by Luis, Maria
Looking a little on edge, Brien’s hand comes off the desk to pinch the bridge of his nose. “The Levi family is football royalty around here. Grandpapa Levi played for the Buffalo Bills, then came home to coach the Wildcats once he retired. Papa Levi did the same, about twenty years later, once he was out of the NFL.”
I look to the contract, a sinking sensation swirling in my gut like spoiled milk. “So, what? Levi Junior is back home and ready to claim the throne?”
“Something like that.”
Jesus.
Nothing like small-town politics to remind you that you’re an outsider.
Unfortunately for London—but fortunately for me—the first half of my life was spent outside the proverbial glass walls, my hand raised and waving, hoping someone would take pity on the poor-as-shit kid with a chip on his shoulder the size of California and the perpetual hope in his gaze that just wouldn’t quit.
The hope is long gone, but the chip’s still got permanent residence.
Thing is, the only person who has the power to make you feel like a forgotten soul is you—and I don’t give a damn what Londoners think of me.
“The school board doesn’t care about your Super Bowl wins, DaSilva,” Brien goes on, finally dropping his chin as he cuts his gaze away from the ceiling. “They don’t care that you were MVP multiple seasons in a row. They don’t care that you won the Heisman trophy back in college or that, until someone comes around and demolishes your stats, you’re the best tight end the league has ever seen.”
Hearing my accolades dished back to me has me shifting uncomfortably in my seat. I’ve won a lot of trophies over the years. I’ve beaten a shit ton of records. I’ve earned more money than I know what to do with.
But none of it really matters at the end of the day—
The Bucs let me go after an injury kept me hospital-bound for weeks.
Sports 24/7 cut me loose when I made the ultimate mistake in thinking, for just one second, that maybe it was fate that led me onto Put A Ring On It and right into the arms of Savannah Rose.
My gut clenches at the memory of her. Not because I’m in love but because spending time with her, even with a dozen other guys milling around on set, proved to be more illuminating to my own psyche than anything else I’ve experienced so far in life.
Savannah Rose was kind. Open. America’s adored sweetheart.
Good as I am at flirting like my life depends on it, I can say with complete honesty that there’s not a soul on this planet who truly knows me. Not even Nick Stamos, my best friend and fellow Put A Ring On It contestant, or Adam Brien, who I’ve known for years, or Savannah Rose, who should have been so easy to trust.
Welcome to the life of Dominic DaSilva, party of one.
“Levi’s a Londoner,” Brien tells me, hands clasped together on the desk, a no-BS expression on his face. “You could dance naked in front of the board, and they’d still pass you over.”
“You sure about that? The cardboard cutout of me wearing nothing but briefs is regularly sold out on Amazon.”
“That’s because Good Samaritans buy that shit and use it as kindling for fire.”
Laughter climbs my throat. “Asshole.”
“Nothing I haven’t heard before. My wife calls me that like it’s a goddamn endearment. Honey who?”
Fingers scraping over my skull, I slouch down and spread my thighs wide to avoid smacking my knees on the underside of the desk. “Assistant coach,” I muse dryly, shaking my head. “Someone, somewhere, is taking way too much joy at my expense.”
Brien lifts a finger. “That’d be me. Remember when you convinced the guys to play dead every time I dropped back to make a pass for a week straight?” His eyes narrow, like he’s being confronted with the long-ago memory of the entire LSU offensive line going belly-up on the field, our legs and arms sticking straight in the air like a herd of fainting goats. Watching Brien lose his temper—a true rarity—made every lecture about unprofessionalism from Coach Wynters worth it. “Think of this as long overdue penance,” he adds without a single trace of heat. “Payback’s a bitch, motherfuc—”
“Mr. Brien, language!” a voice admonishes from behind me.
Twisting around, I lay an arm over the back of the chair. Make eye contact with the elderly woman hovering in the doorway. “I’ve told him the same thing twice now, Miss . . .”
Reaching up to fluff her gray bouffant, she shoots me a welcoming smile. “Irene. Irene Coleman.”
I never met my grandmother, but if I had, I’d like to think she would look like this woman. Crinkled crow’s feet. Big smile lines bracketing her mouth. Bright, eye-blinding clothing that looks more at home on a parakeet in the tropics than a small, New England town.
“Nice to meet you, Irene.” I flash her one of my trademark grins. Old habits die hard. It’s what I told the woman in the pub last night right after I caught myself leaning in to lay it on thick. And right before I reminded myself that I was done with shameless, meaningless flirtations. At thirty-five, I’m not looking to settle down. I’m not even looking for a fling. What I am is fucking exhausted with playing the same role everyone expects from me.
Bad-boy Dom. Flirty Dom. Devil-may-care Dom.
I may have given Brien’s initial proposition some thought because he’s a longtime friend—but I ultimately moved to Maine because I’m in desperate need of a reprieve.
A reprieve that doesn’t include taking home cute blondes for one-night-stands.
Feeling my smile weaken, I mentally push the damn bastard back into place. “Sorry, long few weeks,” I say smoothly, by way of apology. “I’m Dominic, the—”
“New assistant football coach.”
Fucking Brien.
Irene pushes her wire-rimmed frames up her nose with a single finger. “Oh, you’ll just love it here, Coach. The kids are really, really great. I’m the athletic department’s secretary. I handle it all . . . basketball, soccer, gymnastics, the works. If you ever need anything, you just let me know, dear.”
Don’t stop smiling. “Will do, Irene. Thanks in advance for all your help.”
She gives a little hop on her heels, then waves goodbye to us both.
I wait for the chipper staccato of her footsteps to fade before I turn to my former teammate with a scowl. “I didn’t say yes to the position.”
“You didn’t say no either.”
I didn’t say no because I’m far too deep into my escape-the-Hollywood-vultures plan to turn back now. With Put A Ring On It finally airing on TV, Los Angeles has become stifling. Paparazzi pop out of bushes to sneak pictures of me. Recently I was cornered in a grocery store, cucumber in hand, and asked by a camera-wielding stranger, “Is that thing the same size of your member, Dominic? Readers are dying to know.” Last month, I even sued a “journalist” after she followed me into my gym’s locker room and took pictures of me showering.
I’m not a prude—never have been—but cross the line and I guarantee I’ll be the last man standing.
As if following my train of thought, Brien pulls open a drawer and slides a ballpoint pen across the desk. “We both know Maine isn’t a forever stop for you, man. You’re gonna stick it out long enough to lick your wounds and flip that house you bought. I’ll be more than happy to write you a letter of recommendation when you’re done playing small-town-living and ready to head home to the city of smog.”
At his letter of rec dig, I flash him the bird.
Even as my heart tangles in a knot.
I don’t know when the thought of Los Angeles won’t make me want to reach for a beer and drain it dry. Two months, maybe. Eight months. Three years. With no property to tie me down in California—I sold it all—my life is up in the air.
Much as I don’t want to admit it, I know Brien’s suggestion is the way to go.
I refuse to be the asshole coach who lets his team down, no matter the fact that I don’t know any of the kids who’ll show up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the first day of practice. What
if Brien is right and, halfway through the season, I decide I can’t hole up in Maine anymore? What happens to the kids then, if I fight for the head coach position?
I hold way too much respect for the sport to put its players at a disadvantage, and my old teammate knows it. As for the teaching physical education part of the gig, it’s not like the job can’t be filled ASAP if I do dip out. It’s all temporary at best.
Taking the assistant position is smarter—and better—for everyone involved.
Bitterness tightens my grip as I put ballpoint tip to paper, the black ink curdling on the page in a heavy drop. From NFL player to TV host to high school assistant football coach. I’m on a downward trajectory that burns like cheap vodka going down the wrong pipe.
Contract signed, I cap the pen.
Brien grins at me. “Congrats, man. You’re officially a London Wildcat now.” He spins on his chair and nabs a cardboard box from the ground. Out comes a T-shirt, which he tosses over to me. It’s a XXXL, big enough to fit over my shoulders and arms, and not risk turning into a belly-revealing crop top. Red fabric, white font.
My surname is printed on the back, and then, right below, it reads: Assistant Coach.
My gaze leaps up to meet Brien’s. “You knew I’d agree?”
He shrugs. “I hoped your pride would let you.”
Pride is a fickle mistress, though, and as I fold the T-shirt over my shoulder, all I can hope is that this Levi dude doesn’t make me regret my decision to stick around.
4
Aspen
Three days after the Golden Fleece Incident, I’m strangling the non-existent life out of my seat belt. Car wheels squeal as Topher bangs a hard uey to head the opposite way down Main Street toward the high school. His brown hair, so much like his father’s, is longer up front, and he blows upward out of the corner of his mouth to get the strands out of the way.
The tactic fails him as he rolls right past a stop sign.
“Stop!” My back jerks against the cushioned seat as my baby boy slams on the brakes like his life depends on it.
But instead of looking remorseful for almost driving us into a busy intersection, he slips a hand from the steering wheel and tries to pat the top of my head. He misses and catches the slope of my nose instead.
“You’re fine, Ma. Deep breaths.”
I swat his hand away. “Ten and two, Toph. Ten and two. What in the world are they teaching you kids at Driver’s Ed nowadays?”
He hesitates, the pause more than a little obvious since the radio is off and there’s nothing but the sound of my I’m-going-to-die breathing to keep us entertained. He digs his tongue into the inner flesh of his right cheek, a nervous tick that’s stayed with him since childhood.
Immediately on the alert, my eyes narrow. “Nuh-uh, bud. Pull the car over and spill.”
“We’re gonna be late for workouts,” is his only excuse as he pumps the gas and clears the intersection. “Which means we’ll be late on our very first day. We can’t let that happen, Coach.”
The little speed demon accelerates, and my stomach does this topsy-turvy thing that has nothing to do with it being my first day coaching the Wildcats and everything to do with Topher’s shoddy driving skills.
A car honks to my right, daring me to glance in that direction and see all the reasons I made the wrong call this morning by letting Topher get some driving practice in on the way to the football field.
Hello there, Bad Decisions, it’s awful to see you again.
As delicately as possible, I sip coffee from my Dunkin’ Donuts traveler mug. Once caffeinated, I breathe a little easier. “I know you’re worried about the other kids, baby.”
His narrow shoulders twitch as he circles the steering wheel, heading north to the school. “Don’t . . . you aren’t gonna call me that around my teammates, right?”
“Baby?” I ask, keeping my tone light and unassuming. This is new territory for us, me coaching where he attends school. In Pittsburgh, I always worked in a different district, preferring instead to give him space to live without his mother hanging around at all times. But the enclave of Frenchman Bay is tiny, Mount Desert Island being even smaller. I’ve counted my lucky stars ten times over that London was even hiring and gave us a chance to leave Pittsburgh.
And Rick.
Ten and two-ing the wheel, Topher gives the most imperceptible nod.
“What would you rather I call you?” I settle into my seat, legs crossed at my ankles. Quickly, I think of crazy nicknames off the top of my head. “Gangster Toph? Hey, You? Giraffe Legs?”
The sound of Topher’s laughter fuels my own happiness. There’s been so, so little of it over the last year, ever since he caught Rick in bed with a woman who was decidedly not me. Scratch that—two women. Instead of waiting for the embarrassment to reemerge, as it always does, I drink more coffee.
Maine is the fresh start Topher and I both need.
“I like Giraffe Legs, I think.” Topher jerks his chin toward where his legs are powering the pedals. “It fits.”
At five-ten, I’m no shrinking violet. And yet, just the other day, Topher stood next to me in the kitchen, while he grabbed a bowl from the cabinet, and we were shoulder-to-shoulder. Give him another few months and he’ll shoot right past me.
I try not to cry. Life was so much simpler when I could push my baby boy around in a stroller all day and not worry about him driving us into a ditch.
“Left here into the parking lot,” I tell him, gripping the seat-belt strap a little tighter in preparation for the final leg of our whopping ten-minute journey. This morning, it’s felt like ten minutes going on a hundred. “Slow, Toph. Take it slow.”
Honk! Honk! Honkkkkkkkk!
Oh, crap.
A red Volkswagen Beetle powers toward us. “Right!” I shout, darting out a hand to yank on the steering wheel. “To the right.” My precious car cries its little heart out as it hurtles back over the yellow lane markers.
“Mom, we’re going to miss the turn—”
“Nope.” Blood pounds furiously in my head. Is this what it means to have a near-death experience? It certainly feels that way. “Keep going. We’ll make the U-turn up ahead.”
A pregnant pause. And then a hushed, “I didn’t mean to almost kill us.”
“I know, baby, I know. But I’m not kidding when I say I’m gonna have a talk with your Driver’s Ed teacher. Eight-hundred bucks, Toph. That’s how much I spent on those classes, and clearly the man can’t even explain to you proper turning procedures—right here, ease up on it. Slow . . . yeah, there you go. Now turn.”
Topher decelerates to a crawl, maneuvering into the turn at such a halted pace that my foot is pressing a gas pedal that doesn’t exist on the passenger’s side of the car.
I sip my coffee and pretend it’s something stronger.
Once in the parking lot, Topher breaks into a wide smile. “I did it! Right, Ma?”
“Yup, you sure did.”
If he hears my relief, he doesn’t call me out on it. He’s too busy bopping his head along to the rhythm of tires rolling over cracked gravel while he searches for a place to park. His hair flops across his forehead again, and, knowing that I’ll be in Coach mode for the rest of the morning, I push it back for him.
No matter the fact that he’ll be trying out for varsity at the end of the summer, he’s still the same little boy who used to beg me to throw the football around with him in the backyard when his dad was away at Steelers games and we were left behind.
He shoots me a crooked-tooth smile. It’s all joy, mixed in with a bit of restless energy.
His emotions are a mirror image of my own.
Adam mentioned over the phone last night that I’ll be meeting the new assistant coach today. At first, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of annoyance over not being able to pick my own staff like I’ve done at every school since I started coaching. But I’ve always been a firm believer in knowing when to make waves and when to hold your grievances close
to the vest. With people like Stuart under the misguided impression that I feel entitled to lead the Wildcats because of the Levi name, now is not the time to rock the boat.
No matter what they think, I’m not some insolent brat ready to throw a temper tantrum because I didn’t get my way. I’ve spent years living outside the Levi home base, where my surname meant jack squat—not to the school board or to the parents of the players or, even, to my own husband.
I’m an expert in biding my time and waiting for the opportune moment to strike. In the meantime, I trust Adam’s opinion. If he thinks this new guy will be a solid addition to the team, then I’m willing to rally behind the cause.
For now, at least.
Pointing to a row of mostly empty spots lining the pathway down to the fields, I murmur, “Right there. Careful of that truck, Toph.”
“I got this, Mom.”
“Of course you do, baby.”
Two seconds later, it’s clear to everyone involved that he does not, in fact, got this.
Instead of leaving enough space between the two vehicles, he cuts in close, no doubt trying to slip my Honda Civic between the parallel white lines, and bumps right into the parked truck.
Fun fact: two vehicles making it to second base releases the most godawful squeal you’ll ever hear.
It sounds like thousand-dollar paint jobs and the joyous, pay-up applause of car insurance companies all around the world.
“Topher!”
My car skids alongside the truck’s profile, dragging and whining, as Topher panics and accelerates instead of hitting the brakes. More squealing. More dollar signs flashing before my eyes. The truck emits a murderous beeeeeeeeep! and I give up all pretense of not gripping the oh-shit handle.
The forward momentum dies a second later, as does my soul.
“Mike—Driver’s Ed Mike—he likes to tell us stories about how he did a whole lot of drugs when he was younger and once ran from the cops through a forest of marijuana.”
A forest of marijuana?
