Rough Love
Page 3
They seem ready to roll, so I call out, “One, two, three . . .” And we’re off, not like speeding bullets but rather like slow-plodding sloths, each kid unwilling to go faster than the one next to him. The lesson is already sticking, but I speed them up a little bit. “Left, left, left, right, left.” It’s not quite military precision, and some of these boys probably aren’t even sure which is right and which is left, but together, we make our way around the park.
The second lap is a bit faster, and I don’t have to say a word to keep the boys together. They do it naturally and a warmth fills my chest. The third lap finds us slowing back down a bit, exhaustion starting to hit us. But we cross the fence post of the finish line together and all twelve boys cheer for themselves, high-fives given freely between all of them, even Johnathan and Cooper.
“Great job, guys,” Mike says breathlessly. He’s got his hands on his knees, not exactly gasping for air but damn close. “Take five, get water, and then we’ll regroup for drills.”
The boys all run toward their bags, newfound energy from their youth bursting forth.
Mike watches them and then turns one hairy eyeball at me. “Shit, man. I’m in decent shape, lift weights three times a week, but hitting the treadmill ain’t nothing compared to running on uneven grass trying to keep up with those pipsqueaks.” It’s not an insult in the least. Instead, he seems pretty impressed with his team.
One side of my mouth quirks up. “I know. I work my ass off in the fields, but I don’t think I’ve actually run flat-out in way too long. It was good, though, for all of us.”
Mike nods his agreement as he puts his hands on his head. “So, drills next? What do you think?”
I squint at the boys. “First practice, you said? You know who’s got an arm and who can catch yet?”
“Nah, most of these boys have played flag football before, but not all of them, so there might be a sleeper pro.” He grins even as he says it.
“How about we do a couple of tossing drills then? See who can throw for distance, for accuracy, and with any form to speak of. And then reverse and see who can catch an easy toss.”
For the next hour, as the sun races across the sky, we do just that. A line of boys throwing to Mike and me and then us throwing to them. After a while, we gather back up in a huddle and Mike tells the boys they did a great job. He gives them a parental look of expectancy and they turn to me as one. “Thanks, Coach B!”
“Thanks for letting me jump into your practice today, guys. It was a lot of fun. You’re gonna have a great season,” I say honestly. Being back on the field, even if it’s just a bumpy field in a city park, brought back good memories, back when life was simpler, things were easier, and football was the solution to all my nonexistent problems. I don’t mention the behavior that warranted my stopping in the first place, the incident forgiven but not forgotten.
Unprompted, the boys all line up to give me another handshake and do the same with Mike, which makes me feel like my earlier lesson did some good. And then they’re off like the rambunctious kids they are, bags flying onto shoulders, loud shouts, and tumbling feet.
I watch them go, Mike at my side. “You did good today, Brutal. Those boys might not know what a treat they got, but I certainly do. You’re something else.”
I feel heat on my face, and I shake my head. “Once upon a time, maybe.”
Mike scoffs. “And today. Not many would’ve stopped to help Cooper, and even fewer would’ve helped with practice the way you did.”
“That kid’s got a mouth. He might’ve earned a little bit of that. But just a little.” I hold my thumb and finger up an inch apart. “The rest was uncalled for.”
“Agreed. So, about that . . . about practice . . .” Mike pauses, looking at me curiously. “Like I said, I’m here for Evan, but I’m just the best they got out of a nonexistent pile of options. A couple of the boys don’t have dads for various reasons. Killian lives with his grandparents, and the ones with two parents didn’t have anyone else step up to coach.” He chuckles. “Not sure if that says Jamie’s got me whipped or what because here I am.”
He holds his hands out wide and then places them on his hips. “What I’m trying to say is . . . you interested in being an assistant coach? I could sure use the help, and the boys could use the expertise.”
I shake my head no on autopilot, without even thinking it over for a second. “I don’t think so. That ain’t me. I’m no coach.”
Mike’s grin and bark of laughter are ones of disbelief. “Pretty sure there are twelve boys who’d disagree with you on that. Think it over. You don’t have to answer now. Here’s my number.” He reaches down to his bag, pulling out a piece of paper and scribbling his information down. I take it, slipping it into my back pocket. It feels heavy with possibility.
Could I? Should I?
“You’d have to pass the background check and be listed on the roster or they won’t let you on the sidelines at the games, but we can do that quickly. Plenty of time before the first game. Practices are here on Tuesdays and Thursdays at seven, Saturday mornings at ten, and the first game is several weeks away. We could use you, man. For all of it, any of it, whatever you’re willing to volunteer for.” He holds his hand out once more and I shake it firmly.
“Thank you, Mike. Truly. I’ll think about it.”
And I do. All the way home, down the paved asphalt of town, to the dirt of our driveway. I sit in the truck, not getting out and thinking.
I don’t hear him coming, but the air is disturbed for a moment before the passenger door opens and Brody climbs in, slamming the door behind him.
“What are we doing?” he says casually. We both know there’s nothing casual about his question.
“Thinking,” I answer drolly. His quirked eyebrow says that’s not enough, not nearly enough. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. “Helped with a kids’ football practice tonight. Coach asked me to come back and help again.”
I don’t think I could’ve surprised him more if I’d said I found a goose laying golden eggs and a giant beanstalk in town. “How the fuck did that happen?”
I relate the story of seeing the boys getting after Cooper and finish with Mike asking me to help.
Brody rubs at his bottom lip with his thumb, humming to himself. “You’re thinking about doing it.”
It’s not a question. I see a lot, am observant to a fault, but Brody knows us all better than we know ourselves. He knows that football was always mine, my way of dealing with anything and everything. “You’d be good at it,” he adds.
It’s a rousing stamp of approval from my stoic brother. He might as well be waving pom-poms around and cheering like some shit-bad cheerleader.
“I’m thinking about it,” I concede. It’s all I can give for now. Changing the subject, I tease out how much trouble I’m in. “What was Shay’s big news, and how mad is she that I didn’t show?”
Brody takes his hat off, rolling the brim in his hands and sighing. “Another trip. Fuck, you know I love our sister dearly, would kill for her, but I really don’t need to hear about every single pin she’s sticking on her map. It’s not even a big one! They’re going to south Texas, for fuck’s sake. As for you, she’ll make you pay. No mistaking that.”
He’s right, but I don’t mind. Tonight was interesting and different, and I can take Shay’s punishment with one hand tied behind my back.
Chapter 3
Allyson
“And then Coach B and Coach Mike had us doing fast feet drills up and down the field,” Cooper says excitedly, demonstrating by tap-dancing his feet across the wood floor of our rental house in town.
I smile. At least I think I do, but truthfully, I’ve only had one sip of coffee so far and I’m not firing on all cylinders yet. I wish Cooper would sleep in just a little later on the weekends, but I try to remind myself that too soon, he’ll be a teenager who sleeps all day and I should enjoy his early morning energy. Maybe even suck a little bit of it up for myself.
On top of those responsibilities, Cooper started football practice and has talked non-stop about it ever since. He’s only had two practices, so I’m dreading, just a tiny bit, how much more football this boy can verbally throw at me.
“Footwork looks good, honey,” I tell him, not really knowing if that’s true or not but wanting to support his interest and hard work. He does it again, forward and then backward, from the kitchen to the front door and back.
“Light and quick like a ballerina,” Cooper says, surprising me.
“A ballerina?” I question.
He nods wisely, his eyes wide as he obviously recites, “How do you think ballerinas can move so fast?” He swishes his arms on top of each other, switching them in an imitation of a ballerina’s feet. “They gotta be light on their feet so they can be quick. If not, they’d miss every play before they could get to the ball. Light and quick.” Changing from his recitation, he asks, “Hey, Mom, did you know ballerinas dance until their feet bleed?”
My brows pull together. “Uh, yeah? Why so much talk about ballet all of a sudden?” The possibilities are already swirling around in my mind—do I make him finish the season since he made the commitment? Do I let him move on to what’s apparently a new interest? What made him so interested?
Cooper shrugs his little shoulder. “Coach B was telling us about them being so fast, and Trey said he wanted to be a tough football player, not a prissy dancer. Coach Mike cringed like this—” He pulls his face, mimicking an unhappy Coach Mike. “But Coach B said ballerinas are some of the toughest athletes and showed us a video of their mangled up feets after a show.”
He crumples his fingers into claws, showing me what their feet were like. “Like bloody claws with toes on ’em.”
“Okay . . . first off, eww. Secondly, it’s feet, not feets. Feet is the plural of the singular foot, honey. So, you don’t want to do ballet?” I’m trying really hard to keep up with this kid’s mental gymnastics, so I take a good long pull of coffee to corral the few brain cells that are awake and alert and encourage a few more to join the party.
It’s Cooper’s turn to pull his eyebrows together in confusion. “What? No, I love football. Coach B was just talking about ballet because of the footwork.” He does his little tap-dancing routine across the room and back.
I shake my head, feeling like I just went on a trip that wasn’t even needed. But I’m doing my best to do anything I can for Cooper and to do it all right. That’s what single moms do, be everything in one. And I do it gratefully . . . for him.
“Well, now that’s settled, how about some breakfast before we leave for practice? What do you want this morning?” I open the fridge, peering inside like inspiration will strike me.
“Eggs and bacon, and biscuits and gravy if you got any,” my tiny, barely eats anything kid answers.
I lean back to catch his eye, one brow quirked and my lips tilted up. “That’s a mighty big breakfast. Think you can handle all that?”
He nods so fast I think his head might fall off. “Coach Mike says growing athletes need fuel. Food is fuel, and occasionally fun. Like cake and donuts. But everyday stuff should be protein, fat, and complex carbs. One gram of protein per two pounds of body weight!”
I have to bite my lip to keep from giggling. This kid is eight years old and schooling me on nutritional facts like he’s an expert. “Is that so?” I pull out the eggs, checking the date, and then dig around. I don’t have any bacon, but I’ve got frozen sausage patties and a popping roll of biscuits. “And just how big is a gram? Tell you what . . . how about a biscuit, egg, and sausage sandwich?”
He seems to think about it and then decides it’ll do. “Can you put jelly on it? I know that’s sugary, but a little’s probably okay, right?”
I set the jar of grape jelly on the table. “You can do it yourself . . . carefully.”
While I make us breakfast sandwiches, Cooper tells me all about his two whole football practices. I think it takes him longer to tell me about them than it did for him to actually go. But I love listening to him ramble happily about his coaches, his teammates, what he’s learned. He sounds good, happy, and carefree, which is all I ever wanted for him.
Giving this life to him is why I left our previous one. He’s why I finally found the courage. Because this right here, breakfast sandwiches and football practices and silly stories, is what he deserves.
“So, tell me again, Coach Mike is Derek’s dad? And whose dad is Coach B?” I’m trying to keep it all straight, but it’s a lot for people I haven’t even met yet. My friend Michelle did carpool duty for me Tuesday and Thursday this week. Her son, Liam, is on the team with Cooper, and she’s an absolute godsend to us. Though she’d probably say the same thing about me and Cooper.
Michelle’s married, but her husband travels for work a lot, though I don’t know what exactly he does. She always describes it as ‘something with sales and robotic medical devices’ like she doesn’t know either, but with her being a pseudo-single mom sometimes and me being an actual single mom, we became fast friends when the boys started kindergarten. We’d bonded pretty hilariously over not wanting to be room mom while the other women were literally racing over each other to sign up.
Cooper’s mouth is full, but he shakes his head. After swallowing, he corrects me. “No, Coach Mike is Evan’s dad. Coach B is just one of Coach Mike’s friends.”
Something about that seems strange. I mean, most of the teams are fighting to get one person to step up and coach. So for this guy to help out and not even have a kid seems . . . odd? Maybe I’m jumping the gun, but I’m protective of Cooper, maybe even bordering on helicopter-y, not that I’d admit that freely. I’ll definitely have to meet this Coach B today and get a feel for him. I’ll make it a point to ask Mike about his qualifications and background check too. Due diligence to check the guy is the least I can do.
* * *
There isn’t a chance to ask Mike about his friend before practice starts because almost as soon as we arrive, they start running laps around the park. They look like a well-oiled machine, albeit one that occasionally misses a step or two. But if their line gets out of whack, they quickly correct it themselves. Pretty impressive for a bunch of eight- and nine-year-olds, I think.
I’m sitting on the makeshift ‘sideline’ of the boys’ practice field with Michelle, fresh cups of to-go coffees in our hands even though it’s hot as balls out here. “So, what do you know about this Coach B character?”
She laughs. “Let me guess, you’re getting ‘Coach Mike says’ and ‘Coach B said’ as much as I am?”
I nod, sipping my bean nectar and not saying anything else.
“I saw him at practice this week when I was waiting for the boys.” She lowers her voice, looking around and making sure none of the other nearby moms are paying us any attention, but still talking behind her cup like someone might read her lips. “Huge guy that I would happily climb like a tree. My ovaries damn near exploded from across the field. And that was before he started helping the kids. Pretty sure I was soaked down to my knees at that point.”
I can’t hold back the snort of laughter. “Oh, my God, Michelle. You are so hard up! When’s Michael coming home?”
“Girl, it ain’t about being horny,” she says with a throaty chuckle. “Wait till you see him. You’ll be dreaming about that beard scratching your thighs all night, too. That cowboy could wear his dirty boots to bed and I wouldn’t complain a bit, especially if that was all he was wearing.”
Her words bring up imagery I’d rather not have. It’s not that I’m asexual. I have a sex drive and a battery-operated boyfriend like most red-blooded women, but it’s been so long since I’ve had actual two-person
sex that I’ve probably forgotten how to even do it. Is it still tab A and slot B? Or is there some newfangled way of doing things these days?
“I don’t think that’s my thought pattern,” I correct her, shoving any lack-of-sex thoughts out of my head. “I’m more worried about Mike’s random friend hanging out with a bunch of kids. Can you say sketch-yyy?” I singsong the last word under my breath, drawing it out.
Michelle shrugs, unconcerned. “Mike said he’s some football pro or something that he wrangled into helping. The boys like him and they seem to be learning, and you know Mike appreciates the help. Getting those boys to play together is like herding squirrels, so if he got some backup that doesn’t require me getting out there to catch a ball, I’m for it.” She does little finger-quotes around the word ‘catch’, making it clear that she can’t play any better than I can.
I turn back to watch the boys cross what appears to be their finish line, judging by the cheers and high-fives. “I’m still going to keep an eye out and talk to Mike.”
Michelle makes a serious face, mean mugging at me as she points her V-ed fingers at her eyes and then the boys. “On it, Helicopter Mom Extraordinaire.”
Okay, so maybe I’m a bit more transparent about my overprotectiveness than I thought. But she’s got no room to talk. I had to convince her to let Liam play.
The boys’ cheers renew and I hear them call out, “Coach B! You’re here!”
The sun’s blocking my sight a bit, throwing the newcomer into a bright halo so that all I can see is a black silhouette. A very large silhouette. And then a deep voice gruffly says, “Sorry I’m late, guys. Had to finish chores before I could leave, but I brought snacks for after practice.”
“Yeah!” they cheer, not even knowing what he’s brought. If I were a betting woman, I’d lay odds he could bring them tuna fish in a can, tell them it was good protein, and they’d scarf it down. At least that’s what Cooper made it sound like when he was going all nutritionist on me this morning.