“No. Everything is not okay in here.” She ground her fist into her desk. “Get Spencer in here, will you?”
I nodded, and brought him back to her office a minute later. I didn’t stay, but stood just outside the closed door, listening as she said, “Why did I just find out you have detention tomorrow?”
Brett didn’t say anything.
“You don’t care you’re missing practice?”
“Well, I can’t do anything ab—”
“You better think very carefully about the next words out of your mouth. If they’re anything other than an apology for acting like a jackass, you’re going to be missing more than practice.”
“It was just a joke.”
“Snapping a girl’s bra is not a joke. Making someone cry is not a joke.”
I shook my head. This kid was a grade A asshole, and I was glad Charlie wasn’t holding back.
“Chill—”
“I swear to God, one more excuse from you, and you will be benched on Friday. I expect everyone on this team to be better on the field and off. Snapping a girl’s bra strap and making fun of her is not being better.”
“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” he said.
“You’re benched Friday.”
I was actually surprised she kept it together. I didn’
t know if I would’ve given him that much latitude.
“You can’t do that!”
“I can. And I don’t want to believe that you really aren’t sorry at all, so before you say something you’ll regret, get out of my office.”
“Fine!”
The door opened and he stormed past me. I was tempted to grab him by the scruff of his neck and throw him up against the wall, but I let him go and moved back into Charlie’s office.
She sat at her desk, eyes closed.
“Hey.” When she didn’t respond, I gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You did the right thing.”
She opened her eyes and pulled away from me. “I know I did. But I’m the bitch again,” she grumbled, then grabbed her baseball cap and stomped over to the locker room in a fit of rage. She yelled inside to the players, “Y’all better be out on the field in five or you’re running!”
CHAPTER
15
Charlie
I shook my head, arms folded, as I stared at the scoreboard. Another loss. This one 21–7. Our biggest loss yet, and totally unacceptable. The defense had been sloppy, slow off the line, and our offense barely had any time on the field to even try to score.
“Hey, Gibb! Hey!”
I refused to turn to the man yelling at me. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to any parents tonight.
“You’re not going to talk to me after what you did to my son?”
Especially this parent. I took a breath, tossed my clipboard and hat on the bench before slowly turning around to Mr. Spencer at the chest-high chain-link fence. I’d thought it odd I hadn’t heard from him over my benching Brett. I supposed he wanted to have that conversation now.
I didn’t.
“How can I help you?”
“You can help me by doing your damn job.” His fingers curled around the metal diamonds like an animal in a cage.
“I am, sir,” I said as calmly as I could. “And I’m gonna ask that you lower your voice. We’re not at a zoo.”
“And I’m going to ask that you watch what the hell you say to me. You don’t know who I am.”
“I do. You’re Brett Spencer’s father.”
“That’s right. And if you think you can pull my kid, my kid, from QB and put him on defense, in a position he’s never played—”
“I’ll stop you right there. Brett is much better suited for free safety than quarterback. He’s excelled there. We’ve already discussed this.”
He stuck a foot on the fence as if he was going to try to climb it to get to me. “Then why did you bench him?”
“Disciplinary reasons.”
“Dis . . . disciplinary reasons?” He dragged his hands through his hair so it stood on end. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“He missed practice because of detention and has had a bad attitude on the field. Brett needs to fix that if he wants to continue to play for me.”
He made a noise, a mix of a huff and a maniacal laugh. “Play for you, huh? You just lost this game, and my son wasn’t playing. Seems like you need him more than he needs you.”
The field was almost empty, but I noticed Connor standing about twenty yards away, talking to Ronnie, acting as if he wasn’t listening. I kept myself together. I wasn’t going to give him or Jack Spencer the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart.
“You’ve got another think coming if you think you’re going to continue to treat my son this way. And if I were you, I’d try very hard to win or you might be hauling your ass back to your daddy’s house.”
“I don’t take kindly to idle threats.”
“It wasn’t idle,” he said ominously with a stubby finger pointed at me before whirling away. I watched him walk toward a group of parents, most of whom I’d only spoken to on a few occasions, enough to know that their kids were juniors. They eyed me up, and I’d like to say I didn’t care, but I had to work with their children. It’d be different if they were graduating; then I wouldn’t have to worry about them in a few months. But these parents? I’d see them for a long time. And they could make things hard for me.
“Hey!” Connor waved to me with a whistle. “Let’s go.”
If I could’ve screamed, I would’ve. I grabbed my stuff and walked toward the goalposts, pausing next to Connor to say curtly, “I’m not a fucking dog.”
His eyes rounded and he looked as if he wanted to say something, maybe an apology, but I didn’t stick around for it.
I sat at the front of the bus, my foul mood a physical blockade around me. None of the other coaches even attempted to talk to me on the ride home, and that was all right with me. I slammed the door of my office, rubbing at my eyes once I sat down. Between the loss and the totally inappropriate dressing-down I’d received, I felt awful. I’d been talked down to before, that wasn’t anything new. But to have it done in front of other coaches and the players’ parents, that was embarrassing.
I really, really hated to admit that it got to me. But it did.
I picked up my cell phone to call my dad.
He answered after a few rings. “Hey, Charlie, a little late to be calling. How was the game?”
“We lost.” I sighed. “We’re two and two and might be out of contention for the division.”
“Ah. That’s tough. I watched your game that you sent me from last week. You made a good call with the conversion.”
“Thank you. I’m trying my best.” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat, wishing that for once my dad would ask me what was wrong. That he’d understand I needed more from him than sports talk. But he couldn’t and didn’t.
“We have Wake Forest tomorrow. They’ve got a good spread,” he said.
When I didn’t respond, he rattled off the stats of some of his players. He said their kicker had injured his knee, and how they could’ve used my expertise with the backup. Again, I stayed quiet. Right now, the last thing I wanted to talk about was football.
“Well, I’ll let you go. I’m going to watch some more film before bed, and I’m sure you have a lot to do.”
“Yeah.” I glanced around my office, to the charts of plays on the whiteboard, to the windowless walls, to the sad plant on the tiny bookcase in the corner. I had nothing to do. And no one to talk to.
“Talk later,” he said before hanging up, and I dropped my phone on my desk before the tears fell from my eyes.
My father was the only parent I had, and as far as parents went, I couldn’t complain. He didn’t treat me badly and had kept a roof over my head. He’d let me tag along to his practices and games, and eventually gave in to letting me try it for myself.
Still, there were no I love yous.
I was sure it had been difficult for him to be a single parent with a little girl after his wife died in a tragic accident, but it was difficult for me too. My grandmother was there to help raise me, try to tame me into the southern belle she wanted me to be. Gram and I were like oil and water; for as much as we got along, we also fought. About everything. And she was the sole female in my life, a great role model, but not exactly my number one fan.
What I didn’t ever have was a confidante. I’d never had anyone to talk to about my mother, or how I didn’t feel especially close to my dad or my gram.
I wasn’t my father’s son or my grandmother’s granddaughter. I didn’t check any of the right boxes. I was too wild to be a proper girl, and the wrong gender to play football. And sometimes when I felt out-of-place and sad, I wanted someone to ask me how I was doing, but because I never seemed to be able to build a bridge out of my in-between space, I had no one.
I wiped my eyes with the backs of my hands before gathering my coat and bag. A glass of wine and a bath sounded great right about now. I turned off the light and opened the door, smacking right into McGuire’s chest.
He grunted, and I actually hoped I’d hurt him a little bit.
“You practicing to become a wall?” I asked.
“No.”
“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at t
he bar?”
“We didn’t feel much like going out tonight,” he said, then fixed his hat and focused over my shoulder, back into my dark office. “I, uh, I heard you crying and thought I’d stick around.”
“Great,” I grumbled, and tugged my bag over my shoulder.
“Want to talk about it?”
“You want to talk about feelings?” I said with a skeptical laugh.
He shrugged. When I didn’t move or open my mouth, he tipped his head back. “How about food then?”
Even though a nice Shiraz in the Idris Elba glass along with a Big Blue bath bomb was the plan, his company seemed better. “I could eat.”
We walked out to the parking lot in silence, the wind whipping hard against me, and I huddled into my coat. He wore only a jacket and baseball cap. “What are you, part polar bear or somethin’?” I asked, peering up at Connor out of my thick scarf. “Penguin, maybe?”
“Penguin,” he said, straight-faced, but moved in closer to me, shielding me a bit from the wind. “This isn’t even the worst of it. How will you last when we hit January?”
“Never leave the house. Possibly buy a Snuggie.”
“Good plan.” He pointed to his pickup. “Want me to drive?”
“Sure.” I hopped into the truck and buckled in, rotating all of the air vents toward me when he turned the engine over.
“You make yourself right at home, don’t you?” he said, and I reluctantly twisted one vent to him to share some heat. He rolled his eyes. “Gee, thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, and sank into the seat as he drove.
“You’re not going to fight me over what we listen to?” he asked, his voice almost sounding let down.
“I don’t feel like fightin’ tonight.”
He tuned the satellite radio to a pop station that happened to be playing Britney Spears, and I sang along. He laughed to himself. “I never thought you’d like this kind of stuff. Pink T-shirts and Britney Spears and wine from a glass with a guy’s face on it.”
I held my breath, steeling myself for the inevitable. Of course he hadn’t thought I’d be into other things, because how could a football coach like “girlie” things? Everyone assumed things about my personality, even my sexual preference. The stereotypes were endless.
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