by Liz Talley
Waylon looked down at her, his dark eyes hard. “He’s an asshole, Lou, and sometimes you have to bust assholes in their mouth to shut them up.”
Okay, point made. She wasn’t certain she agreed with her brother’s logic but she could respect his need to do something.
“Waylon.” David’s voice left no doubt. He expected Waylon to come to him, but her brother crossed his arms and pretended as if he hadn’t heard the order.
“Go.” She nudged him.
He adjusted his gaze on a dark horizon and didn’t budge.
“Get over here, son.” Waylon’s coach pointed a finger to where he stood. The other kids being screened by the deputies fell silent and watched the battle of wills.
At that moment, a beautiful white Cadillac SUV pulled into the circle of the parked cars and Don Verdun emerged. The deputy she didn’t know moved to intercept him, murmuring low words toward a seemingly very angry man. Don glowered at his son, before turning a venomous glare toward Waylon. He shrugged off the deputy and stalked toward her and her brother.
Lou felt her stomach tighten as she stepped in front of Waylon.
“You.” The man pointed a stubby finger over her shoulder at Waylon. “I should have known you’d be causing problems. We’re going to file assault charges, you little bastard.”
Lou stepped forward so her eyes met Don’s and he understood he’d have to go through her to get to the seventeen-year-old behind her. “I don’t think so, Don. Your son started this by throwing the first punch. There are more than enough witnesses to back that up.”
Don leaned in close, so close she could smell toothpaste and bourbon. Maybe the deputies needed to check his ability to drive. If she lit a match, they’d all go up in smoke.
“No way my son went after your brother. Everyone knows Waylon’s fallen into the wrong crowd. He’s been busted before.”
Coach Landry placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Come on, Mr. Verdun. No need for this. Take your son and go home.”
Don spun. “Who are you to tell me what to do?”
“I’m telling you,” Matt said, drawing the man back forcefully. “Take your son and go home before I haul him in. This was a tussle between boys who have a beef. Let them settle it on the field Friday night. Or we can make this official and you can see your son in the paper in something other than the sports section.”
Don shrugged out of the deputy’s hold and Lou could almost see the man’s thoughts. He’d had too much to drink and he didn’t need trouble for his son. Don was a hothead, but he wasn’t stupid.
“Fine,” he growled, jerking his head toward Hayden, who’d been clutching his swelling nose with a napkin someone had found. Hayden slunk behind his father, not even bothering to turn around and glance their way again.
“Now, you.” Coach Landry pointed to Waylon. “Come with me.”
“I’m going home with Lou,” Waylon said.
“You’ll go home, but not before you talk to me.”
Matt tapped Waylon’s arm. “Go with your coach or get in the back of my car.”
Waylon’s mouth thinned, but he shrugged. “Fine.”
Normally, Coach Landry would have wound an arm around Way’s shoulders, but he didn’t touch him. He moved into the dark shadows away from the others standing around the gathered trucks and cruisers still flashing red and blue light across the empty pit.
Lou watched her brother, reading his rigid body language as his coach crossed his arms and started reading him the riot act—or some version of get your act together.
A parent or two pulled up, kids disappeared and the deputies cornered her with the ol’ this-better-not-happen-again speech before climbing into their perspective cruisers and bumping down the road. With the sound of the cars fading, Lou could hear every word spoken between Waylon and his coach.
“This isn’t about me, Waylon. It’s about you and your behavior. What are you doing, son? Seriously, character is important. These college scouts are looking for talent, which you have in spades, but they don’t want some hotheaded troublemaker who can’t make smart decisions on their team.”
“You’re one to talk.” Waylon’s voice grew belligerent, swelling in the empty night. Lou straightened, but remained at the truck.
“This. Is. Not. About. Me.”
“Yeah, it is. How can you come out here and talk to me about character, huh?”
“Come on, Way.”
“No, you said you’d handle it, but nothing has changed. Mrs. Landry still doesn’t know, and we both know you’re still dipping your stick in the wrong engine.”
Lou swallowed. David was cheating on Amy? How did Waylon know about it?
“Listen, my personal life doesn’t concern you.”
“And mine doesn’t concern you.”
“The hell it doesn’t. Everything about you concerns me. You’re giving Lou grief, pulling away from the guys who block for you, who line up next to you, and doing your damnedest to wreck your chances to get the hell out of here and claim a position on one of the best college football teams in the country. So, yeah, it is my business.”
“Why don’t you stop?”
“Stop pushing you? Stop expecting the best in you?”
Waylon took a menacing step toward his coach. “No, stop screwing around on your family.”
Coach Landry squared up on Waylon. “That is not your place, Waylon Boyd.”
Waylon’s face contorted. “Why would you throw your family away? Don’t you know what this will do to your kids? You’re nothing but a piece of garbage. You’re nothing but a—”
Lou rushed toward Waylon and Landry because it sounded like either Waylon was going to start crying or punch his coach. She didn’t know what in the hell was going on, but knew she’d been wrong to bring Waylon’s coach into the fracas. She hadn’t known things were so broken between them.
“Hey,” she said, pushing Waylon back, wedging herself between the two big bodies. “That’s enough.”
David’s eyes snapped to hers and she saw the fear in them, the utter loss of control. The moment was pregnant with bitterness tinged with regret laced with frustration.
“Step back, David,” she said, giving him a small push.
He fell back. She turned to her brother. “Get in the truck and go home. We’ll talk there.”
Waylon’s breath came in jagged bursts. He looked near to a breakdown.
“Way, go,” she said, laying a hand on his shoulder.
Finally, her brother nodded and walked toward the truck, his strides long and angry. She’d not seen him this emotional since her parents had died. Grief wasn’t as complex as some thought—quite simply it was utter, desolate hurt, embedding itself in the heart for weeks, months and years until the pain was a mere echo in the soul, always present but only a shadow of itself. But this resentment, this fear inside her brother, scared her more because it was like a cornered beast—unpredictable.
She didn’t do well with beasts.
David straightened. “Look, Lou—”
“No, I don’t want to know what you’re doing in your marriage or your personal life. It sickens me for Amy’s sake, and God help your poor kids if you’re throwing them aside for another woman. I don’t care about you. I care about Waylon.” She felt her legs tremble with indignation at this man Waylon had once trusted. This coach had been his North Star, steadily guiding him, giving him the advice Waylon needed to be successful. But now…
“I understand how you feel, Lou. I get Waylon feels some sort of betrayal, but what I do in my private life has no bearing on my relationship with him. I’m still his coach. That’s my job.”
“You don’t get it, do you? You were more than a coach, David. You were the one guy he could count on. Life’s coming at him fast, with this big decision, this huge pressure to perform well on the field every week.” She shook her head. “If you aren’t accountable to your team then how can they be accountable to you?”
The night cloaked the tears tha
t sprang in her eyes. Not for Landry. No. He didn’t deserve even a sniffle. Her tears were for her brother. Landry hadn’t intended to take the boy on to raise, but he’d played a role that had come dangerously close. Whether it was wrong or right wasn’t the question. It merely was.
“I’m not his father. I don’t owe him an explanation. Moral character doesn’t define our relationship, Lou. I could kick kittens or steal from the Salvation Army kettle every Christmas. That doesn’t change the fact I have a role as his coach…and his coach only.”
Lou sighed. “You’re pathetic.”
She turned on her heel and walked back to the car, sick she had to share the ride back with the man.
Part of her knew his words to be very much true. The other part of her wanted to lash out for allowing Waylon to depend on that relationship so much. She’d always thought David to be a good role model for Waylon. Well, that statue on the pedestal Way had built had just tumbled down, breaking into itty-bitty pieces.
And all the team’s players couldn’t put that image back together again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ABRAM FELT ANTICIPATION build in his stomach as he pulled onto a street beside the stadium where the Bonnet Creek Owls were set to play the Ville Platte Bulldogs—and it had nothing to do with the game. The parking lot and side streets of the small community were filled to capacity with trucks and cars parked in front of small wooden houses encircling the well-lit stadium. Some ingenious kid had roped off his mostly dirt yard and sold parking for $5.00 a pop.
He pulled in. “Got room for one more?”
The boy wearing sagging jeans and a Bulldog T-shirt eyed his F250 pickup. “That’s a big truck.”
“I’ll give you a ten spot.”
“I guess you can park in the driveway. My momma ain’t going out in this mess no way.” He held out his palm and Abram greased it before easing onto the broken pavement behind an ancient Pinto.
After locking his truck and tipping the kid an extra five to make sure no one messed with it, he started toward the already rocking stadium. Tubas set a low bass beat as the drums rat-a-tatted in that familiar Friday night cacophony. Coaches’ whistles and the hum of the crowd accompanied the football rhapsody. Moths flew around the tall stadium lights, dancing in the night air as the scent of peanuts and popcorn reached his nose.
Nothing better than Friday night football. Except maybe Saturday night. Or Sunday afternoon.
And tonight he’d finally set eyes on the blonde who’d invaded all his free thoughts, which were not as many as one would think, since he mostly dwelled on rival defensive schemes and the offensive efficiency of the ULBR Panthers. But every night before he closed his eyes he thought of her.
Which was damned crazy.
But didn’t change the fact she haunted his thoughts and his dreams. Hell, he lived for those one-hour calls on Thursday night, nearly dancing around like a kid on Christmas Eve before he got to Waylon on his list of recruits. Pathetic.
“Wanna program?” a cheerleader asked, jabbing it his way as he approached the gate.
“Sure,” he said, digging out more money and doing his part to support the Dog Pound, the booster club for Ville Platte. Hayden Verdun was on the front cover, arching up for a ball in midair. He’d claim it as an expense item since he needed to have a list of numbers and a place to jot comments. He never carried a clipboard. Too telltale for locals who’d want to chew his ear off about their hometown stud. He rolled the program and forced it into his back jeans pocket as he shelled out another seven bucks for admission.
He deliberately avoided the home stands to his right and headed around the track toward the visitor section, which was his normal protocol since the hometown folks usually knew each other and stared at a guy sitting alone at a high school football game. He liked to blend in, and it didn’t hurt Lou sat on the visitors’ side.
Okay, it was the main reason.
His eyes searched for her as he stayed in one lane, walking around the end zone. He didn’t see her among the throng of people, mostly because blue and white pom-poms shook as the Owls took the field. Forcing his eyes on the players jogging out for the kickoff, Abram spotted Waylon. Easy to do since he was the tallest kid out there.
Many of the kids nervously shifted their feet or jogged in place trying to pump themselves up to head downfield and throw blocks. The kickoff returner squatted and rubbed his gloved hands on shiny white pants. But Waylon stood perfectly still, hands on hips, loose, elegant and prepared. Abram liked the quiet confidence of the boy.
The ref blew the whistle and the football sailed into the air, end over end into the lights before falling just short of the returner. The kid wearing number 87 tried to field it on the bounce, but the ball flew over his shoulder pads and hit the ground behind him. Defenders advanced as the returner scrambled after the rolling ball. It felt as if it were in slow motion, but finally the kid got to the ball, picked it up and pivoted in the direction he was to be running.
Maroon and gold jerseys descended on him as he scrambled to the left. One seemed likely to bring him down, running full steam, setting up for a killer tackle.
But then the defender flew through the air as Waylon launched himself low, connecting with a satisfying crunch, laying the defender out so the returner could turn the ball upfield. Number 87 got to the thirty-five yard line before he was brought down.
Waylon leisurely hopped to his feet, slapped his hands together and then extended a hand toward the Bulldog still lying on the field.
Yeah, Abram liked this kid.
More whistles blew, players jogged on and off the field, and Abram made his way past the big-bellied guys smoking cigars outside the chain-link fence and the somewhat thuggish-looking guys ribbing each other and rehashing the days they galloped under the lights, recovering fumbles, intercepting balls and dancing a touchdown shuffle in the end zone.
He slid into the metal bleachers, eyed a spot up high, and looked for Lou.
Bingo.
Right in the middle next to the woman who’d started all this—Mary Belle Whoever—sat Lou.
Abram had told himself it didn’t matter what he wore on this little trip north. But regardless of his affirmation that this was merely another evaluation of a recruit, he’d gotten a haircut that afternoon, squeezing it in after walk-throughs at the Panthers’ practice. Then he’d shaved for a second time and pulled on a freshly ironed long-sleeved twill shirt Nate’s new wife Annie had bought to match his eyes. He’d buffed his leather boots and used the stupid body spray his mother had put in his stocking. Yeah, Picou still insisted on stockings for her very grown boys.
But when he saw Lou, he knew she’d done the same.
The stadium lights made her lip gloss shine brighter and the blouse she wore was lower cut than anything he’d seen her in since that first night at Rendezvous. The blue was definitely an Owl color, but it wasn’t a spirit T-shirt like most of the others surrounding her. It was soft, feminine and he knew she’d worn it for him.
Her eyes moved from the field to search the stands, and her gaze found him.
It shouldn’t have felt so good to see her, but it did. He couldn’t stop the twitch of his lips as hers curved in response to catching him coming up the metal steps.
Everyone stood and shouted as a good play took place on the field. Lou stood but she wasn’t looking at the game, she looked at him, holding his gaze. Abram slowly climbed the steps, knowing he couldn’t sit near her, but refusing to stray too far from sight. He continued walking up the steps, and finally, Lou glanced toward the field.
He slid past a few older gentlemen in ball caps and windbreakers with John Deere logos and settled onto the back row where he could lean against the railing—and where he could study Lou’s shining hair when he wasn’t actually doing his job of evaluating talent.
He withdrew the program and pulled the roster from where it nestled between advertisements and glossy pictures of the dance team and clicked his pen to take notes.
Lou glanced back once, pinpointing him, before turning back and watching the game. He knew she was very much aware he sat behind her by the way she held her head.
“What you been scribbling down over there?” The question came from his left.
Abram unclicked his pen and turned to the older man with thick squared glasses behind which bushy eyebrows arched above dark intelligent eyes. The man had an underbite and a drawl that had good ol’ boy written all over it.
“I’m writing up notes on a few players.”
“You from Opelousas?”
“No.”
“I know you damned high school coaches like to show up to watch and learn our plays—”
“I’m not a high school coach if that sets your mind at ease,” Abram said.
The man closed his mouth and stared hard at him. Two other cronies tipped forward, a stalwart front of protection. A few seconds ticked by and Abram wondered if he might be “politely” escorted out by three old farmers.
“I’m a college coach evaluating a few players.”
The bushy-browed guy cocked his head like a coonhound.
“With ULBR.”
A smile broke. “Ah, hell, why didn’t you say in the first place? Now that’s a different story.”
A hand was extended, and Abram became acquainted with Earl Guidry, Jimbo Carr and someone who called himself Smiley. He chatted a few minutes before nodding toward the field, clicking his pen and scratching a few more unnecessary notes in order to keep from being drawn too far into a conversation about the Owls’ need to run the veer and how it would work a whole helluva lot better than what they ran now.
Lou glanced over her shoulder to find him, before taking in his seatmates. Her eyes laughed and she gave a smile that rivaled the halogen lights above them. Obviously, she knew the men next to him.