by Ginger Scott
Tucked deep in the driver’s seat, I pull out my phone and take one last look at my tiny little family. My daughter is fearless, so different from me in some ways. She’s a flier, and it makes my heart stop every time those boys throw her in the air. I’d feel better having the other girls catch her, honestly. The boys are stronger, but damn is their attention span pathetic. She’s tumbling now, flip after flip along the track. Every time she stops, her eyes go right to Bryce and Reed.
My eyes go there mostly, too. It’s like we’ve both slipped into a time machine and I’m still the girl watching him from far away. His body is bigger, but those moves—the way he can step back and just see. He’s always been special.
I thumb through my contacts list and press Sienna’s number when I get to her, giving my attention back to Reed. She answers a little out of breath, and I’m sure I’ve caught her rushing from one of her girl’s activities to the other. Her and Micah had their first girl soon after they were married, and a few years later wanted to try for one more. They ended up with triplets—every single child a girl. Sienna’s life is spent between dance and swim and diving and piano lessons. They’re all incredibly different, but also incredibly gifted in some way.
“Noles, what’s up?” She’s trying to mask her panting.
“Let’s see…Thursday, so is this swim to dance?”
My friend laughs, but only as much as her breathing will allow.
“Close, it’s piano to swim. We’re running late, and by running…I mean we’re running. The damn van won’t start, and whoever decided to build the swim complex on top of the hill was an idiot.” Her phone slips and I hear her girls yelling at her to hurry in the background.
“It’s okay, just call me back when you can.” I walk through the mental list of everyone else I need to call.
“No…no…hold on.” Her phone muffles again, but this time by her palm. She tells her girls to go ahead and after a few seconds her end of the line clears up, and her breath seems to finally catch too. “They don’t need me. They’re eight. Talk to me.”
I smile and rest my head on the window, realizing how much I’ve missed my friend being close. They live up north, outside of Flagstaff, and it’s only a four-hour drive, but life makes that trip seem impossible lately.
“Trig passed away.” I don’t know another way to say it, but that’s not the entire truth. I’m being sensitive, but maybe I shouldn’t.
“Oh God.” I hear how it smacks her just like it did me. Her voice loses something as she speaks. It’s because this is the first time we’ve all been faced with mortality like this. Trig…he was one of us.
“They found him…on a boat…” I let Sienna work out the details in her own mind, and I sit in silence on the phone with my friend for nearly a full minute.
“How’s Reed?”
I swallow at the question.
“He’s not good. He’s gone into robot mode, and we haven’t talked about it—just the two of us. He’s actually out on our old high school field right now showing Peyton’s boyfriend some of his old moves.” I look up in time to see Reed clapping loudly at one of Bryce’s throws before jogging out to collect a few of the balls.
“What’s he doing in town?”
“Retrieving the precious Jeep, signing the deed; we met with the lawyer a couple days ago out on the property. It’s pretty much done. And he’s still on the ole disabled list.” I forget the last time Reed’s been around for one of our get-togethers, and the idea strikes me all of a sudden. “Hey, actually…it’s homecoming tomorrow. You think…”
“Hell yes, woman. Micah’s mom owes us big time! And I need a break. I’ll call him now, and we’ll be down there by morning. We’ll bring those breakfast burritos you love. I’ll freeze them tonight and they’ll be thawed by the time we roll in for breakfast.”
My mouth waters thinking about the fresh chorizo.
“You sure Micah’s okay taking off that early?” I ask.
“If not, I’m leaving him at home.” I laugh at her answer, but I’m fairly certain my friend is dead serious.
I hang up with Sienna and let her work out the details on her end while I send my next round of texts to Sean and Becky, who both call me back at the same time—from separate rooms of their San Diego house. I leave them both to figure out the how and when, and by the time Reed is done working with Bryce, I have a mini reunion set in motion. I did it all so fast, so caught up with the excitement of it all, that I didn’t really give myself a second to consider how he might…actually…hate it.
In a perfect storm, he climbs into the Jeep just as Peyton finishes practice, and now I’m stuck trying to sort out what type of conversation to have next. I get the wrong one out of the way first, and I know it is, but it’s easier to have.
“I did a thing,” I start.
His response comes in a heavy breath, and I turn in time to see his fists twisting in his eyes. They look tired when they open on me, tired for different reasons. His eyes are tired from holding in everything he needs to let out.
“Becks and Sean are driving in, and Micah and Sienna are coming down. Sarah’s already here, so ya know…I thought…” It was a stupid idea. This isn’t the time to celebrate.
Reed barely reacts, a crooked smile dimpling one cheek briefly while dead eyes blur out on my face.
“I didn’t think. I’ll call them back, tell them maybe next year, or…”
His hand falls on top of mine.
“No, it’s cool. They can stay with us. It’d be nice, really. It’s been a while.” He’s feigning enthusiasm, and he’s a bad liar.
“They’ll understand,” I say, giving him the option of an out.
“I know,” he says, drawing in another deep breath. You’d think he’d been sacked a thousand times today by the way every breath seems so heavy. “I’m being honest, though. I’d like to see everybody…and it’s homecoming.”
Peyton taps on the window next to him, and he turns enough to give her a smile as he puts his hand on the door handle to let himself out.
“I’m gonna walk home with her, let her know about Trig. I think maybe that’d be good for both of us.”
I give him a nod, and he steps out of the Jeep, dropping Peyton’s bag in place of where he was sitting. Peyton glances at me, and in that small second, I catch the panic in her eyes. She hasn’t said it directly, but I know she’s been worried about her dad and me. We don’t fight in front of her. We don’t really fight. Sometimes that long silence can be harder to handle, though, and I know she’s felt the wall we’ve both put up. She was with me when Reed was in surgery, when I got the news he had possible spinal trauma. She’s watched me break down in fear that something awful is going to happen to him, and when those studies started to pile up about brain injuries, I wasn’t particularly good at keeping my opinion out of breakfast-time conversation.
I drive away thinking of how my daughter, for a second, thought her parents were about to tell her they were getting a divorce. In my mirror, I see her crumble into Reed’s arms over the truth. I’m not sure which hurt would be better for her to have.
Chapter Eight
Reed
“What did you talk to him about?” Peyton finally bursts with the question she’s been biting onto behind those tightly closed lips. She jerks down on the sleeve of my dress shirt in a frustrated move to stop me from walking into the school auditorium for the booster dinner.
“We talked about football, honey. I swear…that’s it.” I bend down and kiss the top of her head, eliciting a sigh. She doesn’t believe me, and I’m okay with that. I like her being apprehensive and nervous. Maybe it will keep her from doing something stupid.
Peyton walks ahead of us, the glimmer of her pompoms flashing wildly with her pounding steps as she quickly marches away to join her friends.
“When did she get so…teenagery?” My shoulders sag, and Nolan weaves her hand in mine.
“When she became a teenager,” she answers. I shake out a small
laugh.
We’re still hidden in the refuge of the dark parking lot, and part of me wants to turn around and hide in the Tahoe until Peyton’s done. I’m sure that would be her preference, but I promised Coach I would talk to the parents and maybe help boost morale. The Bears are still good, but the spirit hasn’t been the same for a few years. Honestly, what they need more than me is my dad. He had a way of getting people to volunteer and pledge their undying allegiance to anything, including a Division Three high school, in a rural area still about fifty miles away from any real sprawl.
Nolan and I make it about three steps inside before we’re swarmed by other parents. It’s funny how their boys have the ability to treat me like just another human, but when I interact with the adults, they just get stupid.
“Hey, Reed. I don’t know if you remember me, but I caught your last pass during practice drills before our final run to state senior year.” I take the hand of the man talking and search my memory bank for anything that might clue me in, but nothing’s there. He’s my height, maybe about forty pounds heavier than me, and bald.
“Yeah! Hey, how’s it going? How’s your boy doing?” I fake it, and I see I’ve been caught in the way his eyes dip and his mouth bunches.
“Daughter. She’s on cheer,” he says.
“Oh, that’s right. Sorry,” I say, pointing to my head and sticking out my tongue in an effort to accentuate how clueless I can be.
“That’s cool. We’re proud.” He shrugs with his words. The way he answers me is lifeless, like he’s disappointed that he isn’t the father of a football player as well. I think of Peyton, and suddenly this guy pisses me off.
“Honestly, I’m so glad I have a girl, and she cheers. Us dumb jocks could never do half the shit they do. Too much coordination. We’d break our necks.”
It’s the wrong word choice, and I feel it in the way Nolan squeezes my hand. It’s too late though, and Mr. Pass Catcher is already being joined by four or five other dads all standing around waiting to talk to me about getting knocked out of my last big start, and surgery, and the chances I might get the ball a few times this season. My wife slips away in the chaos, and after indulging the small crowd in my well-practiced answers about feeling lucky to be a part of the OKC organization…and the talented young quarterback I’m mentoring—lie, lie, lie—I excuse myself.
Nolan’s seated at the center table near the front, doing her best to make small talk with women I know she doesn’t really have a thing in common with. She pretends well, though, coming to life for shared frustrations over having teenagers when the topics sway that way. I should join her, but I’m stuck on the last question one of the dads asked me before I stepped away.
“What do you think happened with Trig Johnson?”
I’ve thought millions of things in the few hours I’ve had to process the news. It still doesn’t feel real, and I keep pulling my phone into my palm surfing my texts, expecting one to be from my friend—asking for advice on what exotic place to take his latest fling or what car to blow his next sponsorship check on. I’m so mad I deleted his old messages because I can’t even look at them to pretend now.
“How you holding up?” Coach Baker slides in next to me, our backs to the entrance and our eyes on the nearly full banquet.
I raise a shoulder and spin my phone in my palm one more time before pocketing it.
“Haven’t really gotten through that first step yet…realization…is that?” I tilt my head toward him and he shakes his head.
“Denial is first. Sounds like you’re right on track, too.” He brings his hand up to my shoulder and squeezes once.
Denial. Yeah, I guess that’s what this is. It’s not as literal as they tell you in therapy. I know what happened, but I don’t want to.
“You ready for this little speech thing? I appreciate it, but if you’re just not up to it, nobody knows it’s happening, so we can just…” He makes scissors with his fingers.
“Nah, I like the distraction. Keeps me in denial.” I breathe out a pathetic laugh.
I follow Coach up the short row of steps that lead to the stage where they announced our homecoming king and queen every year I was here. I wore that crown every time, thinking that paper and glitter put together by fifteen-year-old girls on a committee really meant something. I bet Bryce wins tomorrow night.
“Proud Bears Families,” Coach gets their attention through the mic. It squeals a little, so he taps the side of it and one of the parent volunteers rushes to the edge of the stage to turn down the amps. “Thank you all for coming out for tonight’s Booster Dinner.”
He knows when to pause; he’s done this song and dance so many times. Everyone applauds and the team stands and slaps their hands on their tables, a roar of thunder culminating with a growl.
“I hope you can bring that energy to Liberty tomorrow.”
Coach is answered with a swift “Yes, sir!” in unison. He’s trained them well, and I look down at my red suede shoes as I mouth the words with them and smile. Some things are hard to unlearn.
“Normally, I spend this time telling you all of the things we need to accomplish to get to state this year, and the jobs we’re going to need to fill and money we need to raise, but…” He pauses to step to the left a little and hold an arm out toward me. One eye squints more than the other with his smile, and I feel my heart pound a little heavier with nerves. I haven’t been nervous in front of a crowd in years.
“It’s not every day that we get a seven-time Pro-Bowler and future Hall-of-Famer in our humble cafeteria-slash-auditorium.” His description gets a wave of laughter, and I step close enough to speak into his mic for a second.
“I heard I still have a delinquent account with the lunch lady,” I add, which drags the laughs on a little longer.
“I’ll wave your fees if you sign my shirt!” A woman stands up in the middle of the room and holds her Bears shirt out in front of her, stretching it across very ample breasts. My eyes bulge a little and I look at Coach.
“Reed, meet Abigail Loman, our cafeteria manager,” Coach says.
I nod and smile, turning my eyes back to my fan.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” I say, bracing myself for her to yell at me for calling her ma’am. Nolan kicks me when she catches me doing that, but I get stuck sometimes wanting to be respectful and not knowing what word to use. She says women don’t like to be called that, but damn it…these rules are hard.
“You spent time with my boy today. We’re huge fans, and he started playing because of you. So, thank you.” She says, nodding at me again as she folds her hands over her chest now in appreciation. This tall woman with big, blonde hair and hoop earrings is Bryce’s parent.
I smile and mouth “No problem” while I make a few mental notes about other things, like the lack of a husband sitting next to her, and the years she seems to have on the other women in the room. She’s at least fifteen or twenty years everyone’s senior.
Bryce has a story.
“Well, I could waste ten minutes on some introduction up here, boring you all with old stories I have about what it was like to coach this guy when he was a pain-in-the ass punk…no offense,” Coach says, holding a palm up to me.
I give one back.
“None taken,” I say.
“But I’m pretty sure everyone in this room has a good handle on his story. It’s hard to live in Coolidge and not know Reed Johnson. Hell, you might just be in our history books now, son. So, go on, take this thing from me.” He tips the mic my direction and I pull it into my hand, chuckling under my breath.
“Thanks, Coach…I think.” I scratch at my head, a few loose strands of my hair flopping over my forehead. I run my fingers over my head and smooth it back, my nervous tick starting already.
“I’m glad I got to be here for this tonight. These dinners…I always loved them. Mostly because my dad didn’t cook worth shit and this was the one time of year I had really good food.”
Everyone laughs with me, and
my eyes go to Nolan’s. Dark hair frames her pale face like a heart. Her smirk puts me at ease, and my pulse settles in, but my palms continue to sweat. I’ve realized too late that I’m not sure what to say to this group of young athletes, to these families. The tears hit me unexpectedly, and with force. I run my wrist over my eyes and breathe out an embarrassed laugh. I can’t believe this is happening here.
“I’m sorry…” I shake my head and plaster on a wide smile. It’s so fake it hurts my cheeks to form it. “It’s been a really hard day. Trig Johnson…he was like a brother to me. He was a special player, an athlete and a friend. And today’s news…”
I break down a little more and when I search for Nolan, I find her a few seats closer, ready to come up to stand with me. She’s chewing at her nails, her feet curled under her chair in the nice shoes she doesn’t get to wear very often. She’s in a dress I haven’t seen before. We were supposed to have a date. I shake my head slightly and hold my hand out a bit in front of me to let her know I can make it through this.
“Woooo,” I puff out, blinking my lids dry. The entire room is silent, and this is the last thing this team needs before heading into their final sleep before their most important game of the season. Trig would smack me for this, tell me I’m “dulling his jam.” That’s what he’d always say when I got moody in college. In the pros, he’d Tweet it to me as a joke when I had a better week than he did.
“I’ve always been proud of where I came from, which…I know. ‘But Reed, dude, your dad owned a dozen car dealerships. You didn’t come from anything very adverse.’ But I know that I was fortunate in having parents who saw talent in me, who knew that me playing for a school like this, for a coach like this, would be the difference maker. This place—it’s community. You look around here tonight and I’ll tell you what you see—you see the people who’ve got your back.”
