I take a deep breath and let my eyes scan the paper by the door. I’m currently on academic probation because second semester last year I missed the GPA minimum for my scholarship. I had a 2.9, and the minimum is a 3.0. My academic advisor and I have a very clear plan for this semester in place, and it doesn’t really allow for any deviation or else I’ll lose my scholarship one semester away from graduation.
Psychology is the only class I’m allowed to get a low grade in, since I’m almost guaranteed A’s and B’s in my other courses, but I still have to pass. So when I spot the C- next to my ID number, my stomach turns over. I needed at least a B-. I’m not failing psych, but I’ve heard over and over that Professor Nguyen’s finals are the hardest in the department.
My advisor and I agreed that I will need to make a C or better on everything so that my inevitable horrible grade on the final won’t ruin everything. My last few grades have been in the C- range, so I’m still currently safe. But I’m not really setting myself up for any flexibility on the final.
With the weight of my grade just another worry on my mind, I begin my trek across the campus towards the athletic facility, not eager at all to see Mack or add anything else to my list of concerns.
* * * * *
When I’m just outside of Mack’s office, I take a moment to peer through the open door. He’s standing at his one small window, looking outside, seemingly lost in thought. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his tan slacks, his stance relaxed. It’s in this moment that I realize I’m seeing him this way for the first time, as a young professional.
He’s in a blue button down shirt and dress shoes, his slightly too long hair just a shade darker than normal, hinting at the gel he’s likely used to keep it from disarray. He shifts where he stands, his right hand coming out to scratch his jaw. His hand rubs back and forth a few times, as if this motion can alleviate whatever weight sits on his shoulders or solve the problem on his mind.
It’s that back and forth motion that reflects his true mental state. His stance, that at first appeared easy and casual, now appears taut and tense. His arm and back muscles flex as his hand moves from his face to grip the back of his neck.
I knock lightly on the doorframe, ignoring my desire to continue staring at him without interruption. His head whips towards me, his hand falling from his neck to rest at his side.
“Hey,” is the only thing I can think to say, and I offer him a small smile. “You wanted to see me?”
For just a brief second, I see something flicker across his face. But just as quickly as I see it, it’s gone, and I don’t have the time or mental fortitude to decipher it.
“Yeah, thanks for coming.” He steps away from the window, moving towards me at the door. “Come on in. Take a seat.”
He closes the door behind me as I drop into the pleather chair across from his desk. Was it just three days ago that I took a seat in this very spot and stumbled through our first conversation with Mack as my coach? It feels more like three months has passed.
“You said it was important,” I say to him, popping my left ankle onto my right knee.
The way I sit is ‘unladylike’, according to a bunch of people I don’t care about. But it’s comfortable, and something tells me I need to try to be comfortable right now, and ladylike isn’t really my style anyway.
“What’s up?”
“A couple of things, actually.” His tone is professional, which instantly allows me to relax. Thank god. The last thing I want to do is rehash our conversation at my apartment yesterday. Or his moody behavior. Or our kiss. Scratch that… two kisses. Those things need to just remain taboo topics that we don’t address.
“Okay, shoot.”
Mack clears his throat and stares at me, his eyes assessing. “I want you to be an unofficial coach for some of our upcoming practices.”
My head jerks back in surprise, my eyes narrowing in confusion. “You want me to what?”
His reply is to tilt his head and tap his pen a few times on the pad of paper in front of him. He sits back in his chair and crosses his legs in a way that mirrors mine.
“I said that I want you to be an unofficial coach for a few practices.”
“That’s what I thought you said. But I don’t understand why.”
“You told me you want to be a coach some day. I can tell you from personal experience that getting a coaching job without any experience can be rough. This way, Coach Johnson and I can provide some critique that will allow you to have some reflective experiences to draw from in the future.
His offer is so thoughtful, and so supportive, that my mouth drops open and I can’t think of anything to say.
“After the Cal game next week, we have a bye week. I’ll give you my notes about the things I want us to stay focused on for the practices we have between Cal and the next game. I’ll explain to you how and why I lay out practice structures so you can piece things together as you think is best.” His voice is calm, his tone almost teacher-like. “I think this could be really good.”
I continue to just stare at him. If I want to coach someday, this will be an amazing opportunity. Which is what I should be focused on. But instead I am trying to wrap my mind around the amazing consideration and investment Mack is making in my life.
Suddenly, I realize that I’m nodding without saying anything.
“Sure,” finally bursts from my mouth. “I can do that. Thank you so much.”
Mack smiles, then, and for a brief moment, I’m lost in it. How it lights up his face and eyes.
“Great! I’m excited. Coach Johnson thinks some of my philosophies are a little nuts, so it will be good to have someone I can laugh with on the sidelines there with me.”
My laugh is small, but genuine. “Well, I’ll definitely be laughing at you.” My phone starts buzzing and I drop my eyes to the bag at my feet.
“You need to get that?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I bend forward and snag my phone from the front pocket, flicking the screen to see a missed call from Thomas. “Missed it. I’ll call him back later,” I say out loud, more for myself than him.
“Jeremy?”
I shake my head and look back at him after my phone is dropped back into my bag. “No, Thomas.”
There’s a brief pause and his eyebrows draw together, but they quickly smooth back out. “Moore?” I nod. Mack picks his pen back up and begins tapping it again. He clears his throat once. Then twice.
“You said there were a few things you wanted to talk about?”
He shifts in his chair, his discomfort clear.
“Look, RJ, I know I’m your coach. But I obviously care about you,” he starts, and I know he’s moving away from the professional chatter and onto the personal. Something I don’t want him to do. “Well, at least I hope it’s obvious. I mean, not to everyone else, but to you.” He clears his throat again. “I just want you to know you can talk to me. About anything.”
His eyes on me feel like lasers, as if he’s trying to burrow himself under my skin and into my DNA. I don’t say anything to him, just nodding at his words.
He looks away then, his fingers now twisting his pen nervously in that way drummers twist their drumsticks.
“I still want you to come with me to the football game tomorrow night,” he says, his voice slightly above a whisper. When his eyes cut back up to mine, he adds, “just as friends.”
I lick my dry lips and softly chew on the inside of my cheek.
“Are we friends, Mack?”
He expels a heavy breath, dropping his pen and running both hands through his hair, causing the smoothed down pieces to stick up slightly in disarray.
“I’d like us to be. Just because I’m your coach doesn’t mean we can’t care about each other. Spend time together, on occasion. We can figure it out.” When my head falls to the side a bit and my eyes narrow at his naivety, he smiles sheepishly. “Okay, so maybe being actual friends is pushing it. But, there
’s someone I want you to meet. At the game.”
“Who?”
He just shakes his head slightly.
“Will you come?”
I assess him from across the desk. It hasn’t escaped my notice that he’s gripping his pen tightly, as if my response really means something. He must really want me to go to this game.
I sigh.
“What time am I meeting you?”
His face blooms into that grin I love so much, and I immediately wonder if I’m making a huge mistake.
Chapter Nine
The Atwater High School parking lot is packed when I pull in and I spend nearly ten minutes scouting for a space. Once I’ve pulled in at the end of the lot, I sit in Trusty Rusty for a few minutes in an attempt to calm my nerves. I don’t understand why Mack wants me to be here. But even worse, I don’t understand why I want me to be here.
It’s a bad idea.
And yet, I find myself slipping from my car, tucking my card and keys into my front pocket and my phone into my back, and walking towards the stadium entrance.
I see him almost immediately, leaning against the chain link fence that separates the parking lot from the field, and my breath catches. He’s in dark wash jeans and a gray henley, the sleeves pushed up slightly to reveal his forearms. His hair is loose today, the ends curling slightly behind his ears. In a word, he looks phenomenal. His casual stance resting against the fence makes him look like a model, and as I continue to walk towards him, I see a group of high school girls giggle and smile as they walk past.
He runs one finger absentmindedly under that same black wristband, then slips his phone out from his back pocket, checking the screen. He’s tucking it back into his jeans when he looks up and sees me approaching. I couldn’t see his eyes from farther away, but they are glued to me as I get closer. I see them flick from the signature red Chucks on my feet, over my favorite pair of faded jeans, to linger on my black screen print tee that says ‘Fries Before Guys.’ When his eyes finish their shameless perusal of my body and finally reach my face, my stomach flips and my cheeks burn.
“Mack,” I say, as I come to a stop just an arm’s distance away from him.
I internally curse myself at the slightly breathy tone of my voice. I clear my throat and glance around nervously. I don’t think I’ll know anyone here, but the goody-two-shoes inside is secretly terrified that someone will see us together.
He steps away from the fence and rests a hand on my arm. “RJ, you look…” he trails off and removes his hand, running it through his hair. “I’m glad you came. Ready to go in?”
I nod once, and follow him as he leads the way to the entrance. He passes ten bucks to a woman at a table in front of the entrance, palms the two tickets and reaches an arm back to usher me first through the gate.
Once we’re inside, he slips his hand into mine, twisting our fingers together. My eyes travel to our hands, then up to his face. But he doesn’t look at me, instead just giving my hand a small squeeze and leading me forward to the bleachers.
We’re ten minutes into a fairly decent game of high school football before either of us speaks. And it isn’t my pansy ass that breaks the silence.
“I don’t want things to be awkward.”
I keep my eyes trained on the field, following the snap and quick hand off with too much focus. When the running back is tackled to the ground, I look down at my shoes resting on the bleacher below.
“Me either, but I don’t know how to fix it.”
“Well,” he starts, leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees, clasping his hands together, “maybe talking about it will help. You know, get everything out in the open. We can get on the same page and hopefully start over. Or something.”
I nod. “Okay, you first.”
When I glance over, I see him smiling slightly. “Chicken.”
I smile back. “Yup. I’m as chicken as it gets.”
He’s silent for a moment, likely collecting his thoughts. Two more plays get the AHS team within field goal range, but their kicker misses, and there’s a groan from the crowd.
“I like you, RJ.” His statement startles me, and suppressing my smile is nearly impossible. “I like you a lot. And I know I said we should be friends, but I don’t want to just be friends. You’re smart, and funny. I laugh a lot more with you than I’ve laughed with anyone in a long, long time. And you’re beautiful. Like, stop me in my tracks gorgeous.”
I look at his profile and see him swallow hard.
“I hate that I’m your coach. And I hate that the timing is wrong. But more than that, I hate that you’ve closed yourself off from me over the past week. I felt like I got to see the real you at Jeremy’s party and on our date, but that isn’t who talks to me anymore. The woman at practice and the woman sitting next to me now are not the woman who beat my ass on the go-karts and calls me Indy. I really, really like that woman, and I’m afraid I’m never gonna see her again.”
After another minute or two, he stands up, and I’m worried he’s leaving since I haven’t said anything back.
“I’m gonna grab us a snack. Want anything specific?”
I shake my head and give him a small smile before he turns and walks down the bleacher steps towards the concession stand. As I watch his shape disappear around a corner, I allow my blank mind to begin sorting through everything he just said to me.
First of all, his honesty kills me. The guys I’ve gone on dates with, not that there have been many, have always seemed evasive. As if getting them to share too much would be pushing too far.
And then there are the actual words he said. Yes, he called me beautiful. But his first words were about my mind and my humor, things that are far more important in a relationship than looks. His comments hit the mark when he said I’m not myself around him. Which makes me sad, because for the first time, I feel like I’ve met someone who actually gets me and makes me feel like being myself is something special.
When Mack gets back, he’s carrying a soda and a small box of popcorn. He hands the popcorn to me and pulls a bag of M&Ms from his back pocket before he takes a seat.
“You remembered,” I whisper.
He just nods and takes a sip of the soda before placing it on the bench between us, allowing a comfortable silence to pass for a few moments.
“You scare me,” I say, loud enough that he can hear me but soft enough that we don’t have any eavesdroppers.
His head jerks slightly as he takes in my words. “I scare you?” I can hear in his tone that my words have hurt him, and I know instantly that I need to clarify. “Is this because of what happened with your dad? Or because of the kiss in your house? I swear I wasn’t trying to push you too far, I just…”
“No!” I say emphatically. “No, no, no. That’s not what I mean.”
“Well, can you tell me? Because I want to make you smile and laugh and feel happy. The last thing I want to do is scare you.”
His sweetness impresses upon me how important it is that I get this right. He needs it. I need it.
“You scare me because I barely know you, and I feel like I’m falling for you harder than I ever thought would be possible.”
When his eyes fly to mine, I swear I feel a current of electricity shoot between us.
“I really like you too, Mack. And trust me when I say that having feelings for someone is not something that happens to me. Ever. But when I’m with you, I alternate between feeling like I can breathe deeper, and wondering if I will ever be able to catch my breath again. I want to know everything there is to know about you, but I’m scared that when you see my broken, you’ll turn away. I’m afraid that the wrong person is going to be able to see how I look at you, or know how I feel when you’re around. And I’m scared that this feeling is all on me, like this connection I feel with you is somehow in my imagination. That is what I mean when I say you scare me. I am not a person easily scared by much, but I am terrified of you, and me. Of
us.”
We haven’t looked away from each other through everything I just said, and watching his face while I spoke made me feel naked. Vulnerable. But I feel like something has passed between us. Something rare, and true. His eyes are bright, his lips quirked up in the tiniest smile.
When he reaches between us and takes my hand in his, I relish in the warmth that sinks into my skin. Mack lifts my hand to his mouth and rests a soft kiss on my knuckles before releasing me and turning his head back to the field.
We pass the popcorn and M&Ms back and forth between us, not saying a word as the players on the field trudge back and forth. When the clock finally runs down, the team runs off the field for halftime, replaced quickly by the school band and color guard. When Mack stands, I assume he’s going to the bathroom or concessions again, but he takes my hand and pulls me to stand.
“Come on,” he says. “This is why I asked you to be here tonight.”
He leads me down the bleachers and towards concessions, but stops at the swag table that looks like blue and green monsters have thrown up all over it. Foam fingers, streamers, t-shirts, sweaters, beanies. My high school definitely didn’t have this kind of gear.
“Mack!” A cheerful voice from my left draws my eyes from the table itself to the woman sitting behind it. “Hey, sweetie!” Mack releases my hand and walks around the table, bending over to give her a hug. “I didn’t realize you were coming tonight. Dean will be so excited to see you after the game.”
She’s in her forties, with bright blue eyes and short, choppy, chocolate hair. She’s absolutely beautiful, and I wonder how she and Mack know each other. Apart from similar hair coloring, there doesn’t seem to be a family resemblance.
“You know I love watching Dean play,” Mack says, his smile easy and his eyes warm. “Sorry I couldn’t make it last week. I was talked into watching a game over at my buddy’s place.”
“Ah, well friendship is important. And Dean knows you can’t make it to every game.” She reaches out her hand and places it on his arm in a reassuring gesture.
The Keeper Page 14