by Sara Evans
“I think this is the last of it.” Jade ground the embers of the card into the ground with her heel, leaving the link to the dead woman’s deceit smoldering in the alley.
Eleven
On Monday morning the third week of July, Max cut through the sun blades of Colby, Texas. The yellow daggers sliced through cumulus clouds, dividing the light and shade.
Colby High, home of the Warriors, was located on the south end of town, a straight shot from the ’30s bungalow he and Jade rented on three acres just northwest of town.
The fifteen-minute drive down 23rd Street took Max through pasture and farm territory, past trailer parks and public housing, into the quaint, historic downtown where ancient foliage lined the streets. Colby Grounds Coffee Shop sat on the corner of Jones Street and 23rd. Until now, that’s all he knew of this Texas town.
South of town new developments popped up on the plains. Moneyed Texans built rambling houses behind gated golfing communities.
A bend in the road, and Max saw the high school rising on the horizon. He tightened his hands on the wheel of his Mercedes.
This is it. Your big experiment is about to launch. Too late to turn back now. But as Max neared the field house, something seemed amiss. Where was the beaten down, battered school with a failing football program?
In his mind he’d pictured a dilapidated structure with wobbly bleachers and a shed for a field house.
Instead, a pristine, massive structure rose from the prairie. The football stands looked more like a small college stadium. Fifteen-foot letters, at least, lined the top and spelled out Warrior Country.
Turning into the parking lot, Max followed Chevy’s instructions to the field house. How could he miss it? An enormous Warrior, fiery spear in hand, rode a painted pony, galloping along the side of a beautiful block structure.
Confidence, don’t leave me now. Max cut the engine and stepped out, tucking his keys into his pocket. The sign over the door read Warriors Enter Here.
His footsteps echoed in the hall. His breath filled his ears. His heart strained against his ribs. Cold sweats gathered on his neck and arms. This was not the field house of a dying program. This was the field house of a faltering program looking to regain the crown. How’d they keep this thing going?
Boosters. Money. Expectation. The hall echoed with opulence. The tile glistened.
He stopped cold when he passed the room on his left. He pressed his forehead against the glass like a kid at a department store Christmas display.
Weight room. State of the art. Better than his gym back home. He scooted down to see through the window on the back wall door. Were those Jacuzzis? The signs above read Hot and Cold. When he’d played in high school, he went home after a football game and filled a baggie with ice from the freezer to rehab his tired muscles.
Next came the locker room. A wide, spacious room, white with red lockers and a gold floor. When he turned to his right, Max found the equipment room, organized, neat, and set up for fall play.
He was hyperventilating in the film center, complete with theater seating, when Chevy found him.
“Max, welcome, welcome.” Chevy strode toward him, hand extended. He wore pressed business clothes—slacks and a button-down with an open collar. He looked to be in his midforties, though his hair was completely gray. Probably from the last six years of football casualties. “What do you think? Let’s get you set up in your office.”
“Chevy, this is the high school field house? Do you share it with a college? Like Texas Tech or A&M?”
The principal laughed as he opened a dark wood, windowed door and led Max into a square, spacious office that rivaled his digs at Benson Law. A glass wall gave him a full view of the field from the south end zone.
First glimpse he had of the field. Manicured. Green. Painted. Amazing like everything else.
“We hope you like it.” Chevy tapped a light wood desk complete with an iMac computer. Behind the desk was a credenza. Suspended from the corner was a flat panel screen with a Blu-ray player. “In here’s your conference room for coach’s meetings.”
Max peered through the door Chevy opened. Mahogany table, whiteboard, TV, Blu-ray, of course. Warrior carpeting.
Max’s mind conflicted with his heart. This was . . . fantastic. This was . . . a disaster. What had he stepped into? This wasn’t a poor man’s program.
“Now over here”—Chevy crossed to the other side of the office, opened another dark wooden door, and flipped on a light—“is your private quarters. It’s not much, but you have a bath and sofa, fridge and little reading area. One year we had a young, single coach and he just lived in here.”
“Not much? Not much,” Max finally spoke. “Chevy, this is incredible. Spectacular. I thought the program was broke, busted, on its last leg.” In all the dialog about coaching Colby High School football, Max never imagined asking about the condition of the field house—run-down, or in this case, state of the art.
“It is. Coaching-wise. But we have some very loyal, rich boosters. The field house was built eight years ago as we were coming off our winning season.
Coach Burke had retired. We had a new hotshot coach, Fin Ryan, who immediately broke every rule in the book. Out-of-season practices, practices lasting too long, cheating, lying, steroids. We got nabbed on that one by the state.
Seems we never recovered. The athletic director’s looked high and low for our next Coach Burke.”
“Steroids?”
“Ryan wanted to best Coach Burke’s legacy. I think he felt pressured by some of the boosters. Took things too far. Lost our bid in pre- and postseason games as part of our sanction for three years. Can’t win a championship if you’re not allowed to play.”
“Chevy, this is not the picture you painted for me when you asked me to come.”
“If I told you, would you have come?”
“I-I don’t know. Maybe.” Max moved to the middle of his office. A leather, L-shaped sofa hugged the far wall. He imagined briefly it being a fun place to chat with the boys or coaches after practice. “I thought I was coming to help a poor school, a financially broke program.”
“Well, we are poor in some senses, Max. Poor in leadership. Poor in coaching. Poor in our program integrity and skill. Last coach we had fielded a bunch of brutes.”
“W-what about the A.D.? Isn’t it his or her job to keep the coaches in line?”
“He says he did. You’ll meet him in a minute as well as your assistants and a few key boosters.” Chevy took a leisurely seat on the sofa. “Well? Did you see the film room when you came in? You can get the whole team in there. All your keys are in your desk. Do you know how to use a Mac?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Max stepped to his desk, opening the drawer to see the keys.
“You have four assistant coaches. And an equipment manager. The Warriors still have an excellent booster program. With the recent slump in our football program, a lot of dollars have gone over to basketball, softball, and baseball. But I have their commitment to support you, Max. If you need anything, you let me know.” Chevy checked his watch. “Let’s go to the film room. We’re meeting everyone in there.”
Stunned didn’t quite describe how Max felt. Overwhelmed. Deceived. Terrified. Those were good descriptions. Chevy led Max across the hall. The film room reminded Max of the Benson Law media center with its mounted screen and plush seating.
This couldn’t all be from generous boosters. Max remained in the back, knots pulling taut in his belly. What’s the real reason you haven’t been able to keep a coach, Chevy?
“Max, welcome to Texas football. Come on, sit down. Don’t look so distressed.”
Lord, what have I done? Max eased down the aisle. “Chevy, any coach with experience or ambition would walk across the prairie barefoot for a chance at a place like this.”
“I’m not interested in coaches who are bedazzled by the facilities. That’s why I didn’t really bring it up. You were willing to come without knowing. Big points in my book
.” Chevy turned on another set of lights. “I’m working on making this a prep school, Max. I need kids with academics and athletics. I don’t mind starting over a football program with a green coach. I started over basketball two years ago and we won our first regional this spring. The kids are excelling on and off the court. I want that from you for this football program. I read up on you. Tenth in your law class. Graduated with honors from Duke and Duke Law. Lots of pro bono work. Other than your . . . problem, which I talked with Axel about, you are the best candidate for what I want.”
Chevy glanced toward the door as a group of men made their way into the room. He greeted them, asked about wives and children by name, made each man feel important. Using the same charm on them he used on Max.
“Max, this is Lars Martin, your offensive coordinator.” Chevy moved to the next man as Max shook Lars’s hand. “Kevin Carroll here runs a mean defense.”
“Kevin, nice to meet you.”
“Same here.” His tone betrayed his words.
Chevy introduced the special teams coach, the strength coach, and the equipment manager. Then they sat in the first row, arms folded, glancing back as another group of men filed into the room.
“Here we go. Max, this is Colby High’s athletic director, Bobby Molnar.”
“Bobby, nice to meet you.”
“Welcome.” Flat. Cold. Attitude galore. He’d been left out of this selection process.
Take it up with Chevy. But Max felt the tension. “Thanks, it’s good to be here.” Stay cool. Stay humble.
“This is Rick Lundy, president of the boosters and all-around Warrior fanatic.
Bobby quarterbacked the team for the 1980 national champs. Rick here starred on the 1985 team, rushing for, what, thirteen hundred yards that season?”
“Thirteen hundred and fifty-two.”
“But who’s counting, right?” Chevy laughed and slapped Rick on the back.
“If you need anything, Max, Rick is your man. He owns half of Colby, I believe. Restaurants. Apartments. Auto parts stores. I can’t keep up.”
“A few mini-marts,” Rick said, smiling, shaking Max’s hand.
“He’s on his way to owning all of Colby,” Chevy said. “And here we have the lovely Brenda Karlin. Brenda is the vice president of the boosters, taking care of fund-raisers and pep rallies and what all. Brenda, meet our new coach.”
“We’ve met, Chevy. I helped Max and his wife rent that place up off Route 60. How y’all doing? Did your furniture arrive yet?”
“Not yet. All we have is an air mattress in the master bedroom, but we’re doing well.”
“I’m sure the furniture will arrive soon. We are so thrilled to have you, Max. I hear good things about you from Chevy.” Brenda wore a dark suit with a vivid orange blouse. Her straight blond hair was short and styled, and something about her eyes reminded Max of the pebbles he used to collect from the Hollow’s creeks.
A few of the players drifted into the room, moving among the chairs and sitting in small clusters. They looked and felt nothing like a team.
The arrogant and wealthy boys wore dubious, bored expressions with smartphones glued to their hands.
Another group of boys, chisel-faced and sinewy, with eyes like polished marbles, wore eager yet tentative expressions, appearing edgy, as if they might be asked to leave at any moment.
A spattering of boys of various shapes, sizes, and backgrounds sat in groups of twos or threes. But then there was a cluster in the center of the chairs. Four in all. They eyed Max with steel criticism. He knew them instantly. The talent. The skill players.
“Warriors, I’d like you to meet your new coach, Maxwell Benson. He came all the way from Tennessee to help us out this year.” Chevy started the applause as he backed away, making room for Max to face the team.
His heartbeat robbed his breath and his voice. It would not be cool to appear nervous. But he felt like a man condemned under the coaches’ and the boys’ somber, sharp scrutiny. Max counted twenty players in all. He stood before them like he stood before a jury. Make your case. For all practical purposes, weren’t they his jury? The ones who would judge his coaching and his program?
“Good morning,” Max began, steady, calm, his gaze scanning the faces in the room. “I just want you all to know I don’t need any of you to uphold Warrior football tradition.” The boys glared at him. The coaches shifted their stance, shoulders against the wall, arms folded over their chests. “I don’t. Because I can go out on the field every Friday night all by myself. Well, shoot, for fun, let’s let my wife and two-year-old son play too. My wife’s a pretty solid athlete—I think we could complete a few passes, make a few tackles.” Max paced the length of the room, passing in front of the chairs. “Yeah, I don’t need any of you to carry on Warrior tradition.”
The boys fidgeted in their seats, their jaws set, their eyes tracing Max as he walked. Over on the wall, the assistants shuffled their stances.
“Because Warrior tradition is losing. In your last five seasons, the best the Warriors have done is one and eleven. One year, the Warriors lost every game.
I can lose on Friday nights with the best of them. Why do we need to put the school and the boosters to all the expense and heartache of paying for this lovely football facility if all we’re going to do is lose from week to week? Y’all can stay home. My wife and I will play. Save the school a whole bunch of money.”
The coaches stood away from the wall. The boys sat back, squaring their shoulders.
“Hold up, hold up.” The big kid on the third row, right side, shifted forward, a haughty blaze in his eyes. He looked like a skill player—quarterback or running back. “Is it true you ain’t never coached football? And you lecturing us?”
Max stretched across the rows to shake his hand. “And you are?”
“Carter Davis.”
“Carter, good to meet you. Running back?”
“Ain’t it obvious?” He snorted back at his friends, his grin revealing thick white teeth. “I told you he ain’t no real coach. Can’t even tell a good running back when he’s standing in front of him.”
“You run the forty in, what, four-six, maybe four-five, but you want to get to four-four?” Max slapped his hands together and raised one eyebrow.
“You think you smart? My granny can read a stat sheet. Mr. Buchholz, you said we was getting a real coach.” Carter started up the aisle with a large attitude and grand gestures to his teammates. “This is bull and y’all know it.” He kicked the chairs in the back by the door. “How are we going to win with a coach who don’t know what he’s doing?”
“Carter, sit down.” Chevy stepped in front of Max. “Listen to the man.”
“Listen to what? He’s mocking us, Mr. Buchholz. Saying how he’s going to lose football while playing with his wife and kid. That he don’t need us.” Carter stepped toward Max. “He don’t need us ’cause he don’t know what he’s doing.” Carter cocked his body with attitude, ready to fire off at any moment. “Why we keep hiring coaches who can’t coach, got one foot out the door, or get us in trouble with the rules? First Mr. Molnar, now you, Mr. Buchholz. Listen, my Aunt Tee lives down in Canyon territory. I’m going to transfer there. Now they have a coach who’s taking them places.”
“It ain’t all about you, Carter.” A wiry, skinny boy rose to his feet. “The rest of us want to play too.”
“Go ahead an’ play, Gellar. I ain’t stopping you. But I want to play college ball.” Carter gave Max a visual once over, a snide curl on his lip. “He sure as heck ain’t getting me there. He don’t even have connections.”
“Mr. Buchholz has contacts.” The Gellar kid braved an argument.
“Then why don’t he use them to get us a coach?”
The boys started to argue, their voices growing louder, their chests swelling. “Sit down,” Max said, low, strong, in command. “Face forward.” He moved up the center aisle. “I’d like you to stay, Carter, but I understand if you can’t. My point is I don’t wan
t to keep up current Warrior tradition, but get back to the winning Warrior tradition. That”—Max looked hard at every man in the room—“I can’t do by myself. You’re right, Carter, I’m new. I don’t know what I’m doing.” Max grinned. “Well, I know a little bit of what I’m doing. But I need all of you. The first step to getting back to winning seasons and championships is . . . you. We work as a team and take it one day, one game at a time.”
Carter dropped to the end seat in the last row.
“Why am I the head coach when I’ve never done this before? Because Principal Buchholz thought I was the best man for the job. I love football.”
Max gestured toward Bobby and Rick, leaning against the wall. “We have two former state champs right over there. Football is the greatest game in the world. It requires skill and talent. Football can make ordinary men great. Or it can make great men ordinary. But football is about being a team. There are no wins, no victories for anyone without eleven men on the field. There’s no glory without heart. All the talent in the world is wasted on a player who is self-focused. I can see why some of your coaches might have left if this is the way y’all greeted him.”
The boys shifted in their seats. The coaches in the front remained stalwart but had let go of their crossed arms and reclined in the chairs.
“Heart trumps talent. A winning attitude earns my respect before speed or power. If you want to play on the Colby Warriors football team, all you need to do is show up tomorrow—”
“Tomorrow? Coach, we don’t start camp until next month.” Kevin stood, glancing at Bobby Molnar.
“Show up tomorrow. Together we’ll start planning how to make a winning Warrior football team. You’re right to be nervous about me. I am.”
“Coach, you know we can’t start practice until August. Regulations.” Bobby raised up next to Kevin, sounding like the athletic director he was.
“This isn’t practice. It’s a team meeting. If you want to be on this team, show up, seven a.m. Help me figure out how to make this a winning program.