“It’s not about luck, Mom.”
Right, it’s about talent. Good luck, Matt. As soon as the vehicle pulled away, she closed the door and hurried upstairs to take comfort in the half-off box of chocolates she’d bought the morning after Valentine’s Day. Damn, nothing left but the empty paper cups. She should’ve bought a second box, at that price a real bargain. Maybe tomorrow she’d hit another store, just in case the first clerk remembered her. As for now, she needed an immediate fix. Next stop: back downstairs to the kitchen pantry. Chocolate, where was the damn chocolate. A-ah, she held up a rumbled package, not a prime choice but acceptable in a pinch. She was leaning against the kitchen counter, going for Oreo number five when Ria snatched the package, held it one-handed behind her back, and issued a familiar warning.
“Enough with the cookies or you’re going to break out in horrible zits. Isn’t that what you tell Matt? If you’re so worried about him, why don’t you call Uncle Vince?”
Of course, why hadn’t Francesca thought of Vince? This was Matt’s future playing havoc with her fragile nerves. She carried the telephone into the living room, away from Ria’s prying ears, and punched in a number she knew from memory. Skipping over the usual cordialities reserved for extended family, she blurted out her concerns about Matt making the Pegasi team.
“This Rex Meredith,” Vince Valente said in an off-hand way, “what do you know about him?”
“He’s a winning coach and Ben wanted Matt on his team. Could you please show up for the final selection today? Maybe put in a good word for Matt while he still has a chance.”
“You got it, Kid. I’m heading out the door as we speak.”
God bless Vince Valente. In another lifetime, eons ago during the nineteen fifties, he and Al Canelli had played soccer together, on not just any team but with top athletes who’d won the World Cup a few years before. They’d played in stadiums all over the country, Europe too. Vince stood beside Al at his wedding and later served as godfather to Ben. If only Francesca had been thinking straight, she would’ve approached Vince already last week. She poured herself a glass of Chianti and sat down in front of the boob tube to wait. And wait.
A shot of the Gateway Arch flashed on the screen, another reminder of Ben. He’d worked within walking distance of the riverfront, in a high rise providing an uninterrupted view of the Mississippi. She needed to visit his office one last time, to pick up his personal effects. Maybe she could get someone to drop them off instead, one of those kind souls who’d said, “Francesca, if you ever need anything …”
Three long hours and more wine passed before Francesca heard Ria barreling down the stairs. She followed her into the foyer, neither speaking as they waited for the door to open. Matt walked into the house, again with a look on his face that in no way revealed whatever he felt.
“Well?” Francesca asked with an expression equal to his.
“Yeah, good or bad, just give it to us,” Ria said.
He gestured with a pull-down yank of his tight fist, and pronounced the sweetest of words. “Yes!” His lips unfolded into a Cheshire cat grin. Ben’s eyes were dancing in his.
“Was there ever any doubt?” Francesca said. “From day one I knew you were a shoo-in.”
“You’ll never guess who showed up midway through the tryouts.”
“A reporter from Sports Illustrated?” Francesca asked.
He grinned. “I wish. Would you believe Uncle Vince?”
“No kidding.”
Matt stopped smiling. “Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with that. It’s not like I needed extra help.”
“Get real,” Francesca said and quickly changed the subject. “What about Ryan and Eric and Jack, did they make the team?”
“Eric, yes. Ryan and Jack, no.”
Ryan Masters and Jack Salina had been with Thunderbolt since its beginning. Both were good players, but not as good as Eric Stegman or Matt. Francesca sighed. “Their parents must be devastated.”
“Yeah, so were Ryan and Jack.”
Later when the phone rang, Francesca half-expected to hear Rex’s voice on the other end. Close, if she wanted to count next of kin. Sunny Meredith’s voice purred like a cat circling a bowl of cream.
“Rex and I have been dying to take you out for dinner,” Sunny said. “No kids, just the three of us. Are you free tomorrow evening?”
Free to be tied down with Ken and Barbie, Francesca didn’t think so. “That’s so kind of you but I don’t feel up to socializing yet.”
“You really must get on with your life, Francesca.”
Please, on her terms, not theirs. “I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
“Nonsense, I have my calendar right here in front of me. Shall we say three weeks from today, the ninth of March? The date isn’t set in concrete, Francesca. If you’re not ready by then, we can always postpone until later.”
Whatever—just let this conversation end, which it did but only after Sunny babbled on for another ten minutes—some drabble about the high cost of maintaining a comfortable life style in today’s depressed economy.
The phone didn’t ring again until Francesca was changing into her night clothes. As soon as she said hello, Rex Meredith went right for the jugular. “Okay, so I went out on a limb today. Sure, Matt made the cut but only as a favor to you. We still need to talk. I’m thinking after the first game.”
“When’s that?”
“Dammit, Canelli, check the schedule Matt was supposed to bring home. I sure as hell hope he didn’t lose it already.”
“The schedule’s posted on the fridge. I just haven’t—”
“No excuses, Soccer Mom. Get with the program or get off the bus.”
CHAPTER 8
The forecast for Saturday the twenty-third hit its afternoon target—a bone-chilling twenty degrees and not a cloud in sight. Francesca watched Pegasi’s opening match against The Untouchables from the warmth of Sybil’s front seat, mostly to accommodate Ria who insisted on tagging along instead of faking some interest in gymnastics. Although the broken arm provided an acceptable excuse from the class, Francesca had suggested Ria might learn by observing her teammates from the sidelines. As expected, Ria balked and threatened to quit altogether. Don’t push, Ben would’ve said, even though he didn’t stop pushing Matt until the day he—
“Hot chocolate?” Francesca asked while pouring the first cup from her thermos. “I laced it with a ton of marshmallows.”
“No thanks,” Ria said. “It’s all about weight watching.”
“Since when? Those skinny pants are practically falling off your skinny hips.”
Ria looked straight ahead when she spoke from the heart. “Do the numbers, Mom. I wasn’t talking about my weight.”
”Show-off.”
“Can’t help myself, I guess it runs in the family.” She leaned over to inspect the contents of Francesca’s steaming cup. “Hm-m, maybe I will have some, and don’t be stingy with the marshmallows.”
Anything to keep Ria happy. She never complained about her arm, never complained about anything except Matt favoritism and Francesca’s lack of concentration, her compulsive eating, her anti-social behavior, her need for a total makeover, the deplorable cooking habits she recently acquired.
Twenty minutes into the game, with Pegasi leading two nil according to Ria, Francesca was bent over the steering wheel, fighting the impulse to close her eyes. She’d almost lost the battle when Ria poked her with the plaster cast.
“Hang in there, Mom. Matt not starting is no big deal.”
“Of course, it isn’t. I’m sure Mr. Meredith is well aware of Matt’s capabilities. He’s just trying out various combinations to give every player an equal chance.”
“You think?” Ria said. She started to elaborate but then moved to another topic. “Oh, oh, looks like we’re getting company. It’s Mr. Rodgers. His son Adam plays defense.”
Another dad wanting something, a piece of Francesca she wasn’t ready to give. Knock, knock. S
he could hardly ignore the stocking-capped man standing beside Sybil, waiting for the window to roll down. Francesca obliged and after Kevin Rodgers introduced himself, he invited her to a meeting for the parents of Pegasi.
“Partners of Pegasi, we call our group,” he said through puffs of cold air. “Actually, we call it POP, P-O-P.”
Give me a break, she wanted to say but instead responded with a disbelieving, “POP?”
“Don’t take offense, Francesca. In no way does the name define us as a male sexist group.”
Before the accident she wouldn’t have given the POP acronym a second thought but that was then, and this was now. Get a grip, Francesca, for Matt’s sake. “No offense taken. I’m just not getting out much these days.”
Kevin didn’t argue with her. She let his voice drone on, something about making the team was only the beginning … now she must help Matt compete with and against the best … privilege … commitment … responsibility … scholarships.
Stop the world or at least slow it down. Ready or not, the Widow Canelli might have to hop on again. Francesca tuned back into Kevin’s enthusiastic pitch.
“As an active member of POP, you’ll have numerous opportunities to better acquaint yourself with the other parents, some you might already know, for one, Harry Stegman from Thunderbolt. We consider POP more than a booster club.” He paused before delivering his next words in a serious tone. “We partner with our sons to help them achieve their goals, if you’ll pardon my pun.”
She chuckled for Kevin’s benefit, and to get rid of him she agreed to show up for the next POP meeting.
“You won’t be sorry, I promise.” He backed away, glanced toward the pitch, and signaled a thumbs up to her as the window rolled back up.
“You really do need to get out,” Ria said as she shook the thermos with her good hand. “Thanks a bunch, Mom. You didn’t leave me any more chocolate.”
“Sorry, no wonder I’m so sleepy.”
“Chocolate’s supposed to supply energy.”
“Well, I’m the exception so be quiet and watch the game.”
Matt finally saw some action, with only ten minutes left in the game and Pegasi ahead by three goals. Another three minutes passed before Francesca slammed her hand on the steering wheel. “He’s going to score. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Not unless Ted passes him the ball,” Ria said. “Rats, next time that turd needs a ride home tell him to take a hike. Oh no, Matt’s coming out of the game. Bummer!”
*****
The ride home was too quiet, even when Ria started singing along with the radio.
“Did Coach Meredith say anything to you?” Francesca asked.
“Nothing, not a damn thing.”
“Mo-om, Matt said the d-word.”
Francesca let it pass—another time, another place. As soon as they were home, Matt raced upstairs and slammed his bedroom door, rattling it so hard a picture fell off the hallway wall. She’d fix it later, tomorrow or the next day, whenever she located the proper tools, somewhere in the basement, Ben’s domain. Matt must be starving, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and then only cereal, three bowls with sliced bananas.
She ordered comfort food, a deluxe pizza with his favorite toppings—roasted peppers, pepperoni, sausage, and Canadian bacon. But when the pizza arrived, he refused to come downstairs so she and Ria ate half, and left the other half on the counter, in case Matt changed his mind. Later when getting ready for bed, she heard his bedroom door squeak open, followed by the heavy tread of his size twelves on the stairs. Pizza, it was a temptation too hard to resist even after turning cold.
As for Francesca, she’d waited all evening for the phone call that never came. Rex playing hardball, Ben would’ve said but not in polite words. She considered calling the jerk but couldn’t remember where she put his cell phone number. Oh, well, she figured he’d call whenever he was in the mood to talk—about what? Shouldn’t a conversation such as this start with the coach and his player? Soccer moms may suffer the phantom agonies of their kids but they certainly didn’t influence who started a game and who rode the bench. Or did they?
*****
On Sunday afternoon Matt’s second game paralleled the first, but this time when they got home, he didn’t stomp to his room or slam any doors. Instead, he stayed in the shower until the kitchen’s hot water faucet came out lukewarm. And when he came downstairs, he stretched out on the family room sofa and flipped the remote to some ridiculous movie about the walking dead.
“Do you feel like talking?” Francesca asked him.
“Not really.”
“Would it help if I had a conversation with Coach Meredith?”
He jerked into an upright position, set his piercing eyes to melt hers. “Don’t you dare, don’t even think about it. I’m not a kid anymore and I’ll handle this myself.”
Sorry, Matt, you don’t know everything, especially the ins and outs of soccer politics. Neither did Francesca, but she was learning fast. That evening she waited to hear from Rex and when he didn’t, she relented and called his cell phone.
“I suppose we should talk about Matt,” she said without sounding apologetic.
“Well, it’s about time. Let’s shoot for nine o’clock tonight at White Castle. I do love those burgers.”
CHAPTER 9
Despite the hour Francesca considered too late for White Castle sliders, she was surprised at the number of people who disagreed with her. When it came to hamburgers, she’d always followed Ben’s classic lead, gone for top-of-the-line-all-beef-patties. Hold the cheese and the mayo, don’t need the extra calories. Forget the onions too. Neither she nor Ben had ever considered White Castle as an after-the-game stop unless pressured by some of the Thunderbolt players or their parents. But this was about Matt playing for Pegasi United, and she didn’t have Ben’s lead to follow any more.
She ordered a medium-size diet soda.
“That’s it?” the order clerk asked in disbelief.
“Give the lady what she wants,” someone grumbled from behind.
Francesca settled into a booth near the restrooms and sipped her drink through two straws, a flagrant display of independence distinguishing her as the Castle’s only customer not consuming a mountain of mini-burgers. Her eyes smarted from the dense infiltration of grilled onions, an aroma so enticing she almost caved in to temptation by returning to the order line. She checked her watch: ten after nine, and still no Rex. Minutes later a familiar eighteenth century French melody erupted from the side pocket of her purse. Her cell phone, she answered it with the hope of Rex canceling their meeting. Instead he opened with the irritating chuckle of a wannabe comedian.
“Would you believe, I’m back here at Show Me, searching everywhere for the Rolex which somehow disappeared from my wrist. I hate putting you out, Francesca, but any chance of your coming over here? It’s quite safe, really. I turned on the field lights.”
She spoke in a near whisper. “Couldn’t we just discuss Matt’s situation over the phone?”
“Sorry, can’t hear you. I guess my battery’s shooting craps. See you in five—”
An earful of static left her no choice. Must she always be the one to give in, even now with Ben gone? On her way out the door, she spotted two Pegasi players—Ian and Ted, the boys she’d given a ride home from practice. Not wanting them to see her, she pulled up her coat collar and buried her face into the fake fur.
*****
When Francesca arrived at the soccer complex, she couldn’t locate Rex’s vehicle in the upper parking lot so she drove down the service road leading to the main field. She expected the well-lit area Rex had promised but the only light source came from her headlights and those dimmed from a late model sedan, purchased from Greenwood Lincoln, according to a tag on the license plate. The motor had been turned off and Rex was leaning against the front passenger fender, having changed into another pricey sweat suit. A modern day dandy Francesca’s nonna would’ve called him. Rex must’ve own
ed a different set of sweats for every day of the week. Tonight’s ensemble was green, white, and red—same colors as the Italian flag, not that she expected him to make the obscure connection. She parked next to the Lincoln and got out.
Rex held up his hand and projected the cocky grin she already despised. “Found my watch but I figured you were already on your way.” He lifted his shoulders with a shiver. “Damn, it’s freezing out here. How ‘bout we sit in Sunny’s buggy? It’s warm as hell in there.”
He opened the rear passenger door, motioned her inside. “Trust me, you do not want the front seat because I spilled my coffee-to-go all over it and made one helluva mess. If I don’t get the damned thing cleaned up before Sunny comes back, she will wring my neck.”
While sliding over the leather upholstery, Francesca nearly gagged from the combination of cinnamon and hazelnut latte gone sour. Rex followed her into the back seat—not what she was expecting—and closed the door. A brief moment of uneasiness swept over her, one she quickly dismissed. After all, did she expect he’d sit behind the steering wheel and carry on a conversation from over his shoulder, as if he were driving Miss Daisy to a tea party. Another scent seeped into her nostrils—Eternity for Men. She’d given the cologne to Ben for their last anniversary and since the accident had been wearing it to bed at night. She wanted to think he was with her now, watching out for her best interests. Matt’s too, the only reason for her being where she never should’ve gone.
“Maybe I should get the whole thing detailed,” Rex said, flipping through the pages on his clipboard. “It can’t cost that much.”
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Sunny’s car, the interior … never mind.”
“Could we talk about Matt? I really don’t have much time.”
“Neither do I.” He stuck the clipboard in the door’s side pocket and shifted in her direction. “Now about Matt, sure he’s good, maybe as good as half my Pegasi players. But you see, Francesca, being part of my team is not only about talent, whether that talent be natural or acquired from years of hard work. Our team’s success depends on commitment and sacrifice, not only from the players but—”
Lethal Play Page 5