by Luis, Maria
Brien quirks a half-smile. “How close are you?”
“Stop procrastinating, will you?”
He leans his head one way, cracking his neck, then does so in the other direction. “Sorry, I’m one of those people who hates awkwardness. It’s worse than nails on a chalkboard.” As if sensing our mutual impatience, he breaks down. “Fuck it, okay! Okay. You asked for it. He then writes, According to our source, who flew all the way to London, Maine, in the name of spilling the tea, DaSilva is romantically involved with the woman seen in the video posted above. Who is she? Our source didn’t get her name, but a little reverse image search, tagged with some online digging from yours truly, reveals her name to be Aspen Clarke, wife of Richard Clarke. If you’re like me and thinking, who the F is Richard Clarke? Never fear, Google is here to save the day. Clarke is the long-time general manager of the Pittsburgh Steelers, and, are you ready for some extra hot TEA? At one point, DaSilva was even in talks with the Steelers for a trade. Our source claims he witnessed both DaSilva and Aspen at a local hotspot over the weekend. Picture of the very obvious canoodling session is below. Now, before I wrap up our daily dose of hot football gods, may I just add . . . the tea may be spilled but a scandal is a-brewing, ladies and gents. Stay tuned for more updates. Also . . . Savannah Rose who?”
Brien hasn’t even stopped reading before I breathe out, “For fuck’s sake.”
Is nothing sacred anymore? Is there no place in the world that a guy can escape to without having to worry about being stalked by a hoard of fame-seeking assholes? More importantly, who the hell is willing to bend their morals so badly that they’ll gladly ruin an innocent woman’s life for the sake of clicks on a virtual page?
Levi doesn’t deserve this shit.
I open my mouth, fully prepared to tell her exactly that, when Brien stomps right over me: “I’ll ask you both one more time. Are you two sleeping together?”
Shit. Fuck. Dammit.
At any other time in my life, I wouldn’t think twice about coming clean. But coming clean puts Levi’s job on the line. While I don’t need the money, she does. I won’t be the reason she gets fired today.
“No.”
“Yes, we are.”
My gaze darts to her stubborn, beautiful face. “Aspen. What the hell are you doing?”
She doesn’t spare me a glance. “It was one time,” she announces blithely, like she’s discussing the color of her shirt or what she ate for dinner or anything, really, besides the fact that we fucked on top of a mountain and it was the best experience of my life. “But yes, we had sex.”
The tension in my neck increases tenfold. “Brien, what she’s trying to tell you—and is failing at, by the way—is—”
“And I’d like to have sex with him again.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I grunt, my knuckles digging into my eye sockets. When I drop my hands three seconds later, the office hasn’t changed. Brien still looks shell-shocked, Levi is calm as can be, and I . . . I want to pour myself a beer and pretend this isn’t happening. “He’s going to fire you, you know that, right?”
Levi pats my forearm consolingly. “He won’t.”
“He will.”
“He’s sitting right here,” Brien butts in, his expression, for once, unreadable.
Folding one leg over the other at the knee, Levi leans in close to me. “Want to know how I got this job?” she says, not even bothering to keep her voice low.
“Football.”
“That, and also because I teach History.”
I blink, slowly. “Probably one too many concussions to the head over the years, but I’m not following.”
Levi’s chin tilts toward Brien. “Tell him who also teaches History here at London High.”
One great, big sigh that I swear I can feel from this side of the desk. “My wife does. Did.” At my blank stare, he clarifies, “We decided at the end of the school year that she should stay home with the kids going forward. We were paying through the roof for babysitters and daycare and, honest to God, but she’s been wanting to grow this knitting club she started—”
“With my mom,” Levi pipes up, a finger raised. “They’re obsessed.”
Brien’s shoulders droop. “So obsessed.”
“I think they use it as an excuse to get everyone together and drink wine all night.”
“Either that or they’re calling in male strippers.”
I hold up a hand. “Wait. Hold on. Forget about the male strippers for a second.” I look at my old LSU roommate-slash-teammate. “I didn’t realize you worked with Sara. You told me that you two met at the gym.”
Levi elbows me in the side. “The school gym. Which means if they can hook up and then get married with no penalties from the school, we can do the same.” When my eyes widen, she hastily adds, “Hook up. Hook up. Who said anything about marriage?”
Brien taps the desktop monitor. “Technically, this guy did.”
“Well, I’m not—married, that is. Maybe I should send this Celebrity Tea Presents fellow my divorce papers? Along with the bill for how much my damn lawyer cost me?”
Although my brain is still locked on the M-word, I shake my head. “Won’t do any bit of good. Once he sinks his teeth in, it’s game over.”
She nibbles on her bottom lip, and damn if my cock doesn’t stir with interest. “I don’t think I like this guy.”
I laugh, head tipped back. “Join the club, Coach. Join the fucking club.”
“So, what do we do then?”
A month ago, I ran. I ran all the way from California to Maine, hoping I’d find some semblance of normality in a tiny town situated on a strip of beachfront property. I don’t think what I’ve found comes close to being normal, but running again means leaving Levi, and for the first time in my life, I don’t want to see myself out the door.
It’s not love.
I don’t know what love is. But Levi feels like safety and the biggest adrenaline high I’ve ever encountered, all rolled into one.
So I’m not going anywhere.
I settle my hat back on my head, squaring off the brim, and then fold my arms over my chest. “We’re gonna get to fundraising so we can take the team on that camping trip you want to happen so badly. And we’re gonna do it in a big way—with a calendar spread.”
“Oh, Good God,” Brien groans, closing his eyes. “I heard about that. DaSilva, I might turn a blind eye to you and Levi doing whatever the hell you’re doing together, but I’m sure as shit not signing off on a calendar that has you wearing nothing but an appropriately placed sock.”
“I’m not talking about me or that stupid sock.”
“The team,” Levi murmurs from beside me, “you’re talking about the team and then with you as the—”
I nod.
Yeah, with me as the photographer.
Refusing to acknowledge the way my heart pounds a little too fast, I ask roughly, “You in?”
The curve of her smile is the sweetest encouragement I’ve ever felt. “Will there be sharks and bears?”
“I’ll see what I can come up with.”
“Then yes,” she murmurs, “I’m in.”
28
Aspen
The boys on the team are beyond ecstatic about the chance to sell calendars with their faces on them.
Their mothers, on the other hand? Not so much.
Sitting at my kitchen table, I flip to the next parent signature form and spy another scribbled comment at the bottom corner of the page: Any chance Coach DaSilva will go shirtless, at least? ~ Belinda Wilde.
Wilde. Wild. How fitting.
Cross-checking with my spreadsheet, I tick off Matthew Wilde from my list, marking him as good to go. Then I return to the forms, moving onto the next. This time the note is scribbled beside the date: Let me know if you need any help with anything. In college, I always helped my sorority with putting together our fundraisers. P.S., wine date soon? – Meredith.
I worried about returning home to Lond
on. I was gone for so long that returning felt a bit like London was an alien planet and I had no idea if my oxygen would work here.
Over the last month, it’s gradually begun to feel like home again.
Would it feel that way if it weren’t for Dominic?
The thought is completely unbidden, but I turn it over in my head anyway. In the grand scheme of things, I haven’t known my next-door neighbor for long at all. A matter of weeks, person to person. Years, I guess, if you take into account all those times Rick brought him up in conversation, long before Dominic retired from the NFL.
That Dominic and my Dominic feel like two completely different people.
My Dominic.
I certainly don’t own him, and I’m not even sure we’re dating. Isn’t that something I should talk to Topher about first? Sure, he likes Dominic—as a coach and a friend. If Dominic and I make things official, he would be . . . a stepdad. Maybe. One day. If things get that far, which I’m not sure they ever will.
That would entail Dominic sticking around long-term. While I know he’s feeling the London vibes right now, who’s to say that he’ll want to stay forever?
Ignoring the way my heart palpitates at the prospect of him leaving, I turn to the next form. No pointed comment this time, thank you, universe, but wait . . . I drag the paper closer, my glasses slipping down the bridge of my nose, and look from student signature to parent signature.
Harry Blackwater.
Heather Blackwater.
I lean back in my chair, turning my head to call out, “Topher! Baby, can you come in here a second?”
“Mooommm! What did we say about you calling me baby?” he shouts back, seconds before I hear his feet moving across the hardwood floor in the hallway. A second pair of footsteps join in—Timmy came over to hang out today—before they’re both standing in the entryway to the kitchen.
The younger boy shifts his hands behind his back, like he’s standing in military formation. “I told Chris that I think it’s cool that you still call him baby. My mom calls me hey, you.”
My brows shoot up. “Chris?”
“Yeah.” Completely oblivious to my confusion, Timmy points to Topher. “He’s been trying it out. Seeing if he likes it as a nickname.”
Topher grimaces. “Ma, it’s just that . . .” His hands come up, wringing together. “Okay, so when I went mini-golfing with Dom-Coach DaSilva, I asked him what he thought about my name.”
“Why in the world would you do that?”
“Because he’s a guy, Mom. And even if you haven’t noticed it, some of the seniors make fun of it. Topher, I mean.”
“What he’s saying is that they make fun of him for answering to the nickname Topher,” Timmy explains, his head bobbing up and down. “I get it. I want to go by Tim, but I can’t get anyone to jump on board. It sucks.”
My gaze volleys back to my son, who’s watching me like I should totally be getting where he’s coming from. His eyes implore me to understand when he continues, “So I asked Coach DaSilva, like, what do you think about my name? And he said, It’s not bad. But I could hear it in his voice that he was acting, just like when he pretended to be bad at mini-golf, so I asked him again, and this time he goes, Listen, kid, I’m not one to talk because I don’t even know who I’m named after or if my mom just picked Dominic out of a hat, but Topher . . . Topher’s a bit of a pansy name. Chris is strong, though. Manly.”
A pansy name.
If Dominic were standing in front of me right now, I’d punch him in the gut. Stepdad? The man can’t even pull himself together to tell a kid that he’s perfect as he is!
“Topher,” I start slowly, choosing my words carefully, “you can’t go by the name Chris.”
“Sure I can.” He grins widely at me, all teenage confidence. “It’s called choosing your own identity. I want to be a Chris.”
I choke back a laugh. “You can’t. I mean, you can later on if you want but it’s going to take time and money.” When he only stares at me, confusion shining in his blue eyes, I say, “Topher is your given name on your birth certificate, buddy. Not Christopher. Not Chris. Just Topher.”
“Just Topher,” he echoes as though in a fog.
“Man, that sucks,” Timmy says, punching my son in the arm. “I can still call you Chris, if you want? No one has to know.”
“But I’ll know.” Topher drops his arms to his side in complete defeat. “Mom always says it’s not good to lie. It’s beneath us.”
That’s my baby boy.
“Speaking of not lying . . .” Gesturing for him to come forward, I point to Harry Blackwater’s parent form. These signatures . . . they are way too similar to simply be a coincidence. The block letters are more in tune with a sixteen-year-old boy’s handwriting than an adult woman’s penmanship. “Mrs. Blackwater. Has Harry mentioned anything about her?”
Topher and Timmy exchange a look, and my Mom radar goes haywire.
I point to the chairs opposite me. “Sit.”
Grumbling, Topher plops down into the closest chair. “You weren’t supposed to find out.”
“I told you we should have had someone else fake her signature,” Timmy mutters out of the corner of his mouth. “My mom would have done it.”
From where I’m sitting, this does not look good.
“Would have done what, Tim? Sign Harry’s release form?”
When his lips clamp shut, I home in on my own kid. “Topher. What’s wrong with Heather Blackwater?”
“There’s nothing wrong with her, exactly,” Topher says, squirming in his chair, “it’s just that—”
“Don’t break the Bro Code!” Timmy hisses, lightly punching Topher in the arm again. “You promised Harry.”
“We don’t lie in this house.” I lift a brow, daring Topher to argue otherwise. “So you’re going to tell me why I’m looking at two signatures that have clearly been signed by the same person, and you’re going to tell me right now.”
Topher, recognizing my hard tone, visibly caves. Shoulders slumped, he whispers, “Mrs. Blackwater said she had to take care of something in Portland. That’s what she told Harry, anyway. She’s been gone two weeks.”
“And Harry’s dad?” I ask, even though I already know I’m not going to like the answer.
“He died a few years ago. Harry said he was real sick.”
I look at both boys, flicking my gaze between the two of them. “And where has Harry been staying for the last two weeks?”
“With me and Mom,” Timmy answers quietly, “and with Bobby, and also with Kevin. We ask our parents if he can spend the night and they say yes.”
They say yes.
Meanwhile, they have no idea what exactly they’re saying yes to.
I push my seat back. “C’mon, we’re going for a ride.”
Timmy blanches. “You’re not bringing me home, are you? I’m sorry we lied. But my mom . . . my mom—”
Not wanting to freak him out, I cross over to his side and pull him in for a quick hug. I may be a coach to these boys, but some of them need so much more than a person to tell them to do another round of push-ups. “I’m not sending you home, kid. Your mom is working late in Bar Harbor, I know. You can still sleep over.”
His frame relaxes immediately. “Thank you, Coach. No more lying. I mean it.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
I usher both teenage boys into my car with Topher settling in the passenger’s seat. Shoving his phone forward, so I can plug it into my dashboard, Timmy asks for me to play some random band that I’ve never heard of before.
Against the backdrop of what used to be called techno music and is now, according to the boys in my car, referred to as EDM, I put my plan into motion: “Now which one of you is going to tell me whose house Harry is staying at tonight?”
“Kevin’s,” they answer in unison.
“Great! Now buckle up, boys, and someone tell me where to go.”
I don’t know what I’m doing here.
; I don’t know what my plan is, save for bringing Harry back to my place. That’s as far as I’ve gone in my head.
But all I can visualize are my friend Mariah’s three adopted children, all of whom were left to fend for themselves before they ended up in Pittsburgh’s foster-care system. I remember their hopeful faces the first time I met them, before the adoptions were finalized, when they tried as hard as they could to be invisible in Mariah’s house. Like if she didn’t hear them, if she didn’t see them, then maybe she wouldn’t send them away.
I can’t imagine leaving a random child that I don’t know to survive on their own, never mind one of my own players. It goes against everything I believe in. I coach because I want to teach these kids responsibility. I coach because I want them to have the life skills—football and otherwise—to reach for their dreams while simultaneously learning when to push hard on the gas pedal and when to ease up and enjoy the view. I coach because I love kids—their enthusiasm and their hopes and dreams—and because after Topher’s birth, Rick refused to have another baby.
Topher’s enough for me, he always said.
I think the truth is much more convoluted, though I know I stayed with him early on in our marriage because I hoped he would change his mind. And because I refused to believe that he had so blatantly lied to me when we first met.
What man marries a woman and vows to fill every day with happiness and love, only to take pleasure in tearing it all down?
Rick Clarke.
Who knowingly makes his wife miserable and then won’t even agree to sign the divorce papers, year after year?
Rick “the Prick” Clarke, that’s who.
It was only by chance that I found out one of my players at Hancock High needed to swap school districts because of a change in foster homes. Unwilling to let my player go without fighting for him to stay within Hancock town lines, I sought out Mariah’s contact with child services. The male social worker never touched me, nothing more than to shake my hand, but Rick came home to the two of us sitting at the kitchen table together and went off on a bender.