Scoring With Santa: Book One in the Second Chance Series

by Theresa Roemer

  Fuck. They needed him.

  They set up the next play, the WideSwing, 22 Sneak. The Coral Heights defense moved in choreographed response, anticipating each player’s move.

  “They have our playbook.”

  He hadn’t wanted to say it before, hadn’t wanted to believe it was true. But there was no denying it. These kids weren’t getting lucky. No, they knew exactly what they were doing.

  “What did you say, Coach?” Mrs. Fleming demanded. Her eyes flashed with anger.

  He gestured furiously toward the field. “They have our playbook. Somehow, someone got ahold of our playbook and gave it to Coral Heights.”

  Mrs. Fleming’s nostrils flared. “It was that girl.” Her daughter leaned forward, eyes wide.

  “What girl?”

  “Donnie’s girlfriend—Tessa. He had her over at the house yesterday. I don’t like her. I never have. And she’s from Coral Heights.”

  The image of Donnie’s pinched, worried face flashed in front of his eyes.

  Oh shit. Had the kid lost his playbook? To a girl? Well, dammit, why hadn’t he told Dave or Phil by now? But no, he already knew. Donnie had never bonded with the other coaches. That’s why he’d been up here in the stands trying to talk to Rick.

  He stabbed his fingers through his hair, wishing to hell he’d given the kid one minute when he’d come.

  Once more his team lined up.

  Jesus, he hoped Dave and Phil had figured out what was going on and changed something—anything—up. Hell, if they’d let the boys play free-for-all, it would go better than this.

  He smacked his forehead with his hand and left it there, rubbing, not wanting to see the total debacle on the field. “Donnie’s dating a girl from Coral Heights?” He’d heard her, he just couldn’t believe it. Was the kid nuts? Or stupid?

  “Mm hmm. I’m telling you, I never liked that girl. Prissy little white girl hanging all over him. Not his type at all. I knew she was trouble. She was over last night. Last night. Donnie said they were studying together.”

  “I told them they had to keep the bedroom door open. I was worried about—” her eyes darted to her daughter and she closed her lips, raising her eyebrows. “Looks like I was worried for the wrong reason.”

  He stood up. He needed to get down there. If Perricone wanted to fire him, he could do it, but he’d be damned if he was going to let this ship sink without stepping in to help.

  Coral Heights intercepted another pass. Hell.

  He stalked past the principal and superintendent as Coral Heights scored again. Fuck. This was a bloodbath.

  * * *

  As he headed to the locker room, he passed Phil, who looked pale. “Amy’s in labor. I’m sorry, Rick, I’ve held out as long as I could, but the contractions are five minutes apart. If I miss this birth—”

  Jesus. What more could go wrong? Not that Phil’s baby was wrong, but bad timing, for sure.

  “Go! Don’t worry about the game. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You will? How? Nevermind, text me the news!”

  “You text me the news!” he called after Phil’s retreating back.

  The energy in the locker room crackled with tension. The clang of a fists slamming into metal locker reached him before he made out what the angry voices were saying.

  “They have our fucking playbook!” one of the kids yelled.

  “Language, Ames,” he called out sharply, before he’d even rounded the corner into the locker room. The crowd fell silent, recognizing his voice. Everyone stared.

  “You may be angry, but that’s no excuse to lose your composure. In fact, if I ever needed you guys to keep it together more, it’s right now.” He put his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes, taking the time to make contact with each boy’s gaze.

  Donnie wouldn’t make eye contact. He had his helmet off, and sat slumped on a bench, staring at his hands.

  “They have our playbook. So what do we do?”

  “How did they get it? Who gave it to them?” someone demanded.

  He shook his head. “Right now, that doesn’t matter. What matters is beating Coral Heights. They’ve pulled out the dirtiest tricks this game. Are you going let them get away with this?”

  The boys shook their heads.

  He raised his voice, “I said, are you going to let them get away with this?”

  “No, Coach Morehouse!” the boys shouted.

  He nailed them each with a hard stare. “Good. The playbook will be their downfall, my friends. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

  He reached for Dave’s copy of the playbook and opened to the page for what should be the next play of the game. “We change each one just slightly. They’ll think they know what’s going to happen, and by the time they realize it’s not the play they expected, it will be too late. This may only work once or twice. After that, they’ll stop trying to anticipate and just play a normal game, so let’s make those first couple times count.”

  He pointed at the next play and held his hand out. Dave scrambled to hand him a dry erase marker. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” He went through the next plays, changing only one thing about each. He kept it simple so the boys could remember without having practiced the plays.

  “Everyone understand?”

  The boys nodded.

  “We’re out of time,” Dave said, looking at his watch.

  “No mercy on them,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

  “No mercy,” a couple kids muttered.

  “Say it together.”

  “No mercy!” the boys shouted and put their helmets back on.

  “Get out there and show them what happens to cheaters.”

  Their anger channeled, the boys jogged out, jaws set, eyebrows down.

  When Donnie passed him, he caught him by the facemask and pulled him off to the side. The kid paled, face drawn up in dread. Kids get kicked off teams for losing their playbooks, and this team would probably never forgive him if they found out. Donnie’s entire football career rested on this game. He’d been out with the knee injury when other scouts had come, so this was his only shot.

  He gripped Donnie’s helmet in both hands and pulled his face up close. “Did you lose your playbook?”

  He kept his voice low, so the others wouldn’t hear.

  Anguish scrunched up Donnie’s face. He blinked rapidly. “Coach…”

  “Your girlfriend took it?”

  “I’m sorry, Coach,” he croaked.

  “Me too, Donnie. You fucked up. Big time.” The kid would probably be worthless out on the field in this emotional state. If Rick had any hope of turning this game around, he had to get his best running back reoriented, and fast.

  “I need you to make it up to me. And the team.”

  Donnie nodded rapidly, the helmet bobbing. “Anything, Coach.”

  “You go out there and win that game.” He pointed at his chest and poked him. “You. You’re going to win this game for us. Understand?”

  The shifty-eyed panic ebbed away, replaced by concentrated focus. “I understand.”

  “Make this right, Donnie. Fix it for us.”

  Donnie squared his shoulders, grim determination settling over his expression like armor. “I’ll fix it.”

  “Yes, you will. Now go.” He smacked his ass.

  Donnie took off running, looking every inch the star player he was.

  Dave had hung back and he fell in beside him now. “Bristol know you’re here?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t give a damn. They can fire me if they want, I’m coaching this team through playoffs.”

  Dave grinned and thumped him on the back as they stepped out on the field. He drew in a deep breath, the smell of damp grass filling his nostrils. The sight of his kids’ new confidence expanded his chest. For the first time on that shit-filled day, something had gone right.

  * * *

  Brandy saw him on the field a moment before the crowd spotted him. Excitement rippled through the stands. Sudden
ly everyone was pointing at the tall, broad-shouldered coach, Houston’s sweetheart, Rick Morehouse. Her heart fluttered just seeing him back on that field where he belonged. Or was it just seeing him? She missed him, already.

  Had Justin been able to fix things? Or had Rick just defied the superintendent and headed down to the field of his own accord?

  She looked down the bleachers to where the Justin sat with Dr. Perricone. They had their heads together and Justin was talking. Well, that was what he did best. If ever anyone could win an argument or convince a jury, it was him.

  Coral Heights received the second half kickoff and their offense went to work. On first down, their quarterback dropped back to pass but Houston High’s d-line penetrated the backfield quickly causing the QB to rush his pass. Straight to Donnie—yes! Donnie intercepted the pass! “Yes, Donnie, go! Run!”

  Donnie ran, ball tucked up against his chest, weaving and dodging the guys trying to tackle him. He ran the 60 yards and scored.

  Yes! The Houston High stands erupted into cheering.

  Donnie met his gaze all the way across the field. There was no silly grin or gloating, he just gave him a single nod.

  Rick’s lips curved into a smile. Atta boy. He’d been sure Donnie could turn this game around.

  After kicking off, Houston High’s defense forced a quick three-and-out and soon their offense was back on the field with the ball.

  Sorry suckers.

  His boys set up to run a pitch-n-sweep to the right side, and like before, Coral Heights anticipated their moves. But the Houston High QB instead ran a naked bootleg to the left and there was nobody to stop him as he curled around the end and started running.

  Tackled on the 30 yard line. Not bad.

  He watched the Coral Heights coach scratch his bald head and glanced down at his clipboard, probably wondering if they’d practiced it wrong. Asshole.

  The Houston High fans stomped their feet in an organized rhythm, chants growing louder. Ti-gers, Ti-gers, Ti-gers...

  Houston High set up to run a Power 43 Right Post but the receiver ran a left post instead. Once more, they faked out Coral Heights. Ames completed the pass to Donnie, who had run wide open down the field. He caught it.

  The Houston High crowd cheered. No player was even close to Donnie as he booked it down the field, 25 yards and into the end zone.

  The crowd screamed. This time Donnie showed a little more pep, holding the ball up in the air in triumph as his teammates slapped him on the back.

  They were down 14 to 28. The game was definitely in recovery. He never looked—considered it bad luck, actually—but he turned and gazed up into the stands. As if a homing beacon or a spotlight shone on her, his focus went straight to the tall blonde in the very back. There was no mistaking her elegance and poise.

  She smiled broadly, lifting her fingers to wave, then jerking her hand back down and looking around her, as if to be sure he was looking at her.

  He resisted the urge to wave back, but his heart seemed to surge back to life, warmth filling his chest. He didn’t even remember why he’d been mad at her. It wasn’t her fault Stan Brown was a douche.

  He dropped his gaze down to the front row, where Bristol and Perricone sat together. Bristol gave him the thumbs up. Huh. Maybe they weren’t going to send the cops down on the field to arrest him for being there.

  He turned his focus back to the game and clapped his hands. “All right, let’s see some good defense now, guys. Show them who’s boss.”

  And they did. They tackled the Coral Heights quarterback four times in quick succession, taking the ball back.

  The next play showed Coral Heights had given up on following their pilfered playbook, and had finally settled in to just play ball. Fair and square. Too bad they were outclassed by his players. Donnie again streaked down the field and caught the ball, as the third quarter ended.

  Still they had one more quarter to go. They would win this game.

  * * *

  Brandy rubbed her palms on her skinny jeans. She was a sports fan, but not usually the yelling, screaming, sweating it kind. Tonight was different. Somehow, it felt like if Houston High didn’t win this game, all her chances of being with Rick were off. Illogical, but there it was.

  Claire kicked her feet and looked around, impervious to the fervor of the crowd. All around them, feet were stomping the bleachers, voices were raised to a fever pitch.

  Houston High scored their third touchdown and on the ensuing kick-off, the Coral Heights return man fumbled the ball which bounced twice, right into the hands of a Houston High player who ran 10 yards for their fourth touchdown. The cheering crowd was deafening.

  Houston High missed the extra point. The score was 27-28 with three minutes left on the clock and Coral Heights had the ball. They called a timeout.

  Anyone could predict they’d do their best to run out the clock.

  She sat on her hands to keep from chewing her nails, a habit she thought she’d broken years ago. Her mother would be so disappointed in her.

  The time out over, the teams came back onto the field.

  Come on, come on, come on. They needed a miracle.

  Coral Heights ran the ball a few times, getting first downs and burning away precious time on the clock. Coral Heights had pushed the ball past mid-field with 2:38 left on the clock. Not looking good.

  Coral Heights ran their next play, but their quarterback fumbled and a scrum ensued to recover the ball. The whistle blew for the two-minute warning as the refs peeled players off the pile to discover Coral Heights retained possession of the ball. Damn.

  Please, please, please, God. A miracle. Now.

  Coral Heights ran two more running plays as the clock continued to tick down. On third down and long, Coral Heights tried a simple screen pass and-no way—Donnie, the kid Rick had been bringing to the gym, the obvious star of the team, penetrated the line so quickly he was able to tip the ball to himself and intercept it. Again. The kid was incredible. He tucked the ball under his arm and beat a path through the players, ducking and dodging them as they flew at him.

  Brandy jumped to her feet, screaming with the rest of the crowd. “Run, Donnie, run!”

  He made it! Houston High scored and they won the game!

  Everyone jumped up and down and threw their arms around each other. Brandy high-fived Claire and looked around for Sam. With Claire’s hand safely tucked in her own, she led her down the bleacher steps, scanning the crowd.

  “Daddy!”

  Justin pulled Claire in for a hug and kiss. He gave her a nod of his head, like they were spies transmitting secret information.

  “Everything’s okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s going to be fine.”

  She gave him a hug—not a close one, but a hug nonetheless. “Thank you.”

  He patted her awkwardly. “No problem. Where’s Sam?”

  At that moment, Sam appeared. “Wasn’t that great?” he gushed. “Can you believe that interception?”

  “Yeah, they played a great game,” Justin said and she stepped back to let them have their moment.

  Sam blinked up at his dad. “Why are you here?”

  Kids were never subtle.

  Justin cocked his head. “I figured I’d better start supporting my son’s future team.”

  Sam’s jaw dropped. “Yeah?” A broad grin spread across his face.

  Justin dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Yeah. I’m looking forward to watching you play down on that field.”

  She smiled over the kids’ heads at Justin, who matched it.

  Wow. She never imagined they’d be on the same side of anything again. It was nice not to have the familiar rancor between them.

  Sam’s friend from the clinic came up. “Hey, Sam. The whole team’s going to Peter Piper to celebrate. You wanna come?”

  Sam looked up at her.

  Her chest constricted thinking of Rick. He’d be there. Would he still give her the cold shoulder?

  “Yeah, we can go.”<
br />
  “Yes!” He fist pumped the air. “I’ll see you there.”

  “See you there!”

  She looked over at Justin. “Do you want to come?”

  Please say no.

  He shook his head. “Nah. I’ll see the kids tomorrow. Have a good time.”

  “Thanks. For your help, I mean. You were great.”

  His smile twisted in a wry grin and he shoved his hands in his pockets. “See you guys.”

  She watched him walk off, a pang of... what? Not regret—she certainly didn’t miss her marriage. No, compassion. Yes, that was it. She’d loved him once and she wanted the best for him, even though that wasn’t her.

  Goodbye, Justin. For the first time since their divorce it felt like a clean break. Like she could go on without hard feelings or the congestion of negativity. Like she could contemplate being in a new relationship…

  Chapter Twelve

  Rick pulled on his beer. Ted Bristol stood beside him, basking in the glory of his school’s championship, making it seem like he’d been Rick’s best friend and biggest supporter. Well, whatever, the guy had just been doing his job.

  Several more parents pushed their way through to thump him on the back, and Dave handed him another beer. Peter Piper was their default after-game party spot—a kid-friendly restaurant that still had beer and wine for the adults. Priorities.

  The kids were all off playing skeeball, chattering excitedly or flirting. Donnie tugged on his sleeve. “Coach, can I talk to you for a second?”

  He put his arm around the kid’s shoulders and steered him into a corner of the room.

  “Coach, are you going to tell everyone?”

  He shook his head. “No, I am not. You may choose to tell them on your own, but that’s your decision.”

  “Am I still on the team?” The general rule was if you lost your playbook, you were off the team.

  He palmed Donnie’s head with both hands. “You think I’m getting rid of you right before State?”

  Donnie blinked several times, his dark skin reddening. “Is that a no?”