Old Fashioned

by Steiner, Kandi

  I was glad I took that moment before the game to find my daughter in the crowd, to watch the excitement on her face, because from the moment that first whistle blew, I didn’t have another spare minute.

  The boys played hard.

  They had something to prove.

  And there wasn’t a single moment of that game that I wasn’t wrapping or icing or working on sprains or joints or helping someone stretch out or checking them for concussions or watching a loud collision from the sidelines while I silently prayed nothing was broken in the process. I ran on and off the field more times than I could count, players on the ground with the stands silent until we both stood in unison and I got them to the sidelines.

  It was a long and grueling game.

  But when the final seconds on the scoreboard ticked down, we had twenty-eight points, and the Hornets had twenty-five.

  We won.

  It was an explosion of excitement from our sideline, benched players and all the coaches running out on the field to meet the team. I laughed from beside the bench, watching the high fives and hugs — not just with our own players, but with the other team’s, too. It was perhaps my favorite part of football, that camaraderie that was shown to the opponent at the end.

  “Mama!”

  I turned to find Paige leaning over the railing of the stands, and I rushed to her, jumping up to high five her outstretched hand.

  “We won, we won!”

  I chuckled. “We did, didn’t we?”

  “If you ask me, it’s because Coach and I had a talk.” She looked up at her dad then, who was narrowing his eyes at me. “I know what I’m talking about when it comes to football, don’t I, Daddy?”

  “No one knows more, munchkin,” he said, but his eyes still bore into me. I stood straighter, which I knew he hated.

  He was so used to me cowering under that gaze.

  “She told me you guys ran into Jordan at the park after I left,” he mused. “How convenient.”

  I had to fight so hard not to roll my eyes, I barely had enough strength to respond. “He was there washing his car. Paige saw him and ran over to light into him about the game.” I turned my attention back to her. “Which worked, apparently.”

  Her smile doubled, and she bounced a little, her wild curls hopping with her. “Can we stick around to talk to Coach, Daddy?” She tugged on his sleeve. “Please, please, please!”

  “They’ve got to load up on the busses, sweetheart,” he said to her, rubbing her head to pacify her as she pouted. “And we’ve got important business, too.”

  “We do?”

  He nodded, lowering himself nearer to her ear and whispering, “Ice cream.”

  Paige lit up at that, squealing and bouncing for a new reason. Randy chuckled and I couldn’t help but laugh, too.

  When our eyes met, we shared a brief moment of understanding.

  A brief insight into what it felt like to look at each other before.

  But as soon as it had come, it was gone again.

  I hardened my gaze, his laugh slipped off, and with a quick hug and instructions to be good, Paige grabbed his hand and they were gone.

  It was complete chaos for Jordan after the game ended. He was talking to local news reporters and shaking hands with administration and doing business with scouts and stealing players away for brief moments of either criticism or praise or both. It wasn’t until we were back on the bus that he had a moment to himself, and as soon as he sat down next to me, he blew out a breath.

  This time, it was with a smile.

  “Congratulations, Coach,” I said, nudging him with my elbow. “Looks like our year isn’t hopeless yet.”

  “It’s just one game,” he said, falling back into the seat like he was wiped. “But damn, does it feel good to win.”

  He turned to look at me as the bus pulled out of the lot, and the stadium lights played with the shadows on his face until we slipped into darkness on the country road. I expected him to turn away, to give me a high five and lean over the aisle to talk to the other coaches about the game, but instead, he just stayed that way.

  Watching me — like he was waiting for something, or like he was on the cusp of discovering something he’d missed all along.

  “You’re damn good at your job, did you know that?”

  His words surprised me, and I couldn’t fight off the blush that shaded my cheeks. I shrugged. “Just doing what needs to be done.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t downplay what you did out there like anyone could do it. This is only your second game, and already, the boys on this bus feel more comfortable with you than they ever did with any other trainer we’ve had. Do you understand what that means?”

  “Maybe it’s because I’m a woman,” I offered as a joke. “I give off those motherly, nurturing vibes.”

  “You do,” he agreed. “But, that’s not why they trust you. They trust you because you know what you’re doing, and you prove it time and time again when you take them back for treatment. They know that if you say it’s not safe to play, it’s not. And if you say they’re going to be okay, they will be. And if you say to rest or to ice or to do therapy, they know it’s not just bullshit talk to fill the space. It’s necessary.” Jordan paused, frowning a bit. “You are a very impressive trainer, Sydney.”

  Emotion swelled in the middle of my chest like a lotus flower, sprouting up from the sticky mud that had stifled my self-pride for years. I hated how hot my ears were in that moment, but I loved the way it felt to have my hard work and talent acknowledged.

  “Thank you, Jordan,” I said — softly, almost a whisper. My eyes found his. “Really.”

  One corner of his mouth tugged up a centimeter, but otherwise, his expression remained the same. He nodded, still watching me, his eyes flicking back and forth between mine.

  Those eyes that were too mesmerizing not to watch in return.

  The air on that bus liquified, as if I could reach out and touch it and send a ripple flowing between where I sat and where Jordan was next to me. I felt it weighing in on me, warm and heavy, my breaths labored under the pressure.

  I cleared my throat, ripping my gaze from his. I picked at my chipped nail polish a moment — polish Paige had painted on the night before I took her to her dad’s. I’d found it funny and endearing that my football-obsessed little girl wanted to paint our nails together, and I smiled at the memory.

  “You know,” I said, picking a fleck of the red off before I looked at Jordan again. “Paige insinuated that you have her to thank for tonight’s win.”

  “Did she now?” Jordan barked out a laugh, crossing his ankle over his knee. “Well, she was definitely part of it. You know, it was her idea to try Ingram at running back. She saw his speed and protection of the ball when he was warming up for last week’s game.” Jordan shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe he’d missed it. “He’s so young, you know. Freshman. I just didn’t think he could handle that kind of pressure yet.”

  “And then he gets two touchdowns in his first game as a starter,” I mused with a whistle. “Damn, my girl is smart.”

  Jordan chuckled. “That she is.”

  Darkness fell over both of us as we slipped past the last little part of North Valley, and I knew even though I couldn’t see it, that same country I’d stared at on the way over was outside our windows now.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said, biting my lip just in case I wanted to change my mind before I continued. “About what you said. About Paige.”

  “Yeah?”

  I nodded. “I was wondering… would you possibly like to come by for lunch tomorrow? I hoped maybe you could sit her down, really explain what it would mean for her to play football. And I mean really explain it — the good, the bad, the ugly. I want her to understand everything she’s getting herself into.” I swallowed, the instinct I’d gained as soon as I became a mother flaring in my gut. “And if she’s still serious after that… well… will you help her?�
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  Jordan smiled, but I balked instantly.

  “I mean, if and when you have time, of course,” I said quickly. “I know it’s football season and you’ve got classes and practices and games, and a social life, I’m sure. I just… the other day, in your office, you had mentioned —”

  “I’d love to.”

  Jordan was still smiling as I blew out a breath. “Yeah?”

  He nodded with his eyebrows pinched together, like it was obvious. “Are you kidding? That girl’s got grit. If she can play even half as well as she can chew my ass, I think she’s got a real shot of making some serious moves in football.”

  I laughed a little too hard, covering my mouth with my hand as I shook my head. “I’m scared,” I admitted.

  “That just means you’re a good mom,” he said, and as if it was normal and casual and damn near instinctive, his hand reached over and wrapped around my knee with a squeeze.

  It was a friendly touch, one of admiration and assurance, which was why I nearly squeaked out loud when a bolt of violent heat sprang from his touch up the inside of my thigh.

  We both looked at where he touched me, then at each other, and in the same breath, he pulled his hand away and straightened while I tucked my hair behind one ear and looked out the window.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, knowing I should respond, that I should say something — anything. But when I finally turned back to him and opened my mouth, he was already leaning over the aisle, a clipboard between him and Coach Pascucci as they discussed the game.

  I internally groaned, letting my head fall against the window. The glass was slightly cool, a sign that fall was approaching — slowly, but surely.

  My skin that touched it, however, was still burning hot.

  Jordan

  One thing I had learned about Sydney in her time on the team was that she was tough.

  She wasn’t one of those people who had to try hard to give off that vibe, either. It wasn’t as if she walked around scowling all the time, or puffed out her chest, or showed her scars and told battle stories. She didn’t bark at anyone who came near her, and she didn’t use force to get her point across when she had one to make.

  She was effortlessly strong, in a way that was natural and pure.

  I knew it from the moment she walked into my office. I saw it in the way she held her chin high, in the way her stoic eyes held mine, in the way she spoke — calmly and evenly, always. She didn’t have to tell me that she’d been through shit for me to see it, and she didn’t have to prove to me that she could handle herself.

  Somehow, I knew that, too.

  Last night, I watched her run on and off the field, her demeanor serious as she assessed each injury and determined next steps. She did it so quickly and confidently, and the players trusted her implicitly.

  When I thought of Sydney, I thought of everything hard and resilient — rock, stone, iron, maybe even diamond.

  Which was precisely why I was surprised on Saturday when I parked my Bronco in the driveway of a very soft, very feminine, very welcoming and modest two-story house on the north end of town.

  It was a gray house with a yellow door and white trim. A colorful variety of stones paved the way from the driveway to the front porch, which was surrounded by a stunning garden of flowers and plants. I smiled at the three rocking chairs on the porch — two that were much like the ones my mom had, and one that was the same yellow as the door and about half the size of the other two.

  It was exactly the right size for Paige.

  There were remnants of a chalk drawing on the porch, too — a dragon and a castle, I thought. And as I lifted my fist to knock, I chuckled at the handmade Tennessee Titans wreath on the door.

  “I’ll get it!” I heard a tiny voice yell before there was the distinct sound of bare feet barreling toward the door. In the next moment, it flew open, and Paige grinned up at me with a crooked smile.

  “Hey, Coach!”

  “Hey, yourself.”

  “Mama said we’re going to play football today!”

  “That’s not what I said,” I heard from somewhere in the house, and I smirked, bending until I was level with Paige.

  “We’re going to talk about football, yes,” I corrected, but before she could pout, I lowered my voice to a whisper. “But, I’d wager we’ll end up playing some, too.”

  “I can already see you two will be the death of me,” Sydney announced as she swung around the corner behind Paige — who was snickering now, like we had a secret.

  My smile faltered at the sight of Sydney at Home, who looked nothing like Sydney at Work.

  Her hair that was normally pulled into a bun on top of her head was wavy and unruly, pulled out of her face by a bright orange headband tied at the top of her forehead. It wasn’t curly like her daughter’s, but it was wild in its own way, barely tamed by that scrap of orange fabric. And the way she carried herself was different somehow, as if she were strolling in the park with nowhere to be. That guard she always hid behind, that shield that was always up seemed to not even exist at all.

  She smiled at me as she wiped her hands on a rag, a tired smile on her face — along with a few smudges of dirt. I did a double-take at her overalls and gardening belt, my curiosity climbing as I noted the dirt stains on her knees.

  “It looks like you’re the one who’s been playing football,” I teased.

  Sydney chuckled, opening the door wider so I could step inside the foyer with them. Paige was staring up at me with a giddy smile, bouncing slightly.

  “I’ve been working in the vegetable garden out back,” Sydney said, leading me through the foyer and into an open space that seemed to serve as the living room and dining room, both. College Game Day was on the television, and in the kitchen just off to our right, there sat a basket full of the evidence of that garden’s existence. It was on the counter next to two dirty gardening gloves and a sheer.

  “Wow,” I mused, walking straight to it and picking up a carrot from the top. “Carrots, cauliflower, Brussel sprouts…” I paused, picking up a familiar herb. I turned to her. “Basil?”

  Sydney nodded, folding her arms where she watched me. “You didn’t call it a pile of leaves,” she commented. “I’m impressed.”

  I chuckled, but before I could ask another question about her garden, Paige sighed, flopping down at the dining room table. “Mom’s got a garden. There are carrots and stuff in it. Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay, we’ve covered it now, can we please get down to business here?”

  She clasped her hands together in a plea, eyes wide and little feet dangling under her chair.

  “Paige Marie, that was rude,” Sydney said at the same time I burst into laughter.

  “No, no, it’s okay,” I assured her, taking a seat across the table from Paige. “I like the excitement. You really do love football, don’t you?”

  Paige’s face leveled, the most serious I’d ever seen her. “More than anything in the world, Coach.”

  “Except her mother, of course,” Sydney said, kissing her daughter’s hair — which was presently a wild fluff of half curl, half wave.

  Paige waved her off with a groan, but smiled, too, and Sydney hung her hands on her hips.

  “I’ll pour us some lemonade and start working on lunch while you two get down to business,” she said, offering me an apologetic smile before she made her way to the cabinet next to the sink. My eyes followed her up until the very moment she stepped on her tiptoes to reach the glasses, and I noticed the smooth, brown skin exposed between her tiny tank top and the overalls she wore over them. That gap between them gave me a view I’d never had before of her slim waist, and her hips as she wiggled to reach the top shelf.

  I swallowed, tearing my eyes away and back to Paige.

  Who was watching me with a smirk.

  “So,” she said, glancing at her mom and back at me pointedly. “Football.”

  “Football,” I echoed, ignoring her smile that said she knew something I was trying to hide.
“Let me ask you something, Paige — do you get your feelings hurt easily?”

  “Nope,” she answered quickly, nodding once before she sat up straighter in her chair. “I’m tough, Coach. I can handle anything.”

  “Anything?” I asked, leaning toward her as Sydney dropped off two glasses of lemonade on the table. She smiled at me before making her way to the basket on the counter, and again, my eyes followed her, watching her unpack each ingredient with care.

  “Anything,” Paige said, knocking on the table to pull my attention back to her.

  “So, if you show up at football camp next summer, and all the boys on the team make fun of you and call you names and shun you out of their groups and make you feel like you don’t belong, you can handle it?”

  Paige rolled her eyes. “Please. I’m only nine years old and I know that boys are stupid and their opinions don’t count for anything.”

  Sydney high-fived her daughter as she walked past to turn the volume down on the television.

  I chuckled. “And if you go out there and work twice as hard as those boys who are teasing you, and end up being twice as talented, and yet, your coach still doesn’t give you the same playing time as they get… can you handle that, too?”

  Paige’s confidence slipped. “That doesn’t sound fair.”

  “It’s not, but it’s a very real possibility that could happen,” I said, honestly. “And there’s also a very big possibility that not only would you isolate yourself from having many friends by being a girl playing football, but that you could make a lot of sacrifices, work really, really hard, and still not be able to play past high school. And, even if you do get to play in college, as of this very moment, there is nowhere for you to advance to play football professionally.”

  Paige’s eyes widened with every word I said, her little eyebrows tugging inward. It broke my heart to see it, and I could tell by the way Sydney watched us over her shoulder where she was cutting up the carrots that it worried her, too.

  But, this is what she wanted. She wanted me to be real with Paige.