He looks different, too. Rougher. Darker. His eyes are always hooded and brooding, his face remaining in that same lifeless expression with no hint of happiness or smile.
And then I get to photos I can tell are of Mack pre-accident. When his career was still bright in front of him. When his future still had promise. When he wasn’t stuck watching his teammates play from the sidelines. Before. His eyes light and excited, his smile present in every photo.
Suddenly it occurs to me that Jeremy must know about the job. But does he know that Mack asked me out? I quickly fire off a text to him.
Me: Did you hear that Andy McIntosh is our new coach?
Jeremy: He got the job? Sweet! He’s great, Rach. You’re gonna love him
Me: What does that mean? Did you know he was applying?
Jeremy: He didn’t apply. I recommended him to Coach J
Me: I didn’t realize a coach could get hired on just a recommendation
Jeremy: Ya. Coach J loves me
I forgot that Coach Johnson played on the Glendale team with Jeremy. It would make sense for him to take Jer’s recommendation so seriously.
Jeremy: We still on for MM tonight?
Mexican Mondays. Our tradition. When I was a freshman in college, we met at the quad for lunch. Once Jeremy went pro, he turned it into Mexican Mondays and an opportunity to treat my poor ass to dinner. Even with all of the craziness of his life as a pro-athlete, he still tries really hard to be available every Monday if he isn’t traveling so we can catch up and bitch and moan about how terrible his fabulous life is.
Me: Absolutely. See you there
I spend the next hour staring out the window of the conference room, and half-heartedly listening to Piper and Ruth-Ann gossiping about Mack before moving on to talk about other male pro players they think are ‘totally hot’.
When I finally hear Coach Johnson call my name, my stomach drops. I stand up slowly and head out of the banquet room, then down the hall to Coach Walker’s old office. Mack’s new office.
His office.
Where he will work from as my coach.
The open door at the end of the hall looms in front of me, and I feel like I’m moving in slow motion as a part of some horrible Hallmark movie. When I finally reach the door and take a step in, Mack looks up from his clipboard, where he’s taking notes. The professional smile on his face quickly shifts, with something a little more heated passing through his eyes. I stand immobile at the door, soaking that look in for the last time.
He stands, cocking his head a little to the side. “RJ, what are you…” but he stops talking when I shake my head quickly.
Coach Johnson is behind me, standing at the door with a smile on his face.
“Alright, Coach. This is our starting goalkeeper, Rachel Jameson. I’ll leave you to it and be back with Desiree in a few.” And then he closes the door, leaving Mack and I to stand and stare at each other.
This can’t be happening. I mean, logically, I know it’s happening. I can see it happening. I know that the man who was at my door on Saturday night is the same man in front of me. But at the same time, I don’t want to let myself believe it. Because if I do, that means that the universe is actively working against my happiness.
Mack closes his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose. Without looking at me, he says, “You’re Jeremy’s little sister.”
“Yes.” My voice is a whisper.
“You’re the goalie on the team I’m coaching.”
“Yes.”
He opens his eyes and the look of sadness I see in them reflects every piece of disappointment rattling around in my soul. He sits in his chair and rubs his hands over his face. I follow suit, sitting across from him, just staring at him, aware that this might be my last chance to just look at him unabashedly without feeling self-conscious about it. I won’t get that luxury again without fear that someone will see my feelings written on my face.
“RJ,” he starts.
My head drops and I stare at my hands clasped tightly in my lap.
“I know,” I whisper.
And when I look back up at him, I see the look. The look I was anticipating.
It’s over.
It doesn’t surprise me. Both of us could get in serious trouble if there was even a hint that something was going on between us.
“How is this happening?” I ask.
He shakes his head and exhales a heavy breath, taking a seat back at his desk.
“I’ve been talking with Jeremy about trying to get back into the soccer world. He called me a few weeks ago. Told me he’d heard word that Coach Walker might be moving on and a coaching job might come open here. That I should head out to be available for an interview.” He shrugs. “I’ve been here about three weeks. I didn’t even know if it was going to work out until last night.”
“So it’s Jeremy’s fault,” I say with a small smile.
He laughs. A small laugh, but it’s still better than the desolate look he was wearing a few minutes ago.
“Yeah, I guess it is.” He picks up his pencil and starts twirling it in his fingers. “So that’s it then.”
“We barely know each other.” I try to brush it off, but even I can tell there’s no conviction behind my words. “We went on one date. This shouldn’t matter.”
“You’re right. It shouldn’t.”
And then we stare at each other, each of us silently acknowledging the fact that whatever was blooming between us would have been something special. Something more. Sometimes the loss of what might have been can feel just as intense as the loss of what is. We’re in the process of losing both.
“We can’t just sit here and stare at each other.” I finally say with a sigh. “Treat me like the other girls. What questions do you have for me?”
His eyes drop to his clipboard.
“Tell me about yourself.” But before I can answer he draws a line through the question and reads the next one. “What are your long-term soccer goals?” And then he scratches through that one and moves on. “Why are you a part of this team?”
There’s a silence and I realize he’s going to let me respond because it’s finally a question he doesn’t know the answer to.
“As you know, my brother plays soccer. He always made it sound like it was a way to escape from his life. So I joined the team in high school and I was hooked, just like he was. My dad had his own idea about what Jeremy and I should do with our futures, and it didn’t involve soccer, or Glendale. I had to get a scholarship if I wanted to go to school, because my dad sure wasn’t going to help. Half of my tuition is an academic scholarship, but the other half is covered by athletics.”
“So you’re a part of this team because it pays your way?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Then what did you say?”
I pause, trying to find the right words.
“There are a few people in my past who have intentionally tried to make me feel like I had no value.” I see Mack wince slightly, and I focus my attention out the window behind him instead of at his face. “It was important to me to be able to leave that behind and create a better life than what those people think I deserve. I knew my only way to get free was to go to college and I needed some sort of scholarship. I was lucky enough to fall in love with a sport when I needed it. I took that love and channeled it to learn and improve and kick ass so that I could get that scholarship. And now I’m using that scholarship to get my degree and be the person I think I’m capable of being.”
When I finally look back at him, his eyes are roaming over my face. “You’re going to do amazing things, RJ.”
“I’m not sure about amazing things,” I respond with a small shrug. “But I’ll try my best to do something with my life that’s more than getting drunk and ruining other peoples’ lives.”
Mack’s nostrils flare and his eyes narrow. His posture has gone rigid, and I see him clenching his fist around his pen. The
n he looks at his watch.
“Our time is up,” he says curtly, rising from his chair.
I’m confused about his suddenly gruff response for a brief moment before it hits me – he thinks I’m talking about him, about his past. Without the context of my family he couldn’t know what I meant.
“Mack, I didn’t…”
“It’s Coach McIntosh, Rachel. Please remember that in the future.” His eyes have turned glacial, and he’s looking through me, not at me.
“Please, if you would just let me explain I can…”
“I don’t need an explanation, Rachel.”
“Stop calling me Rachel!” I shout. Then I drop my voice and glare at him. “So this is how it’s gonna be, huh? Now that there’s some sort of power dynamic, you’re going to use it shut me out before letting me explain? You have to…”
“I don’t have to do anything,” he cuts me off again.
I grab my duffle bag off of the floor and sling it around my body with a huff, holding the strap at the front. I see Mack’s eyes drop to my wrist, to the jelly bracelets that I haven’t taken off since Saturday. His shoulders drop.
“If you would have let me finish,” I spit out, “I could explain to you that I was talking about the destruction my drunk of a father left in his wake. It had nothing to do with you.” His eyes fly to mine and I see the shock in them. My nose prickles as tears begin to build in my eyes. “See you this afternoon at practice, Coach McIntosh.”
And then I’m out the door and rushing down the hallway.
Chapter Four
“Aren’t you supposed to be at practice?”
I ignore Charlie’s question and bolt past her up the stairs, slamming the bathroom door closed, then stripping quickly and stepping into the shower. Placing my palms flat on the tile, I lean forward and let the hot water hit my face and cascade down my body. Warm water on the face has always been the quickest way to ward off tears. I haven’t allowed myself to cry since freshman year, and I’ll be damned if I let a guy ruin that record.
Five minutes later, I barely hear the soft knock at the door. I know Charlie wants to ask questions and I’m not really sure I want to answer them. The sound of the toilet lid dropping and a soft thunk indicates that she’s taken up her usual spot and won’t be leaving. Ignoring her isn’t going to work.
“He’s my coach, Char,” I finally sputter out, the tears brimming even though I’ve been willing them away. “He’s the new soccer coach for Glendale. And I know, I know that it’s way too fast, way too soon to let my heart get this emotionally involved. I don’t let my heart get involved. I’m not this person. We went on one date. We kissed one time. But God, there was something special there. Something really special. And you know I don’t say something like that lightly. I don’t know what to do with myself now. I don’t know…” I take a shuddering breath. “I don’t know if I can go to practice every day and have him watching me and critiquing me in some cold, robotic manner, like we aren’t anything. Like it didn’t mean anything.”
There’s silence, and I know Charlie’s trying to put together her response. For someone as quick witted as her, she takes an awfully long time to formulate a response to something important.
“Hey, what do you…” I start to draw back the shower curtain, and all of the color drains from my face when I don’t see Charlie sitting in the bathroom. It’s Mack. His forearms rest on his knees, his hands clasped together, his eyes trained on the floor.
I slam the shower curtain closed. “What the fuck, Mack! You can’t be in here! Get the hell out!”
“RJ, I just wanted to…”
“No!” I shout, cutting him off mid sentence. “You do not get to show up at my house and sit in my bathroom while I take a shower.” I bring my hands up to my face and press the heels of my palms into my eyes. “God, I thought you were Charlie!” I take a deep breath. “You need to leave, now.”
I hear him stand and open the door. “I’ll be waiting downstairs when you’re done,” he says softly, and then the door closes behind him.
I can’t even formulate a physical or emotional response to the fact that Mack was just sitting in the bathroom while I essentially poured my heart out to him. I said that stuff. All of the… feelings. He heard them. And now he’s going to wait downstairs? I feel like I’m watching emotional table tennis. My head is flying back and forth. Anger, sadness, anger, sadness.
Right now, it is definitely anger. I roughly switch off the water and rip back the shower curtain, wrap myself in a towel and storm out of the bathroom. Walking down the hall, I see Charlie sitting on the floor of her room on the phone.
Her face pales when she sees my expression. “I gotta go,” she whispers into the phone, then quickly ends the call.
“What the hell were you thinking?” I growl at her through gritted teeth.
“I didn’t realize you were in the shower, RJ. I thought you just went up to your room. And then he shows up all puppy dog face and I thought he was here to make you feel better. I told him to head up. I’m so, so sorry!”
I just glare at her, dripping all over her carpet.
“What happened?” she whispers.
My face falls and the emotional table tennis is back. Sadness consumes me. “He’s my new coach,” I whisper.
Her mouth drops. We stay there in silence for a moment before I see her mouth split into a shit-eating grin. “That is without a doubt the sexiest thing I have ever heard.”
My brows furrow. “Excuse me?”
“Oh my god, RJ. A forbidden romance? All that angst? It’s like one of those bodice ripping romance novels my mom used to hide under her bed. Imagine… you’re gonna be all sexed up and sweaty after playing with balls for hours and he’s gonna be there with his clipboard and whistle and his amazing muscles. You could sneak off to the locker rooms for hot, steamy…”
“Charlie!”
“What? It sounds hot.”
“You are literally the worst right now.”
She frowns. “I was just trying to point out the positives.”
“There aren’t any positives. He is my coach. If anyone found out we even went on a date, I could be kicked off the team, lose my scholarship, and I’d have to drop out of Glendale and get a job working at Hooters.”
“One, that is incredibly dramatic. Two, you couldn’t get a job at Hooters. The qualifications needed for that job are in the name. Sorry, honey.”
I let out a huff at her not so subtle jab at my underwhelming chest. “That is so not the point. And I’m not being dramatic.”
Charlie just shrugs, her expression now sympathetic. “I get that you’re in a rough spot. But you should at least talk to him. I mean, I doubt this is how he saw it playing out either.”
Part of me thinks Charlie’s right. But the other part of me is incredibly irritated that Mack cut me off in his office, spouting his ‘it’s Coach McIntosh’ to me, but then thinks there isn’t anything wrong with showing up at my house and sitting in the bathroom while I shower.
What a hypocrite.
“I’ll talk to him,” I start, but then quickly continue when her eyes light up, “but don’t think this is going to end all sunshine and rainbows. This is a shitty situation.” Charlie just nods her head. “I need to throw on some clothes. Can you go downstairs and let him know I’ll be down in a minute?”
“Sure thing, girl.” And she’s hopping out the door and down the stairs.
I take my time getting changed, taking the extra effort to put on my vanilla scented lotion. As I’m poised to add a swoop of lip-gloss, I look at myself in the mirror. “What the hell are you doing?” I mutter to myself, then toss my gloss haphazardly on my dresser, unused, and throw my hair into a hasty, damp knot at the top of my head.
When I finally head down to the living room, I find Charlie sitting alone watching TV. “He’s waiting out front,” she says after catching my questioning look.
When I step outsi
de, I’m immediately assaulted by the incredibly warm October morning. Just when I think things are starting to cool down, LA gets hit with a heat wave. Eighty degrees at 8am is not my idea of a good day.
Mack is sitting on our front stoop. The Glendale Soccer shirt he’s wearing is stretched taught across his back. I want to run my hands across his back and wrap my arms around him. But I don’t. He doesn’t turn to look at me, and I don’t sit next to him. I just stand, leaning back on the front door.
“I shouldn’t have gone into the bathroom when I got here. It was inappropriate,” he says, his voice smooth but professional. “When I showed up, your roommate was on the phone and just pointed me upstairs. But that’s not really an excuse for why I made the decision to go in when you were obviously showering.”
“I get it. You wanted to talk. The line was kind of blurry already. If you weren’t my coach, who knows how that situation could have been different. It probably would have made me more fluttery than angry. But it is what it is, I guess.”
Mack stands and turns to look at me, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Fluttery? Where do you come up with these words?”
I shrug a little, letting my mouth turn up into a small smile, but I focus my eyes on his shoes. “So why are you here, Mack?”
When I finally get the nerve to look at him, his hands are clasped behind his head, pulling his shirt up to reveal just an inch of his toned stomach. His eyes are brimming with an apology, but I’m not sure I want it. “If it’s to apologize or smooth things over, it isn’t necessary.” I look past him to the street, letting the words fall from my mouth, but they don’t feel true. “You don’t owe me anything.”
The Keeper Page 7