The fact remained, however, that his players simply didn’t run as hard, as fast, without him standing over them. But he’d had to sit down, his eyes nearly crossed from hours of standing, running, hiding his limp, which only became more pronounced as the morning grew hot.
Long.
Agonizing.
Add to that a team that carried two years of loss and a defeated attitude into this season, and he just wanted to go home, soak his leg, and figure out why he’d ever thought he could do this job.
The fact was, after three days of practice, Caleb could admit he needed help. An assistant to help him run the plays, put action to words. He never thought he’d actually have to go it alone—the school board had specifically mentioned volunteers.
Days like today stirred the old urge to reach out to God, to ask for help. But God had done enough, hadn’t He? Caleb needed to stand on his own two feet. Well, figuratively. Still, gratitude didn’t include whining.
God had given Caleb this job, and he intended to do it well.
“They’re looking good,” Caleb said to Dan, his voice tight. “I think we have the makings of a powerful team here. Of course, this is only half of them. The other half takes the field this afternoon with Coach Brewster.”
“You coming back to watch?”
Actually, he’d planned on mowing his lawn. But that sounded feeble, didn’t it? Mow his lawn rather than size up the competition? However, perhaps Isadora Presley was his competition. He hadn’t thought about it until late in the night, but what if . . . what if she really didn’t like him? Would she say something to her father? To the school board?
No, it was only his fears calling up lies, winding his brain into knots of worry.
“I’ll wait until they’re in position, then do a couple drive-bys,” Caleb said as he glanced at Dan, dressed in a dark polo shirt, a pair of khaki pants. “How are you doing? How’s Ellie?”
“Still wanting you to join the volunteer fire department.” Dan sat next to him on the bench. “She sent me by to twist your arm.”
Dan smiled, but Caleb turned his attention to the field, where Ryan practiced a sweep play. “Okay, Ryan, I want you to just work on getting the snap from Merritt. McCormick, Walker, and Benson, line up, practice taking the handoff, left and right.”
He should get up and run the drill so they could see it, but after three hours on his leg, he just might fall on his face.
Still, McCormick at running back was sloppy, dropping the ball too often to make him reliable. And the kid gave little effort with his fake. The defense would see right through it, take him down on his first step.
“You handled yourself well at the accident. Cool head, focused. Like you had training.”
Caleb’s eyes stayed on the field. “I have had training. I was a medic in the National Guard.”
“Really?” This clearly got Dan’s attention. “We could also use EMTs—”
“I’d like to, Pastor, but I’m here to coach football.”
“We have three former football players and two school board members on our crew.”
The man knew how to go for the jugular.
Unfortunately that could prove to be the perfect opportunity to reveal his weaknesses. “Let’s see how the next two weeks go, okay?” By then, maybe he’d have the job.
By then, he could tell them the truth.
“Sounds fair.” Dan clamped him on the shoulder. “We’re having a men’s Bible study on Saturday morning. Would love to see you there.” He got up.
“Hey, Dan, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“What exactly happened to Coach Presley’s daughter? Mitch said she has PTSD.”
“Oh, that’s a sad story. It was raining, about this time of year, actually. Coach and his wife were in the front seat, and a semi hit them as they slid through the light at the corner—”
“The one from last week.”
“The very one. Spun the car around. Her mother was driving—she was trapped in the car. Coach flew through the windshield. And Issy was in the backseat, nearly without a scratch. For a long time I couldn’t get the scene out of my brain. Coming up on the accident . . . the car had already caught on fire, and Issy wouldn’t leave her mother. I think she might have stayed there until the flames engulfed the car. We finally got the fire out, freed them from the car, but Gabriella died there on the street. Horrible accident for everyone, but it was especially rough on Issy.”
His pause, his tone, made Caleb glance at him.
Dan wore a grimace, as if witnessing something fresh and raw. “She had a terrible panic attack the day of the funeral and locked herself in the bathroom. The police had to take the door off the hinges. And she was incoherent when we found her, had a sort of breakdown. She’s . . . she hasn’t really left her house since then.”
That was more than PTSD. Still, Caleb knew about that kind of fear, the kind that seeped inside you, took you apart piece by piece, made you believe that you’d never be whole again. “She lives next door to me.”
“You saw her?”
“At the library, actually.”
“Good. I’d heard she’d been making progress. Maybe you can reach out to her. I know Coach worries about her.” He turned to the field. “By the way, your running back needs to sell his fake a little more. He’s too easy to read.”
Caleb stared at Dan as he started to walk away, the swell inside him making his mouth open nearly without his permission. “Hey, Dan, one more thing.”
Dan glanced at him.
“Wanna . . . help me coach? I could use another set of hands.”
A slow smile spread over the preacher’s face. “I’ll be here at 6 a.m.”
The sun had crested in the sky when Caleb drove home. Roger met him as he lowered himself out of the truck’s cab. He rubbed between the dog’s ears. Then, circling around to the truck bed, he opened the tailgate, pulled out a ramp. He’d found the only self-propelled mower at Schuman’s Sports, and it set him back about a fourth of his disability pay for the month.
He grabbed the gas can from the back end and unscrewed the lid from the tank. As he gurgled the gas in, he let the wind off the lake cool his face. He’d start with the front yard, move to the back tomorrow.
Then, maybe, he’d replant her pansies.
A couple hard pulls and the mower roared to life. Not unlike a four-leg walker, really, it balanced him as he directed it down the row, moving slowly to mulch the grass, spitting moisture onto his jeans, his shoes.
He made another pass. Yes, it had grown into a jungle. His mowing job might not be pretty, but already the lawn shimmered, an emerald in the sunlight. The smell caught him, sent him back to his youth, to sprawling out on a fresh-cut lawn, running his toes between the prickly blades. In his mind, he gripped the football, stiff-arming his brother, going down, tussling in the front yard.
Someday he hoped to tussle with his own sons, watch them outrun each other. He didn’t have big dreams—not after Iraq. He just wanted to build a normal, small-town life. The kind of life his parents had.
Roger bounded out from the driveway, toward the sidewalk, barking, and Caleb turned.
Wow.
Isadora Presley had amazing legs. So maybe he shouldn’t have let that be his first thought, but nonetheless, Isadora came down the sidewalk in a pair of shorts, wearing a blue baseball cap, her curly dark hair pulled through the hole. It swung behind her like a tail as she ran with those tanned, long legs that belonged on a distance runner.
She stopped—or rather slowed. Looked at his yard.
At him.
He raised a hand. “Howdy, neighbor.”
She stood there a moment longer before she smiled too, something quick and obligatory. Then she took off again.
She passed his house five times before he finished, not stopping, not slowing again. He locked the mower in the backyard, climbed up the back porch and into the house, then lay on the floor and tried not to weep at the pain.
* * *
“It’s the Seb-a-na-TOR!”
Just once, Seb would like to walk into a room without Big Mike, all-state center, announcing his presence.
Although for a second, something hot and sweet swelled inside him. He’d spent years being nobody. It felt good to be someone again.
A hero, even.
No one really needed to know the truth, right?
He raised a hand to Bam, seated on a high top at the bar. With his bullish shoulders, not much of a neck and his head shaved to a nub, the defensive end could still strike fear into anyone opposite him, including, probably, the poor saps who came into the credit union searching for a loan.
“Six ball, left pocket. Hey, Seb.” Pete Watson—P-Train, they called him—slid the ball into the corner pocket, smooth as silk, just like his running game.
Above P-Train, the neon lights in the window advertised the specials on tap, and beyond that, pictures of those members who’d served in the wars lined the walls. The VFW also served the best burgers in town, hosted a free pool table, and let JayJ and his band practice every Wednesday night.
JayJ stepped up to the mike. “You drink free tonight, Sebanator.”
Seb acknowledged him, but he wasn’t a drinking man—not anymore. He should have been warned off that night Lucy had caught him and Bree Sanders in a post–homecoming game clench. Sadly, there had still been a few dark years after the fiasco at Iowa State. He had to do something to forget his mistakes.
But about two years ago, he’d straightened up, found his way into a church, fallen hard at the foot of the cross, cried his eyes out over his sins, and promised to start over.
Even, someday, in Deep Haven. And he’d meant it, even if he’d had a couple rough starts after that. But not with alcohol. He only had to look at his father to let that lesson sink in.
He stepped up to the bar and ordered a Coke. Bam gave him a look, but he ignored it and found a stool at the high top where Big Mike considered his pool bets.
“P-Train knows how to sink ’em, but he still has a wild shot. Now, Deej, he’s got the touch. He’ll sneak right up and pretty soon he’s grabbing the game out from under you.”
DJ Teague looked up, smiled. Always had a smile—it wasn’t easy being the only African American in a town pocketed so far north, but he knew how to pluck the ball from the air, and to the town he, like everyone else, appeared Husky blue.
Funny how Seb still saw each of these boys in their uniforms, their numbers emblazoned on their backs. Probably each of them could trace every play of that last game in their sleep, especially Coach’s trick “Quarterback Chaos.” Sometimes, he still saw himself taking off for the sideline. Coach, Deej doesn’t know the play! He doesn’t know the play! See, out of his periphery, the defenders loosen their stance, even stand up.
Enough for the offense to mow them over, for him to cut down the side and into the end zone. One of Presley’s famous magic plays.
“How’s practice going?” Mike picked up Seb’s drink and sniffed it, made a face.
Seb took it back. “Good. I finally put them into positions today. First two days, I ran them until they couldn’t see anymore.”
P-Train sank another shot, then leaned on his cue. “I went by the field after my shift at the sawmill. Saw your guys running the bleachers. I hated those. You have any pukers?”
“No. I hated the feeling of being wrung out. But I still worked ’em hard. Had them run some drills, too. Then we played a little touch, just to have some fun.”
Bam came off his stool. “Fun? Is football fun?”
“When you win!” Deej said and sank the eight ball.
P-Train chalked his cue. “So we got a state championship team, Seb?”
“Dunno. Depends on the other half—Coach Knight’s team. He’s got the senior QB, Jared Ryan, on his team. I’m still trying to figure out who can throw the ball on mine.”
When Seb woke up this morning, he’d had the strongest urge to drive by World’s Best Donuts. Instead, he’d driven to Coach Knight’s practice, watched him run some drills, made a mental game plan of how he might do the same. Then he drove down to the beach and pitched rocks into the water for a good hour, the fear settling into his bones before deciding to put his players into positions, see what they could do.
Complain, was what. He didn’t remember ever complaining when Coach Presley made them run.
Seb hadn’t a clue how to turn these boys into a disciplined championship team. Sure, Knight might have sat on the bench sometimes, but most of the time Seb saw him standing out in the field with a clipboard. He’d gestured to his running back, drawn him in to speak close, then sent him back out. And sure enough, next time out, the kid sold his fake.
Seb saw improvement on Knight’s team already and it was only day three.
He clearly needed help. So he’d come to the VFW to track it down.
“What if Coach Knight’s team slaughters us? That can’t happen, guys. I want to be the coach. I want to be the best, to see us get another trophy in the case by the gym. So . . . I need your help.”
P-Train smiled. “I’m all over that. What time?”
“If I move practice to after dinner, you think you can come out? Mike and P-Train can teach some running plays. Bam, you could teach them how to tackle while Deej works the receivers. I’ll focus on the QB.”
“What’s the plan?” Mike asked.
“Knight is teaching them fundamentals. We’re going to outplay him. I have the secret weapon: all of Coach’s trick plays, right here.” Seb tapped his head. “And we’re going to teach them to our boys.”
Bam raised his glass.
Mike gave him a fist bump. “See, we just needed real Husky blood back at the helm. And who better than our all-state QB?” He picked up a cue. “What took you so long, bro?”
Seb kept his smile. “After college, I got into a few things.” A few things? Sometimes his own words curdled his insides, but he’d already started the play—he had to finish it. “Started a couple businesses.” If you could count selling coupons door-to-door as his own business. That had certainly been a dark time. Or perhaps, part of the darkness.
“Hey, really? You owned your own company?” Bam took Mike’s place as P-Train racked the balls for a new game. “Ever made a business plan?”
“Sure, dozens of them. Business was my major.” Okay, one of them. He’d done a lot of switching, declaring . . . failing. He took a drink and tasted his lies. “Actually—”
“We had someone come in today who needs a loan. But she hasn’t a clue what she’s doing, and she needs a business plan for me to approve the loan.” Bam slapped ten dollars on the table. “That’s on P-Train.”
Mike glared at him.
“I . . . I guess so. I have some time before school starts,” Seb said. Couldn’t hurt, right? He fished out a five, added it to the pile. “On Train.”
“Great. I’ll tell her you’ll stop by. You two will have fun catching up, I’m sure.” He glanced at Seb, gave him a wink.
A darkness slid through him even as he asked, “What’s her name?”
Mike broke and pocketed two balls. He grinned shark teeth at Seb.
Bam finished off his beer. “Oh, sorry, man. I thought I said. It’s Lucy. Lucy Maguire.”
Seb closed his eyes. Of course it was.
* * *
It didn’t matter that BoyNextDoor hadn’t called again, right?
Really, it didn’t matter.
Issy sat in the family room, feet propped on a wooden coffee table, painting her toenails deep pink. ABBA’s “The Winner Takes It All” played on her iPod docking system. With the windows open, the fragrances of the lake, the pine, and the roses that twined up her front porch stewed a heady brew of summer, especially mixed with the aroma of freshly cut grass.
Her neighbor had mowed. And not just the front—as she might have expected—but this morning she’d awakened to the chewing of the mower a
s it devoured the savanna grasses of his backyard. She climbed to her office, peered down on him.
And probably peered for too long, really, but Coach Knight had great shoulders, strong and bronzed, marred only by the burned skin that covered his right arm and a good portion of his neck. She was a little embarrassed to admit that she’d winced, again, at his scars. But she’d stopped seeing them by the time he finished the yard and mostly noticed that, when he took off his baseball cap to wipe his forehead, he had a nice head. A sort of distinguished, even solid look about him.
Still, sweat glistened off him, dripping into his now-scraggly beard, which seemed oddly incongruent with his clean-cut head.
She did appreciate a clean-cut man.
That’s when she forced herself away from the window.
She’d visited the forum while he finished mowing and discovered that not only she had missed hearing from BoyNextDoor again. The forum lit up with scenarios about his absence.
Cupid87: I’ll bet he didn’t do anything Miss Foolish Heart said. He probably got off the phone, plopped onto the sofa, and fell asleep with the remote in his hand. He was too embarrassed to show his face.
Proverbs31: No way. He wouldn’t have called in if he didn’t want to get her attention. I’ll bet he spent the day working on her list of complaints, probably fell into an exhausted lump.
DorothyP: I only wish my boyfriend would do one thing on my list.
Issy had logged in and pointed out that maybe the girl had noticed what he’d done to impress her and they were out for dinner all night long.
“Issy?” Lucy’s voice came through the open screen door. She stepped inside without waiting for a reply.
“Over here.” Issy applied the last of Berry Blast on her toes, then leaned back. Uh-oh, the way Lucy shuffled in, practically threw her donut bag on the table, and plopped into Coach Presley’s favorite recliner . . . well, someone probably needed a donut more than Issy did.
“You okay?” Issy picked up the bag, opened it. A glazed raised.
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