by Ginger Scott
I didn’t think about any of this. I felt it, the words, and what I’m about to do. I didn’t talk it over with Nolan, and I hate that because not talking things over has been the cause of most of our trouble in life, but I know she’ll be all right with this.
“Trig had my back. Always. He caught that damn pass—oh, y’all know the one,” I trail into a chuckle. They join me. “You know what he said to reporters in the media room after the game? He said he got lucky because he just happened to be in the right place for the only mistake I ever made.’”
My mouth tugs in on one side and I put a fist against my chest, tapping myself a few times with it.
“My wife can attest to you all that’s just a damn lie. I make mistakes all the time. I’ve been making them for years,” I say through a growing smile. I look to Nolan who’s nodding and gazing around the room to affirm what I said.
“Trig said that because, even in his moment, he wanted to make sure some of the praise came down on me. He spun that game so it wasn’t one of my worst, and I don’t know…maybe it wasn’t, but that selfless moment right there, giving me that...”
I look to my feet and hold the mic against my chest now. I wait for the wave to pass, the one that threatens to choke away my words, and when I feel like I can, I give back the only thing that feels fitting.
“Y’all know that grass you play on is shit, right? And those bleachers…tell me, parents, what do you think about those bleachers?” I hold my palm open and lift it over and over, encouraging their participation, and eventually I’m serenaded with nodding heads in agreement and shouts of “the worst” and “splinters” and “so uneven!”
Glancing to Nolan, I meet her eyes and do my best to convey what I’m about to propose. I could be wrong, but I think her nod means she understands.
“You pull off a win tonight, you win out the season and make that run through playoffs and bring home that state title—an undefeated state title—then next year’s games will be on a field of dreams, with a stadium worthy of a school like this. This town is getting bigger, and this football program needs to be equipped to keep up because there are some serious titles in its future. If you keep producing the talent, then you should have a house that fits. Buck Johnson stadium, home of Trig Johnson field. I like the sound of that, and in my head, I see it clearly. You all better not fuck this up!”
I mouth an apology to coach and a few parents sitting nearby, but nobody seems too upset with my F-bomb. It was fitting the moment. I don’t know a damn thing about contracting or tearing down and rebuilding a football field, but I know that guy who bought our land does—and I know he’s good people. And I’ve got eight million coming to me guaranteed, so might as well spend it.
I think they call this stage of grief bargaining. The reason it’s in the middle is it doesn’t work.
Chapter Nine
Nolan
“Reed’s not going to start walking around your corn talking to old-time football players from, like, 1910 or whatever, is he?” I knew Sarah would think this was nuts. It is nuts, but it isn’t really a bad kind of nuts. We both have always liked the idea of charity and giving back, and our old school is falling apart. I actually adore the gesture and the outcome.
“First of all, we don’t grow corn. Second, the NFL wasn’t around in 1910, and third, Reed is not Kevin Costner. And you know what? The book was better than the movie!” I throw that last part in because Sarah’s frustrating me.
“Field of Dreams is a book?”
I lean my head forward into the cabinet and moan while the coffee finishes dripping.
“Girl, you were the smart one with all that reading and stuff. Don’t act all snobby all of a sudden,” Sarah says.
“She’s not the smart one. I’m the smart one!” Sienna’s voice cuts through Sarah and my spat. We all start squealing as we rush our missing piece at the doorway, not even letting her get her bags inside before we carry her off, arms linked with ours, to the couch where we can make up for too much time apart.
“Don’t worry; I’ll just get all these bags that we, for some reason, needed for a weekend, that doesn’t require jackets or snow boots, and far fewer layers than we’re used to,” Micah calls from the doorway. We talk right over him.
“I got you,” Reed says, stepping up behind him. He’s been wandering around outside since the sun came up this morning, half of the time spent with his phone pressed to his ear making the field pipe dream happen. I know it never depended on the Bears winning or losing homecoming, but there’s no need to take the carrot away from a bunch of teenage boys who look ready to work harder than they ever have in their lives. Reed has a lot of legwork to do on this thing if he wants to pull it off anyhow. I don’t need another project landing on my lap, so the more hiring he can get done now, the better.
Reed grabs half of the bags and winks at me as he passes through the living room with Micah.
“Looking good there, old man,” Sienna says, followed by a whistle.
Both Reed and Micah shout, “Thanks.”
“I love that they’re both fighting to be called old men,” Sarah says, swinging her body over the couch to the cabinet where my favorite wine is still hiding—at least what’s left of it.
“I say we trade the coffee in for something more our speed.” My friend helps herself, navigating my kitchen as if she’s our live-in chef. Honestly, she’s probably in that room more than I am.
Sarah pours three glasses and delivers them to Sienna and me, the rest of the bottle tucked under her arm. I give a short laugh looking at the glass because it’s not even close to lunch time yet, but what the hell. I’m never a rebel. I take a small sip and sink into the soft couch cushion while Sienna takes the opposite end and stretches her legs out to my lap.
“So, catch me up. How’s everything going?” She asks.
I shrug and glance to Sarah.
“He’s still a stupid boy who doesn’t talk,” Sarah answers for me.
“It’s not that…” I add, but then stop because really…it’s still a lot of that, too. “I think his problem is he doesn’t know how to talk about it. It’s all too close, ya know? Trig dying…”
“It’s like a version of himself,” Sienna finishes. I swallow hard and stop breathing because she’s nailed it. It’s exactly that, and I know it. Reed knows it, too. It’s why we don’t know how to dissect anything that’s happened over the last twenty-four hours.
“Reed’s entire identity has been about the game, and I’m guessing Trig’s path was exactly the same. But neither of them gave a single thought to what they would become when the game was done.” Sienna’s words float between the three of us, and I realize she said everything that’s been worrying me—worrying my husband.
Is just being someone’s husband and father enough for him?
It wasn’t enough for Trig, or if it was, he didn’t give it a chance to feel like enough. He blew it up like a child throwing a tantrum—with bitter divorce and drunken escapades with girls that looked nothing like his ex-wife—that made regular weekend headlines. But this life, it’s enough for Reed. I know it is.
“I’m gonna check on Buck,” I say, leaving the conversation I know Sarah and Sienna are dying to have about Reed and me when I leave. I’m okay with that, too, because maybe they’ll come up with some grand solution that will make this knot in my gut untangle.
Buck’s already dressed and sitting in his chair when I get to his room.
“Rose got you ready before she went to the church this morning, huh?” I lean in to kiss my father-in-law on the cheek.
“I did this myself,” he says as I step back, impressed.
He works his right hand down the middle of his chest, two buttons still needing to be redone, off by one hole. It’s still amazing, and proof that the intense physical therapy he’s been pushing himself through is paying off. Reed is so much like his dad.
I fix the mixed-up buttons for Buck then stand back to take him in again. His lopsided
smile is proud.
“Well, damn.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Handsome as ever.”
“Bull—shit,” he coughs out with a laugh. I chuckle with him but shake my head and reach forward to reshape his thinning hair across his forehead.
“No bullshit.” I smile and hold his gaze for a breath until he rolls his head and eyes a little, reluctantly letting me have my way.
I take the handles of his chair and direct it toward the door of his room, but before we get there completely, Buck starts to grumble excitedly. I stop and kneel to look him in the eyes again. His speech has gotten so much better, but I find it’s still easier when I’m looking right at him.
“Let me walk. Just…to the…door,” he says.
We’ve been trying to do this a few times every week. He calls it his “extra practice,” still thinking he’s out there on that field somehow, even though he hasn’t been out there in years.
“All right,” I say with a shake of my head.
Buck clicks the brakes and shifts his feet until they find a steady balance on the ground. This is always the hardest part, so I wait with my arms flexed and carrying a lot of his weight as he pushes himself up from the chair and works to find his center.
“I got it,” Buck barks. He still gets frustrated with me sometimes, and despite the temptation to just let go, I don’t because I know that “I got it” is often wrong.
I loosen my hold, but keep contact until I feel him sway less. He stands taller when he feels it, rolling his shoulders sloppily and stretching his open palms out at his hips. I reach to take his hand but he slaps at me, which only makes me laugh. Stubborn as shit!
“I’ve got this,” he says, his lips twisted in concentration.
His breath is struggling from the start, but it doesn’t deter him. Buck uses the strength he’s worked hard to build on his right side to compensate, his body dragging on the left, but still moving forward. It’s the switch that always gets him. I stand behind him with my hands out and ready. He doesn’t see me, because he’d only slap me away if he did. With unsteady feet, he shifts his weight to his weak side and grunts as he pushes his right foot forward. His limb moves well on that side, but it depends on so much strength from his left that it’s difficult for him despite being stronger.
We move in inches, but those inches double with every shuffle. By the time his hands can safely grasp the doorframe, he’s able to nearly pull his right foot fully from the ground.
“That’s right!” Buck shouts, reaching forward and taking the doorway firmly. He belly-laughs, the gravelly nature of his voice crackling as he tips his head back and howls in celebration. I clap behind him, and the sound draws Reed into the room.
“My wife trying to pinch your ass again?” Reed teases, and I grimace at him.
“Your dad just walked to the door all by himself.” I lower my brow and purse my lips before crossing my arms.
Reed’s eyes widen, then glance behind his father seeing the short distance. His expression morphs a dozen times within a second, from sadness that his dad can no longer do something so simple, to pity and guilt that he’s not here to fix this—that he can’t fix this.
“That’s nothing,” Buck pauses, working his mouth to make his words. “I’m taking my seat…at the game tonight.”
I cover my mouth and run my hand over my chin thinking about the logistics. Buck’s seat is on the field, in a special set of bleachers and chairs set up behind the western end zone. He hasn’t sat there in a couple years because the field isn’t exactly accessible. The entire stadium isn’t accessible, which is why he hasn’t gone to see the games live, instead living vicariously through the crappy live-stream put on by the media club.
“All right,” Reed says, nodding. His eyes flash to mine for a second telling me he’s going to find a way to make this happen. I don’t know if he realizes how hard it’s going to be. Those same holes and divots in the grass that he mentioned to the team—why he said they need a new field—those litter the way to Buck’s special seat.
I don’t want to be the negative one, though, so I nod in agreement behind him, instantly craving more wine. I might need something stronger tonight to get me through what I know is going to be draining. There are so many things Reed hasn’t seen, and when his dad can’t just walk out to that field, it’s going to kill him.
“You want to keep walking out to the couch?” Reed forces a smile while he asks his dad, full of hope that they’ll just keep on walking for the rest of the day, all the way into the night.
“I think I better save my energy,” Buck says, reaching back toward the chair I’ve already pushed up to him.
I can’t help myself as I blurt out one last excuse not to go through this.
“You know I can always FaceTime the game to you…so you get a better stream.” Both Johnson men shoot me a stare, and I let my eyes flutter and roll back into my head. “Fine…fine. We’ll do this your way. You’re in charge, Buck.”
“I haven’t…been in charge…in years.” He puffs out a grunt as he sits heavily into the chair. I step to the side to make eye contact with him. “But I missed…the last two home…coming games.”
I nod as he breathes, and my fingers instinctively reach for Reed’s as we stand side by side. His hand weaves into mine almost nervously, with a little desperation. Even though they talk on the phone constantly, it’s different watching Buck have to navigate things in person.
“I missed, and look…what happened,” Buck finally adds.
I smirk and shake with a single laugh.
“We lost,” I say, letting my eyes fall closed as my smile grows and I nod.
“That’s right…I miss games…we lose.”
He has a point. And far be it from me to be the one who stands in the way of a damn football game.
Chapter Ten
Reed
Nolan left with the girls and Peyton about an hour ago. I told her I had this, but I don’t have a damn thing. Rose isn’t strong enough to help, and my brother is off somewhere and only texts me vague answers about showing up to the homecoming game. Hanging around our old school has never been his thing. I think he feels like he failed the legacy somehow because I was the better quarterback. He’s better at business, which is why I gave him mine.
I could use him to check his ego tonight, though, because my dad was a handful before half of his body betrayed him. Now he’s a belligerent handful that still thinks he can move around like a forty-year-old.
My only hope is that Sean and Becky somehow make it through Phoenix rush hour in time to get to Coolidge. I need one more set of hands besides Micah, who isn’t really very…well…he’s a musician.
“He’s still getting ready,” Rose assures me as I call my best friend one more time, hoping he’s close.
I nod at her and mouth “Thanks” before stepping outside to pace around the driveway while the phone rings in my ear. I should move my Jeep so my dad doesn’t get some crazy notion that we’ll drive that to the game.
“Hey, man. I’m almost there.” My neck releases about a thousand pounds of tension at Sean’s words.
“Thank God,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. I close my eyes and let myself breathe in and blow out.
“You’re making this harder than it is, man. We got this,” Sean says.
“Thanks…yeah. You’re right.” He is right, but I don’t think that tonight is what’s pushing my chest in so hard and sucking me into the dirt. It’s part of it, but it’s really just…everything, I think.
Trig. My injury. My marriage and contract, and the nothing I get to do on the field. My age.
Fuck. I’m having a mid-life crisis.
I start to chuckle to myself when I see headlights spill over the desert brush out in the distance.
“That you?” I start to walk down the driveway, suddenly not getting to my friend fast enough.
“Yeah, that’s me.” I can tell by Sean’s voice he misses me too. Grown-ass men still wanting t
heir best friend to play with. If only the rest of life were this simple.
I begin backpedaling my steps as Sean pulls up closer to the house, and when he gets out I march toward him with wide arms and this strange choking sensation holding my lungs hostage.
“Goddamn, it’s been too long.” Sean’s hands pat my back hard as we hug, and I squeeze him enough to lift him from the ground before letting go and moving to the other side of the car to hug Becky.
“Thanks for coming straight here,” I say, scratching at the side of my face to mask my emotions.
“Of course,” Sean says, his eyes settling on mine for a few long seconds, his mouth in that same slight smile that he always got when we did this—when we spoke without words. Two people in this world can read me this well, and I’m married to the other one. Sometimes, Sean sees things just a little deeper, too.
“Thanks,” I say with a hard swallow. He doesn’t speak but only nods.
I help Sean with his bags and the three of us head inside where Rose and Buck are waiting in the foyer. My father reaches his hands out for Sean the moment he steps inside, pulling my best friend to his chest as he bends over to hug my father in his chair.
“You lose that hair…or just shave it to be…fancy?” My dad teases him, and my friend throws a fake punch softly into my dad’s arm.
“Remember when you used to tease me about spending so much time styling it?” Sean responds.
My dad’s quick back to him. “Styled it right off…your damn head,” he says.
My friend laughs and reaches out a hand, prepared with his other one to take my dad’s awkward shake firmly. He always thinks about those little things, the ones that require extra care of feelings.
I help Sean take his and Becky’s bags up to their room, the smallest of our guest rooms and the one that used to be Jason’s. When we come back down, Becky is laughing with Rose at something my dad said. It almost feels normal. I guess this actually is normal now.
