And while Kate looked like a mousy kindergarten teacher, wearing an outfit that only the Church Lady could love, Carter had proudly informed me that she was better known as Mistress Kate, the world’s most renowned dominatrix. I don’t know how they determine such things, but I tend not to argue with human brick walls like Carter, so I took his word for it.
The rest of today’s crowd was made up of a smattering of mothers and students. One of the few fathers on hand was the rope climber extraordinaire himself, Bobby Maloney, who had resigned his post as Rockfield’s first selectman, providing him the free time to attend his daughter’s games.
Eliot began tripping over himself apologizing, while still referring to me as Coach Warner, and my patience grew thin. “Are you going to do it or not?”
He leaped to his feet and called out “Z” in his squeaky ten-year-old voice. Z stood for zone, which was a defense that packed our team close to the basket, in theory, forcing our opponents to shoot from the perimeter. And at this exact time in the afternoon, the small gym windows let in the low February sun at a perfect angle, causing enough distraction to make shooting from the outside near impossible. Home court advantage.
But there was no defense against this incompetent referee. As Ella attempted to drive to the basket for an easy lay-up, an opponent shoved her to the ground. Not only did the referee not call a foul, but had the audacity to call traveling on Ella.
Ella picked herself off the court and jogged back down to the other end of the court, accepting the decision with dignity. It was clear that she’d avoided the JP portion of the Warner family gene pool, which would likely serve her well in life.
Me, on the other hand …
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” my words ricocheted off the gymnasium walls.
The referee ignored me, adding to my irritation, and I rose to my feet. The slow boil was about to spill over—my six months in Rockfield hadn’t solved my internal struggle as well as I’d hoped.
I repeated my complaint, even louder, which this time drew his attention. But all he did was point at the bench. “You need to sit back down, Coach Warner.”
I took a step out onto the court … toward the referee. He blew the whistle, but it was going to take a lot more than that to stop me.
When I reached him, I realized that I’d misjudged how large a man he was—about my height, six foot, but double my width. “Why don’t you take off the rest of the game? You’ve already slept through the first half!”
“Watch yourself, Coach Warner,” he warned.
“Give him a T, Uncle Greg,” one of the New Milford girls shouted out, lobbying for a technical foul.
The comment pushed me over the edge—the unbiased referee was related to a member of the other team?—and words began streaming out of my mouth so fast I couldn’t keep track of the insults.
His face turned bright red. “You’re out of here! Ejected!”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I fired back. And to prove I was serious, I took off my designer sports coat and tossed it on the ground.
That’s when I felt a tug on my back—someone had grabbed me by the suspenders and was pulling me away from the fracas. It was Eliot. I had instructed him that if I ever lost my mind he was to grab me and save me from myself. I think he thought I was kidding.
He was about ninety pounds, most of it glasses, which were the first things I was able to grab hold of. I’d gotten him a full makeover for the coaching gig—custom fitted suit and stylish hairstyle. The one stumbling block was that his mother said he wasn’t old enough for contact lenses. She probably was regretting that decision right now.
I threw the glasses at the referee. “Why don’t you try these? Maybe they’ll help you see better!”
They bounced off his shoulder and fell to the ground. I felt immediate remorse for bringing Eliot’s eyewear into my battle and attempted to retrieve them. That’s when I felt a much stronger tug on my shoulder, and I knew it wasn’t Eliot.
I turned to see a grinning Carter. “And here I thought I just came for some boring charity dinner.”
“They’re going to need charity for you if you don’t get your hands off of me.”
He boomed a laugh. “It’s good to see my friend JP Warner back—was wondering if I’d ever see him again.”
“Let me go,” I said, hopelessly trying to squirm out of his tight grip, as he treated me like one of his challengers in the wrestling ring.
“I got this, Carter,” a female voice instructed. “Step back.”
I looked to see uniformed officer, Betsy O’Rourke, who was working security at the game.
Carter had gained a respect for the local police during his last visit to town—at least the ones not named Officer Jones—so he obeyed the order, and released me. This gave me the split-second I needed. I made a dash for the glasses, and was able to return them to Eliot before I was escorted away.
“You’re in charge,” I told him before I was dragged off.
He looked like a frightened squirrel. “You want me to be the head coach?”
“You’ve been preparing for this all year—you’re ready. Just keep in mind that we’re only down eight points. So gather the girls around, and make sure everyone is calm and focused on the task at hand.”
“Should we play the ‘Z’?” he asked, as Officer O’Rourke began to escort me away.
“You’re in charge, Eliot … it’s up to you.”
I looked to the spot near the stage where Ethan had been standing, which was no longer occupied—not a good sign. I then glanced up into the stands, hoping for guidance from my two favorite girls, but there would be none. My mother looked distressed, while Gwen never took her eyes off her computer screen, continuing to type away. I figured she was probably signing up for one of those online dating services, looking for a new boyfriend.
Chapter 3
I was led into the hallway, which smelled just as it did when I was a student here. I had always associated the smell with the freshness of youth, but with the wisdom of age I realized it was just industrial cleaner. Carter was right behind me, watching my back as he’d always done.
“He’s all yours,” Officer O’Rourke told Ethan, as she dropped me off in the coach’s office. Ethan sat behind a cluttered desk, wearing a green V-neck sweater with a gold Rockfield High logo on the left breast. I recognized his disapproving look.
The windowless office was mostly used as a changing room for coaches and phys-ed teachers. The thin walls amplified the sounds of the neighboring gymnasium, in which the game had resumed—the bouncing basketball sounding like a snare drum, sneakers squealing, parents yelling. I still had a nervous twitch from my years as a war correspondent when it came to loud noises and confined spaces. And when Carter shut the door behind us, I felt like a trapped rat.
“Did you know he was that girl’s uncle?” I went on the offensive.
“I didn’t, but I’ve known Greg Murphy for years, and I truly doubt anything conspiratorial was going on.”
“We can watch the tape if you’d like, it was blatant.”
“Blatant incompetence, perhaps. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, JP, but the best referees in the world tend not to work girl’s elementary school games on Friday afternoons, for fifty bucks.”
“You paid that clown fifty bucks? Mom and Gwen could have done better.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t change the fact that your behavior was unacceptable.”
A knock on the door was followed by the entrance of a man in a spiffy suit. “You must be kidding me,” I muttered, just loud enough for Bobby Maloney to hear.
“What are you doing here, Maloney?” Ethan asked.
“I’m representing the concerned parents, who have great worry over JP’s coaching style, and frankly, his mental stability.”
You would have thought that saving him from Officer Jones would have bought me at least a year of goodwill, but I barely got four months. Part of our agreement for keeping his dirty li
ttle secret—specifically the truth about the Lamar Thompson case, and the false testimony that had sent Lamar to prison—was that he would step away from Rockfield politics. But I had the feeling he was itching to find a way back, and saw an opportunity to discredit the man standing in the way of his comeback.
Maloney looked to Carter. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m JP’s legal representative.”
“You’re not a lawyer.”
“If you don’t leave, I’m going to show you the law, Coldblooded style.”
When Ethan threatened to call Officer O’Rourke if they both didn’t leave, they came to a peace accord, or at least an accord, and agreed to exit stage left. When the door slammed behind them, it left me and Ethan, one on one.
“You know what the sad part is, JP? I get daily notes from parents, complimenting you on what a great job you’ve done with their daughters … how they’ve seen a positive change in them during the season.”
“I’m sorry that things escalated like that, but you knew I was a lunatic when you hired me.”
“I don’t doubt your mental instability, but that’s not what this is about.”
“So you’re saying I can’t plead insanity? Don’t make me go get my legal representative …”
“Joke it off all you want, but I’ve seen the change in your personality the last couple months, and I know what the problem is.”
“The problem is that crooked referee who tried to steal the game from us.”
“No, it’s that you’re happy—for the first time in a long time—and it’s scaring the crap out of you.”
“Did you actually see what happened in there? Because I can guarantee you that happiness played no role in it.”
“You were riding such a whirlwind—held hostage, returning home, Noah’s death, and getting him justice—that you didn’t have a chance to think. But once the holidays were over, and you were able to take inventory on your life, you got hit with a big dose of reality. And you realized that you had finally achieved your dream, which was to be back together with Gwen. Problem is, it’s a lot easier to dream the dream than to live it, JP, and it has you spooked. So I think you’re trying to sabotage things—that way you can go back to the safety of dreaming, instead of living.”
“What are you talking about? I’m completely happy with Gwen … and if I didn’t want to be here, I’d be gone.”
He just shrugged without saying a word. I hated when he did that.
“Is this my punishment … having to be psych-analyzed by my brother? Because given a choice, I’d much rather be arrested,” I said.
“No—you will be suspended for the first three games of next season. That’s your punishment.”
“Next season? What makes you think I’m going to be coaching here next year?”
“That’s what you need to figure out, little brother.”
Chapter 4
After leaving my sentencing hearing with a three-game suspension, a headache, and a lot to think about, things turned for the better.
I was able to watch through a small window in the gymnasium door, and witness the Samerauk Elementary girls basketball team complete an undefeated season with a furious comeback, capped off by a game-winning shot by Ella.
They leaped into each other’s arms with pure joy and sung out like a bunch of mini Taylor Swifts. But the best part was when they raised Eliot up on their shoulders. In a few short months, he’d gone from the kid who almost went into cardiac arrest when a girl spoke to him, to the conquering elementary-school hero.
Watching their jubilation, I wanted to scream out to them, implore them to savor it, as the world would soon steal away that feeling. I would be reminded of this tonight when I attended a dinner to raise money for those who can no longer leap with joy. This included one of my best friends, Byron Jasper, whose paralysis I’m responsible for.
I made my way to the now dark parking lot and found my Jeep—a handed-down Warner mode of transportation for decades. All of us have driven it at one time or another—my youngest brother, Noah, was the last. I could afford a much newer and sleeker vehicle, having once been the highest-paid person in the news industry, but in some strange way it felt like driving the old Jeep was a tribute to Noah.
The drive was less than ten minutes from the school to Skyview Drive. When I ascended the steep, frozen driveway, I noticed the Rockfield Gazette van, which belongs to the local newspaper that Gwen edits, writes, sells, and even delivers on Sundays.
The light was on in the cozy A-frame as I stepped out of the Jeep. While I could have used my mother’s comfort at this moment, I walked by. I technically don’t live with my parents, but to be honest, if you can throw a rock from where you live and break a window in your parents’ home, then you live with your parents.
I carefully maneuvered over an icy slate path to the colonial, where I’ve been residing since my return to Rockfield. It was built when my family outgrew the A-frame after Noah’s arrival, but my parents returned to the A-frame after the kids left the nest. I’d looked into buying some farm property last fall, but as Ethan noted, the last six months have been a roller coaster ride, and looking for property in the winter wasn’t ideal. I’m sure my critics, those who don’t believe I’m long for Rockfield, see my lack of roots as confirmation that I will soon be on my way.
Gwen and I split time between here and the house across town that she shares with her father and younger brother. And while my living situation isn’t ideal, it does provide more privacy than hers, so we spend the majority of our time here.
I went upstairs to the bedroom. It had remained untouched during my years away, like a time capsule. The Michael Jordan and Bon Jovi posters still hung on the wall upon my return, and a Rubik’s Cube sat just where I’d left it on my desk. But Gwen had recently transformed it into a grownup room—paintings replacing posters, and a canopy bed now in the place of the floor mattress I’d been sleeping on. I am told that I had agreed to this.
I stepped inside an empty room. I could hear Gwen in the connected bathroom, preparing for tonight’s event. She had remained eerily calm during my meltdown, which should have been a good sign, but the years have proven that this can be a much more precarious position for me than if she were shouting angrily. There are many differences between the current Gwen Delaney in her late thirties, and the girl I was inseparable from during our youth, but this trait has remained a constant.
“I was thinking about wearing a straitjacket tonight instead of my tux,” I said through the bathroom door, testing the waters.
“Oh, good, you’re here. I was worried that I’d have to bail you out of jail … and we’re running late as it is.”
“So how did the article come out?”
“Let’s just say, it wrote itself.”
“I was thinking you might want to turn it into a screenplay. Young girls overcome their psycho coach in pursuit of an undefeated season, winning on a dramatic last-second shot. It has Disney movie written all over it.”
“From where I was sitting, it more resembled a Stephen King novel.”
This was definitely not trending in my favor. I checked my watch, which told me that it was time for an apology. “I’m sorry … I got a little carried away.”
“Ya think?” she said, and stepped out of the bathroom in a floor-length, sparkling purple gown. She accessorized it with white elbow-length gloves, either to give it an old-time, classic feel, or so she wouldn’t leave fingerprints when she strangled me. The ponytail was gone—her shoulder-length hair looked like she just walked out of the priciest Manhattan salon.
I smiled at her. “And the screenplay ends with the winning coach getting to take the most beautiful girl in town to the dance.”
“Then I guess Eliot has a hot date planned for tonight.”
I turned serious, staring intently at her. “Just so you know, I’m not afraid of happiness.”
“That’s very courageous of you, JP.”
“And I’m
not going anywhere.”
Her face creased with irritation. “If I took the time to put on this dress, you are going tonight. I know it’s tough to see Byron like this, but you can’t always run away from reality.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She sighed. “JP—we really don’t have time for this right now. Your tux is hanging in the bathroom.”
The last time I’d worn a tuxedo was a year ago when I was still a GNZ correspondent, and I gave in to Lauren Bowden’s insistence that I attend the Cable News Awards with her. I believe we won the prestigious “Best Comedy while Impersonating Journalism” award, but lost out to the heavy competition for the “Most Ridiculous Shouting Match Disguised as a Political Debate” category … but we were happy to be nominated.
When I came out of the bathroom dressed as James Bond, I didn’t receive the same “wow” treatment I gave my date. Gwen greeted me by looking at the clock, and informing, “Carter will be here any minute.”
And sure enough, a loud honk of the horn from the Coldblooded Cruiser announced that it had pulled into port. I had no idea how he was able to back his thirty-five-foot luxury bus up the icy driveway, but nobody would ever doubt that the man has unique talents.
Carter wore a similar tuxedo to mine, except his had no sleeves. And Mistress Kate was looking much more mistress-y in a skin-tight cat suit. Her flaming red hair had been unleashed from the winter cap that had covered it at the game. Perhaps those who don’t donate enough tonight will receive a trip to the torture dungeon, where she will get them to reconsider, I thought.
Huddled Masses (JP Warner Book 2) Page 2