“I don’t know if it will do any good.”
She threw her arms around him and gave him a hug. He froze and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and she stepped back. “Sorry... thanks. I appreciate it. Will you let me know how it goes?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks. Again. Really.” She grabbed her bag and headed to the door. She put her hand on the handle and paused. “I really hope... well, I just wish you the best.”
He nodded, hands stuffed in his pockets again. “Yeah, you too. Good luck with the new gyms you’re opening.”
She smiled, a genuine, grateful smile. “You too. I mean—good luck with your practice and everything.” What she wanted to say was that she hoped he’d find another woman. Someone who made him happy this time. But things were still too raw to say that. Or it wasn’t her place, anyway.
“Bye.”
“I’ll see you later.”
She slipped out and smiled at Carol as she walked out. Well, she’d played her only ace. Hopefully it would be enough.
* * *
Rick’s day only got worse. When he stepped off the elevator to his condo, he found a man standing at his door.
No. Fucking. Way.
“What are you doing here?”
The old man winced. He had bags under his eyes and paunchy cheeks. His teeth were stained yellow and his skin tone had a grey tinge to it. “I tried to call but you didn’t pick up.”
Rick didn’t move any closer to his door and his dad—yeah, his dear old absent dad—just stood there. Once a large man like Rick, his father now looked diminished—shoulders slumped, body thinned out.
“What are you doing here?” he repeated.
His dad had been totally absent for his childhood. He’d moved to Florida when Rick was three and rarely attempted to contact him or his mother. Of course, he wouldn’t want them to know his exact whereabouts, because then his mother would’ve been able to file for child support. No, his dad had dodged all financial responsibility for Rick. He’d just sent occasional lame presents that showed he had no idea what age his son was or what his interests were.
Then Rick had been picked by the Houston, Texans, and suddenly his dad had shown up, eager to claim him. Well, eager to claim some share of the riches he was sure Rick had.
His father tucked his hands in the pockets of a worn leather bomber jacket—the kind that had been popular about 30 years ago. “I came to see you.”
Well, that was obvious.
“What for?”
“Can I come in?”
He didn’t bother to hide his annoyance, but he pulled out his keys and unlocked the door, holding it open. “Listen, It hasn’t been a good day. I really don’t have the time or the patience for whatever grand reunion you have planned.”
“I saw the article in the paper. That guy’s a real prick. Anyone who read it must know he’s full of crap.”
Rick shrugged.
His dad pulled out one of the barstools at the breakfast bar. “Can I sit?”
Rick ignored him, walking to the refrigerator and pulling it open. He stared unseeingly at the food inside. He’d suddenly lost his appetite.
“I know you don’t want me in your life. I missed out on the time when you did, and now it’s too late.”
“Yep.”
“I can’t change what I’ve done. I was a shitty father, I know that.”
“You said it.” He swung the refrigerator door shut. Definitely not hungry.
“Rick... I’m dying. I’m on hospice. Pancreatic cancer.”
Jesus fucking Christ. It felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Was the man really throwing this at him right now? He’d like a do-over on the whole damn day. Was he supposed to care? The fuck of it was that he did. Sort of. He may not care about this particular man, who was a stranger to him, but he did care that his father was going to be dead. Soon.
“How long?” he managed to say.
“Don’t know. A couple months, maybe. I’m moving here.”
“Here here?” He pointed at his floor. “Like, to my place?”
“No, no, no. I know you don’t want me. No, I got Medicare. The social worker in Florida found me a place here.”
Rick couldn’t breathe, the image of his father dying in some shit-shack disgusting him. “Well, where is it? Will you be alone or is there someone to take care of you? How’s this supposed to work?”
“I’ll be alone for a while, but a nurse will come to the house once a week and if she decides I need more help, they’ll put me in one of them full time homes.”
Rick’s nose burned. Pressure built behind his cheekbones, so he felt like he face would burst. “Okay.” He nodded. He really couldn’t think what else to say.
His father was dying.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t ever there for you. I just... after your mom threw me out... I was drinking back then and I didn’t know my head from my ass. I thought about you all the time, but I figured you were better off without me.”
Rick worked to swallow. He wanted to say “bullshit,” except he realized it was probably true. If his dad was drunk all the time, he wouldn’t have had money to send for child support. And yeah, Rick probably was better off without him. “Mom threw you out?”
He’d never heard that part before.
“Yeah, I can’t remember what for. She got sick of me drinking, I guess. And then, after I lost you and her... well, there was no point in pulling my life together. At least that’s how it seemed at the time.”
Rick shoved his fingers through his hair. “Look... I don’t even know what to say. I’ve got a playoff game tonight that I’ve been suspended from coaching and a recruiter from Texas A&M to entertain. I’ve got kids depending on me who I’m going to let down if I don’t work some shit out.”
His father stood up, holding out his hands. “Yeah, I get it. I won’t stay.”
A stab of guilt sliced his solar plexus. But why should he feel guilty? His father certainly hadn’t. Maybe this cancer thing was just a ploy.
But no, the old man looked horrible. Rick pitied him, he really did, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about him. He was no more than a stranger. He may have lent his genes, but that was it.
“I... I’ll talk to you later.” It was a lame thing to say, and the sadness in his father’s eyes said he didn’t believe it. Rick wasn’t sure whether he meant it or not.
“Yeah. Okay, son. I’ll let myself out. Bye, now.”
He stared blankly at the kitchen table, listening to the door click shut behind his father.
He really didn’t have it in him to deal with this.
* * *
Brandy checked her phone all day for a message from Justin. She knew Houston High’s playoffs were that night, so if they didn’t get the superintendent to reverse his decision to suspend Rick, the team’s chances at State might be affected.
She’d told the kids they would attend the game, but now her stomach twisted every time she thought about it. She couldn’t bear the thought of sitting in the bleachers and watching a game being coached by someone else. Because of her.
And... oh God... her chest really hurt thinking about never seeing Rick again.
When she hadn’t heard from Justin by the end of the day, she texted him. Have you talked to Dr. Perricone?
He texted back, No, he hasn’t called me back. Probably has all of Houston calling him.
Ugh. She wanted to tell Justin he should keep trying, but she didn’t want to press her luck. To her surprise, he texted again, Are you taking the kids to the game?
Yes.
If I don’t hear, I’ll come, too. Perricone will surely be there.
Wow. Was Justin going out of his way to help her? Or, if not her, the situation? Sheesh. She should have tried a dose of forgiveness and olive branch extending a long time ago. It might have saved them both a lot of heartache.
She texted, Don’t call me Shirley. It was an old, dumb joke, and she p
robably shouldn’t be joking with Justin. They were over, after all. But she figured they both could lighten up a little. Hopefully he wouldn’t think she was flirting or trying to get back together.
No, he must know they had a clean break.
She and the kids drove to the stadium and parked a block away on the street because the lot was already full. She explained to them why Rick wasn’t coaching tonight and both were furious on his behalf. Her kids really liked Rick.
Kids spilled out of decorated cars, faces splashed in war paint, wearing either orange and black for the Houston High Tigers or green and yellow for Coral Heights.
She wondered where that asshole Stan Brown was. He was lucky he didn’t use a photo for his column, or Houston High’s fans would probably hunt him down and kill him right now. She’d sure like to give him a piece of her mind. They walked into the stadium, heading toward the orange and black side. The school marching band played an upbeat song—wait, was that “Octopus’ Garden” by the Beatles?
“Hey mom, there’s my friend, Liam—from the clinic? Can I go and sit with him?”
“Oh—” she tried to hide her disappointment. She still wasn’t used to her kids preferring their friends to mom. This teenager stuff was rough. “Sure, honey. Do you have your cell phone?”
Sam patted his pocket. “Yep.”
“Okay, keep it on, in case I can’t find you.”
“Okay, mom—see you later.” He dashed off, a wide grin splitting his face.
At least she still had Claire. “Where should we sit, kiddo?” They surveyed the packed bleachers.
Claire pointed way up toward the top, where a few empty places remained and they headed up. “Can I have a snack?”
Damn, she hadn’t given Sam any money for food. Well, hopefully he’d find her when he got hungry. “Sure, honey.” She dug in her purse for her wallet and handed it to Claire. “Get me a hotdog?”
Claire grabbed the wallet. Only a year ago she would’ve been too shy to go and order food on her own, but now she seemed to love the freedom. Brandy normally loved it—she used to complain it was “parent abuse” when Claire would make her get up and order something for her if Sam wasn’t around to go with her.
This time, though, as Brandy walked up the bleacher steps, she’d never felt more alone.
Was Rick here, somewhere? Had he worked things out with the superintendent? Or was he in the bleachers like her? She scanned the crowd, searching, but it was too packed, even with Rick’s big frame, she wouldn’t be able to pick him out.
She sighed and found two seats way up high in the bleachers and settled down to watch the pre-game excitement.
She pulled her phone out and checked to see if Rick or Justin had sent any messages. None. She composed a text to Rick. My ex is friends with Perricone. Trying to get his ear to get you reinstated before game, she wrote.
No.
She deleted it. That somehow made it sound like she was trying to take credit for saving the day, when she was partly responsible for ruining it. She wanted him to know she was trying, but couldn’t think of a way to do it. Well, she’d just have to wait to see what the outcome of Justin’s efforts were.
Claire slid in beside her, holding a hot dog and a basket of jalapeno nachos.
“Thanks, hon.”
And then she saw him. Rick was seated in the middle front row of the stands. On one side of him sat an overweight bald man. On the other side—Dr. Perricone and Justin. She sucked in her breath. It did something strange to her tummy to see Justin and Rick sitting together. Her past and her future partners... at least, she hoped.
“Mom, is that Daddy down there with Coach Morehouse?”
“Yes.” She sounded slightly breathless.
“Are they friends?”
“Um... no, honey, probably not.”
“What’s Daddy doing down there?”
“He’s trying to help Coach Morehouse get back on the field.”
“Can he help? Will it work?”
“I don’t know, baby. I sure hope so.” She set her hotdog down beside her and wiped clammy hands on her jeans.
The band’s drum section was beating out a lively rhythm. Anticipation shimmered in the air, pulsing with the music, with her heartbeat.
More than a game hung on the line. Her entire happiness, her future had also tangled up with this game. She wanted Rick back on the field, wanted the team to win, wanted Rick to forgive her.
But even if all those things happened, it didn’t mean Rick wanted a relationship.
And that notion depressed the hell out of her.
Chapter Eleven
Rick’s fists tightened at his sides. He was supposed to be sitting with his buddy Blake Elway, the scout from Texas A&M, but Blake hadn’t shown up yet.
Instead, he was stuck beside his principal and superintendent and Brandy’s ex—three of the people he least wanted to be near at this moment. He’d arrived early to stake out a good place and for some reason, Bristol and Perricone decided to flank him. And then Brandy’s ex showed up.
Donnie came running into the stands in his full uniform and helmet, his face pinched with worry. Rick surged to his feet. “What are you doing up here, Donnie? You should be in the locker room with the team.”
“Coach, I have to talk to you.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the principal and superintendent. “Donnie, bring it to Coach Dinsmore. I’m not on duty tonight.”
“I know, but I gotta talk to you. To you, Coach.”
“What is it?” Holes burned in his back from the stares of Dr. Perricone and Ted. “What is this about? You nervous about the scout? Don’t even think about him. Just play your best.”
“No, that’s not it—”
“Donnie, what’s going on?” Donnie’s mother called out from the next bench down.
The announcer came on to welcome them to the game. His voice could barely be heard over the din of the crowd. The doors to the field opened and the Coral Heights players ran out. The Houston High side booed. Normally Houston High fans showed better sportsmanship, but he supposed with Stan Brown’s article, everyone’s claws were bared.
“Donnie, get your head together and get out there with your team. You got this.” He slapped him on the butt. “Go.”
Donnie cast him a panicked looked, but it wasn’t in him to disobey. He turned and ran back down the stairs to the locker room.
The band picked up as the Houston High players ran out from their side.
He looked back at Ted and Perricone. Fuck it, he was going to move. Without any explanation, he walked down to where Donnie’s mom and sister sat. “Mind if I sit here?”
“Of course not!” Everyone on the bench shuffled down, making him a space where there had been none.
“What’s wrong with Donnie?” Mrs. Fleming demanded.
He shook his head. “I don’t know what that was about. Just nerves, probably.” It wasn’t like Donnie to have a case of nerves, though. If anything, the kid was too cocky. He wondered if he’d reinjured his knee. Well, Dave and Phil would have to take care of it, if that was the case. Rick wasn’t coaching tonight.
Houston High won the coin toss and received the kick-off. On first down they ran their favorite play-action pass play, 35 dive Omaha post, but Coral Heights seemed to anticipate their moves, intercepting the ball and running with it.
“Get on him,” he roared, jumping to his feet. Jesus, he hated being up here in the stands. He didn’t want to watch a football game sitting down. He needed to be down on the field, pacing, watching from the sidelines.
Dammit.
“No... no, no!” Coral Heights returned it all the way for a touchdown.
What a disaster. This was not a good way to start off the first play of the game.
He gritted his teeth as the extra point split the uprights.
Coral Heights lined up and kicked off. It was a short kick, taken by one of Houston High’s blockers. Coral Heights swarmed the ball carrier, cau
sing a fumble which Coral Heights recovered.
“Protect the ball!”
Coral Heights’ offense took the field. Houston High responded strongly, sacking their quarterback, causing them to lose ten yards.
“That’s it, boys, keep it up.” He clapped with the rest of the crowd.
On the field, Dave and Phil stood with their heads huddled together. He’d give anything to be down there with them. This was total bullshit.
Second down, Coral Heights made their pass, but the Houston High defense tackled them at the 40-yard line.
Third down, Coral Heights lost five yards.
On fourth down, Coral Heights lined up to punt but instead faked the kick and threw the ball downfield to a wide open receiver. Touchdown. Again.
Holy hell, this game was not going well.
His phone buzzed. Blake, the scout from Texas A&M, texted, What’s going on with your team this year?
He blew his breath out with a hiss. He didn’t even know how to respond. He’d do damage control after the game with Blake.
Houston High had the ball. Coral Heights had a better offense than defense, so this was their chance to catch up. Once more, the teams lined up. The play was the unbalanced left wildcat 37 reverse.
Incredibly, Coral Heights seemed to anticipate the play again, taking them down before they even got started.
“What?” Donnie’s mom yelled beside him. The fans booed.
Something wasn’t right here. Coral Heights was a good team—that’s how they made it to the playoffs, but even if they’d sent someone to watch every Houston High game, they wouldn’t be able to anticipate their plays like this.
He rubbed his face.
The next three plays were equally well-defended and Houston High lost the ball. They were down fourteen to zero and Coral Heights had the ball.
Not good.
Coral Heights scored again. His team had lost their mojo down there. Whether it was because of the drama surrounding his suspension or the uncanny way Coral Heights seemed to anticipate their plays, something was off. Big time.
Twenty-one to zero. Tension in the stands only increased his own. Even from where he sat, he could see the sagging posture of his boys, the desperation on their expressions. They were more than sweating it. They needed guidance.
Scoring With Santa: Book One in the Second Chance Series Page 13
