A Time to Dance

by Karen Kingsbury

  John drew a salary of $3,100 a season for coaching football. One year he’d figured it came out to less than two bucks an hour. Obviously he didn’t do the job for the money.

  He glanced at the clock. Three minutes of seatwork left.

  Images from a dozen different seasons flashed in his mind. Why was he in it, then? It wasn’t for his ego. He’d had more strokes in his days as a quarterback for University of Michigan than most men received in a lifetime. No, he didn’t coach for pride’s sake.

  It was, very simply, because there were two things he seemed born to do: play football . . . and teach teens.

  Coaching was the purest way he’d known to bring those two together. Season after season after season, it had worked. Until now. Now it didn’t feel pure at all. It felt ridiculous. Like the whole sports world had gone haywire.

  John drew a deep breath and stood, working the tendons in his bum knee—the one with the old football injury. He walked to the chalkboard where, for the next ten minutes, he diagramed a series of nutritional food values and meticulously explained them. Then he assigned homework.

  But the whole time there was only one thing on his mind: Nathan Pike.

  How had a clean-cut student like Nathan once was become so angry and hateful? Was it all because of Jake Daniels? Were Jake’s and the other players’ egos so inflated that they couldn’t coexist with anyone different from them? And what about the words Nathan had scribbled on his notebook? Death to jocks. Did he mean it?

  If so, what could be done?

  Schools like Marion High grew from the safe soil of Middle America. Most did not have metal detectors or mesh backpacks or video cameras that might catch a disturbed student before he took action. Yes, they had the red-flag program. Nathan had already been red-flagged. Everyone who knew him was watching.

  But what if that wasn’t enough?

  John’s stomach tightened, and he swallowed hard. He had no answers. Only that today, in addition to grading papers, inputting student test results in the computer, holding afternoon practice, and meeting with a handful of irritated parents along the sidelines, he would also have to talk to the principal about Nathan Pike’s scribbled declaration.

  It was eight o’clock by the time he climbed into his car and opened an envelope he’d found in his school mailbox just before practice.

  “To whom it may concern,” the letter began. “We are calling for the resignation of Coach Reynolds . . .”

  John sucked in a sharp breath. What in the world? His gut ached as he kept reading.

  “Coach Reynolds is not the moral example we need for our young men. He is aware that several of his players are drinking and taking part in illegal road races. Coach Reynolds knows about this but does nothing. Therefore we are demanding he resign or be let go. If nothing is done about this, we will inform the media of our request.”

  John remembered to exhale. The letter wasn’t signed, but it was copied to his athletic director, his principal, and three school district officials.

  Who could have written such a thing? And what were they referring to? John gripped the steering wheel with both hands and sat back hard. Then he remembered. There had been rumors in August when practice first started up . . . rumors that a few players had drunk and raced their cars. But that’s all they’d been: rumors. John couldn’t do anything about them . . .

  He leaned his head against the car window. He’d been furious when he’d heard the report. He’d asked the players straight out, but each of them had denied any wrongdoing. Beyond that there wasn’t a thing John could do. Protocol was that rumors not be given credence unless there was proof of a rule violation.

  Not a moral example for the players?

  John’s hands began to tremble and he stared over his right shoulder at the doors of the school. Surely his athletic director wouldn’t acknowledge a cowardly, unsigned letter like this one. But then . . .

  The athletic director was new. An angry man with a chip on his shoulder and what seemed like a vendetta against Christians. He’d been hired a year ago to replace Ray Lemming, a formidable man whose heart and soul had been given over to coaches and athletes.

  Ray was so involved in school athletics he was a fixture at the school, but last year, at the ripe age of sixty-three, he retired to spend more time with his family. The way most coaches saw it, much of the true heart of Marion sports retired right alongside him. That was especially true after the school hired Herman Lutz as athletic director.

  John drew a weary breath. He’d done everything possible to support the man, but he’d already fired the boys’ swim coach after a parent complaint. What if he took this absurd letter seriously? The other coaches saw Lutz as a person drowning in the complexities of the job.

  “It just takes one parent,” one of the coaches had said at a meeting that summer. “One parent threatens to go to Lutz’s boss, and he’ll give them what they want.”

  Even if it meant firing a coach.

  John let his head fall slowly against the steering wheel. Nathan Pike . . . the death threat against jocks . . . the change in Jake Daniels . . . the attitude of his players . . . the complaining parents . . . the inexplicable losses this season . . .

  And now this.

  John felt eighty years old. How had Abby’s father survived a lifetime of coaching? The question shifted his thoughts and he let everything about the day fade for a moment. Thirteen hours ago he’d arrived at school, and only now could he do what he wanted more than anything else. The thing he looked forward to more with each passing day.

  He would drive home, open the door of the house he’d almost lost, and take the woman he loved more than life itself into his arms. The woman whose blue eyes danced more these days, and whose every warm embrace erased a bit more of their painful past. The woman who cheered him on each morning, and filled his heart when he couldn’t take another minute of coaching and teaching.

  The woman he had almost walked away from.

  His precious Abby.

  Two

  ABBY WAS WRITING THE OPENING PARAGRAPH FOR HER latest magazine article when it happened.

  There, between the third and fourth sentences, her fingers suddenly froze at the keyboard and the questions began to come. Was it true? Were they really back together? Had they actually dodged the bullet of divorce without even their kids knowing how close they’d come?

  Slowly, Abby’s eyes moved up away from the computer screen toward a shelf on her desk, to a recent photograph of her and John. Their newly married daughter, Nicole, had snapped the picture at a family softball game that past Labor Day weekend. There they were, Abby and John, side by side on the bleachers behind home plate, arms around each other. Looking like they’d never been anything but happily in love.

  “You guys are so cute,” Nicole had said at the time. “More in love every year.”

  Abby stared at the photo, her daughter’s voice ringing like wind chimes in the corners of her mind. There was no obvious sign, really, no way of seeing how close they’d come to losing it. How very nearly they had thrown away twenty-two years of marriage.

  But when Abby looked at the picture, she knew.

  It was there in the eyes, too deep for anyone but she and John to notice. A glistening of survivor love, a love tested and tried and so much stronger because of it all. A love that had placed its toes over the edge of a cold, dark abyss, steeled itself against the pain, and jumped. A love that had only at the last moment been caught by the nape of the neck and snatched back to safe pasture.

  Nicole had no idea, of course. None of their kids did, really. Not Kade—now eighteen and in his first year at college. And certainly not their youngest, Sean. At eleven he had no idea how close she and John had come to walking away from each other.

  She glanced at the calendar. Last year at this time they were making plans to divorce. Then Nicole and Matt announced their engagement, which delayed their timetable. But Abby and John planned to tell the kids after Nicole and Matt got home fro
m their honeymoon.

  Abby shuddered. If she and John had divorced, the kids might never have recovered. Especially Nicole, who was so idealistic and trusting in love.

  Baby, if you only knew . . .

  And yet here they were . . . she and John, exactly the way Nicole believed them to be.

  Abby often had to pinch herself to believe it was true, that she and John weren’t filing for divorce and looking for a way to tell the kids. They weren’t fighting or ignoring each other or on the verge of having affairs.

  They had survived. Not only that, but they were actually happy. Happier than they’d been since they’d said their vows. The things that tore so many couples apart had—through God’s grace—made them stronger. One day, when the time was right, they would tell the kids what had almost happened. Maybe it would make them stronger, too.

  Abby turned her attention back to the computer screen.

  The article was one that grew from the roots of her heart: “Youth Coaches in America—a Dying Breed.” She had a new editor at the national magazine that bought most of her work. A woman with a keen sense for the pulse and conscience of American families. In September she and Abby had discussed possible articles. An exposé on coaching had actually been the editor’s idea.

  “The whole country’s sports crazy,” the woman said. “But everywhere I turn it seems another quality coach is calling it quits. Maybe it’s time we took a look at why.”

  Abby almost laughed out loud. If anyone could write honestly about the pain and passion of coaching youth sports, she could. She was a coach’s daughter, after all. Her father and John’s had been teammates at the University of Michigan, the school where John played before getting his degree and doing the only thing that seemed natural— coaching football.

  Her entire life had taken place around the seasons of the game.

  But after sharing the past two decades with John Reynolds, Abby could do more than write a magazine article about coaching. She could write a book. And she’d include it all: parents complaining about playing time, players ignoring character and responsibility, unrealistic expectations, second-guessing, and catcalling from the stands.

  Fabricated accusations spouted in behind-the-scenes gossip circles designed to pressure a coach to step down. Never mind the team barbecues in the backyard or the way John used his own money to buy the guys breakfast a dozen times after a Saturday practice.

  It always came down to the bottom line: win more games or else.

  Was it any wonder coaches were quitting?

  Abby’s heart softened. There were still players who made the game a joy, still parents who thanked John after a hard-fought contest or dropped him a card in the mail expressing their gratitude. Otherwise there wouldn’t be a man like John left in the coaching ranks. A handful of players at Marion High still tried hard in the classroom and on the field, still showed respect and earned it by their hard work and diligence. Players who appreciated the barbecues at the Reynoldses’ house and the time and love John put into every season, every player. Young men who would go on to get college degrees and good jobs, and who years after graduating would still call the Reynoldses’ house and ask, “Is Coach there?”

  Those players used to be the norm. Why was it that now—for coaches across America—they were the exception?

  “Yes,” Abby had told her editor. “I’d love to write the story.”

  She’d spent the past few weeks interviewing coaches of longtime, successful programs. Coaches who had stepped down in recent years because of the same troubles that plagued John, the same reasons he came home tired and dejected more often.

  The front door opened, and Abby heard her husband sigh as he closed the door. His footsteps sounded across the tiled entryway. Not the firm, crisp steps of spring or summer, but the sad, shuffling steps of a football season gone awry.

  “I’m in here.” She pushed back from her computer and waited.

  John slumped into the room and leaned against the doorframe. His eyes found hers, and he held a folded piece of paper out to her.

  She stood and took it from him. “Long day?”

  “Read it.”

  Abby sat back down, opened the note, and began to read. Her heart sank. They wanted John’s resignation. Were they crazy? Wasn’t it enough that they harassed him daily? What did the parents want? She folded the note and tossed it on her desk. Then she went to John and slipped her arms around his waist. “I’m sorry.”

  He pulled her close, hugging her the way he’d done back when they were first married. Abby relished the sensation. John’s strong arms, the smell of his cologne, the way they drew strength from each other . . .

  This was the man she’d fallen in love with, the one she’d almost let get away.

  John straightened and studied her. “It’s nothing to worry about.” He leaned close and kissed her.

  A ripple of doubt sliced through the waters of Abby’s soul. “It says a copy was sent to Herman Lutz. Athletic directors fire coaches when parents complain.”

  “Not this time.” John shrugged. “Lutz knows me better than that.”

  “Ray Lemming knew you best of all.” Abby kept her tone gentle. “I get a bad feeling about Herman Lutz.”

  “Lutz’ll support me.” He uttered a heavy chuckle. “Everyone knows I’d never let my players drink or have . . . what was it?”

  “Street races.”

  “Right. Street races. I mean, come on.” He angled his head. “One or two parents will always complain. Even when we win every game.”

  Abby didn’t want to push the issue. “God’s in control.”

  John blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means God’ll back you. No matter who else does or doesn’t.”

  “You sound worried.”

  “Not worried. Just concerned about the letter.”

  John leaned against the wall, took off his baseball cap, and tossed it on the couch. “Where’s Sean?”

  “In his room.” Their youngest son was in sixth grade. In the past few weeks, girls had begun to call. “His social life’s left him a little behind at school. He’ll be doing good to finish by ten.”

  “No wonder it’s so quiet.” He released the hold he had on Abby’s waist and brought his fingertips up along her face, tracing the outline of her cheekbones. “It isn’t supposed to be like this.”

  The feel of his hands against her face sent a shiver down her back. “Coaching?”

  He nodded. “We won state last year.” His tone was tired, his eyes darker than she’d seen them in a while. “What do they want from me?”

  “I’m not sure.” Abby studied him for a moment, then lowered her chin. “I know what you need, though.”

  John’s expression softened. “What?”

  “Dancing lessons.” Abby could almost feel the sparkle in her eyes.

  “Dancing lessons? So we can fox-trot over Jefferson next Friday night?”

  “No, silly.” She gave him a light push. “Stop thinking football.” Her fingers linked with his and she waltzed him one step away from the wall and back. “I’m talking about us.”

  A quiet moan rumbled up from John’s chest. “Come on, Abby. Not dance lessons. I’m tone-deaf, remember? And not a stitch of rhythm.”

  She led him into the room a few more steps, her body close to his. “You dance with me on the pier.” Her tone was pleading, and she did an intentional pout. She sounded like Nicole when she wanted her own way.

  “Oh, Abby . . . no.” His shoulders slumped forward a bit, but there was a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Dancing on the pier is different. Crickets and creaking boards . . . the wind on the lake. I can dance to that kind of music.” He arched his arm and twirled her beneath it. “Please, Abby. Don’t make me take dance lessons.”

  She’d already won. Still, she grinned at him and held up a single finger. “Wait.” In a flash she darted to her desk and snatched the piece of newspaper she’d clipped earlier
that day. “Look. They’re at the high school.” She held up the article.

  With a slight roll of his eyes he squinted at the headline. “Ballroom Dancing for Mature Couples?” He planted his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows at her. “Great. Not only will I be sashaying for the first time in my life, I’ll be doing it in the company of people twice my age.” His head fell back a notch. “Abby . . . please.”

  She pointed to the smaller print. “Forty and older, John. That’s what the article says.”

  “We’re not that old.” He was playing with her now, teasing her the way he’d done back when she was a high-school senior, surprised beyond words that this college-age star quarterback who’d been a family friend forever, wanted to date her. Her, of all people.

  A giggle slipped from her lips and she drew close to him once more. “Yes, we are that old.”

  “No.” His mouth hung open for a moment and he pointed first to her, then to himself. “How old are we?”

  “I’m forty-one and you’re forty-five.”

  “Forty-five?” He mouthed the words, his expression a twist of mock horror.

  “Yes, forty-five.”

  “Really?” He took the news clipping from her and studied it again.

  “Really.”

  “Well, then . . .” The article drifted to the floor. This time he took her hand in his and waltzed her toward the doorway. “I guess it’s time for dancing lessons.”

  John led them from the center of her office into the entryway. “Mature, huh?”

  “Yep.” She loved moments like this, when it felt like she and John shared one heartbeat. They waltzed down the hall toward the kitchen.

  “You don’t think I’m mature, though, do you?” As he said the words, his feet became tangled with hers, and he fell backward, pulling Abby down with him. They smacked the wall as they landed, one on top of the other.

  The shock lasted only a few seconds.

  When it was clear they were both okay, a ripple of laughter burst from both of them. “No, John . . .” Deep waves of giggles sent Abby rolling onto the floor beside him. “No worries. I don’t think you’re mature.”