by M. E. Carter
I gape at him, trying to change tactics. “What are you doing looking over my shoulder at my phone? That’s very rude, ya know.”
“I didn’t look over your shoulder. Your background picture caught my attention when you picked up it. And then the name ‘Jack’ in giant grandma-sized letters at the top was a dead giveaway.”
I grimace. So that tactic change doesn’t work. And suddenly, using the selfie Jack and I took on our last date as the home-screen picture doesn’t seem like such a good idea.
“Just because there is a picture on my phone doesn’t mean we’re dating. Maybe . . . well . . . maybe . . . You know this is football country. Maybe I have a picture of myself with the famous Jack Pride because he’s like a celebrity.”
That doesn’t even sound like a plausible excuse to my own ears. Clearly, Brian agrees with how ridiculous it is.
“Joie,” he says quietly. I look over sheepishly, quirking my lips to the side, not quite sure what to do now that I’ve been outed. “Does he treat you right? Like he’s respectful and all that?”
I smile and nod. “Yes. So, so much yes.”
“Good,” he says, relaxing back into his chair. “Then I have no problem with it.”
I pat his arm. “Thanks, Brian. It’s not a secret. We just don’t want it to turn into this huge public deal. We like the privacy.”
“Understood.” He turns to point at me. “But you tell him, if he hurts you, I’ll take it out on his ass.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “Ohmygod, I am not passing messages back and forth between you two Neanderthals.”
“Fine.” He grabs yet another muffin. “At least tell him to keep his hands off my baked goods. I’m a growing boy.”
I snicker and grab a pen as Nick calls us back to order again, so we can debate the merits of Social Identity Theory until the librarian finally forces us to call it a night.
“How do you think Brickmore’s looking?” Hank taps his pen on his desk as we review some tapes of practice. We do this in the afternoon almost every day, while the earlier practices are still fresh on our minds. “Think he’ll be ready to step into the starting position next year?”
I rub at the mild sunburn on my arm. Only in Texas do you still need sunscreen in late October. And only I forget it every single day, despite its necessity. “He’s been really solid as the second string QB. I know he’s young, but it sure would be nice if we could start him for three years. Right now, I don’t see anyone ready to come up after him.”
Hank nods absentmindedly. “I’m right there with you. We finally have momentum on our offensive line, but that’s not gonna mean shit in three years if we don’t have a QB.”
“I just hate scouting the high schools for fresh meat so far out.” I lean back and stretch my legs when he turns off the screen. “Those fourteen-year-olds are such scrawny little shits when they first hit high school.”
“I’m not sure we have a choice at this point. We don’t have to start tossing names around yet, but make a mental note to look when we start scouting in a couple months.”
Rubbing my hand down my face, I sigh. “Yeah. And I’ll put in a call to my buddy, Ryan Lennox. See who his competition is this year and if anyone is standing out.”
“He still coaching high school 5A?”
“6A now,” I correct him.
He whistles through his teeth, clearly impressed. “Holy shit, that’s a big school.”
“Yep.” I stretch my arms over my head to relieve some of the tension from sitting in this chair. I wish Hank would upgrade to something beyond the metal-folding variety. But he never does. My guess is because these make a lot of noise when they’re thrown, and Hank’s all about being loud when he gets riled up. “Chicago area keeps growing. Pretty sure three thousand kids per school isn’t unusual over there.”
“Three thousand high schoolers? I’d put a bullet in my head,” he snarks, making me chuckle. “College freshmen are hard enough to deal with.”
“Speaking of college freshmen . . .” Hank groans before I finish my sentence. “Now don’t start that. I’m just reminding you Randy Whitman from the boosters will be here soon to go over the preliminary numbers for next year’s scholarships.”
He shakes his head at me. “Don’t scare me like that. You know I can wine and dine with the best of them, but I like to dumb down my brain cells before candidates get here.”
“Those are our future starters you’re talking about.” I chuckle. “You’re such a dick, you know that?”
He looks back at the screen, treating my dig like a compliment. “It’s what makes me a good coach. Now watch Reynolds’s footwork on this next play.”
Before he can start the video again, a noise from outside the office catches our attention. “What the hell?” We both jump up when we realize what we’re hearing sounds an awful lot like a scuffle. As we race through the door, sure enough, we find Stevens and Anderson being pulled apart by a few other players, while they continue to spout shit back and forth.
“I didn’t even do anything, asshole!” Anderson yells as two other players pull him back and force him to sit on one of the benches. “I said I like her. What the fuck is the matter with you?”
“What the hell is going on in here?” Hank bellows, and the room goes silent, except for the sounds of people shuffling around. No one answers so he yells again, “Someone wanna tell me why there’s a fistfight happening in my locker room?”
Still no response.
“Stevens?” Hank challenges, but all the kid does is look at the floor, two of his teammates still flanking him in case he charges again, which it looks like he wants to. So Hank turns his attention to the other half of this clusterfuck. “Anderson? Wanna tell me what the fuck is going on here?”
The kid spits some blood onto the floor and wipes his split lip. “All I said was that I thought it was cool that his mom was dating Coach, and he fucking charged me.” My eyebrows shoot up, and my body runs cold. I glance around the room to see what their reaction is about to be, but no one even looks my direction. Either they all already knew about Joie and me or they just don’t care.
Until I catch Randy Whitman’s eye. Well, isn’t that fantastic timing on his part? But I don’t have time to worry about what he’s thinking. We’ve obviously got bigger issues right now.
“That’s what this is about?” Hank hollers, turning to look at Stevens, whose machismo suddenly seems to deflate. “You’re throwing down with one of your teammates because your mother might have a sex life?” Stevens winces but doesn’t say a word when a few people snicker in the background. No one has the balls to actually laugh, though. Smart move.
“Well, get over it, son, because I’m pretty sure everyone on this team has a sex life, except maybe that weird looking water boy. What’s his name?” He snaps his fingers as he tries to remember. “Peter? Is that his name?”
“I can hear you,” an irritated voice yells from across the room, but Hank isn’t done with his rant.
“Pretty sure that boy is still a virgin.”
I stifle a laugh as I hear “Hey!” come from where Peter is standing. Hank doesn’t even notice.
“Hell, I myself got a piece of ass last night. Twice.” A few of the guys grimace at Hank’s proclamation. “But what the fuck does any of that have to do with football, huh?” He looks at each player individually as he speaks. “Nothing. Not a damn thing. We are here for one reason and one reason only—to win football games. And I will not have some stupid shit about who your momma is dating tear this team apart.” He stalks over to Stevens and gets right in his face. “And you ever attack one of my players again, your ass will be benched so hard you will waddle when you walk. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Stevens says quietly, never looking up from the floor.
Hank backs up and turns in a circle as he calls out commands. “Now that you pussies have done your best to piss me off, get those running shoes back on and give me a mile.”
&n
bsp; “Aw, Coach. I already showered,” someone complains.
“Then you’re gonna smell pretty for the clean-up crew when you run by,” he counters. “Now get out there before I change my mind and make you suit up first.”
“You stay.” I point to Stevens, who sighs and drops to the bench, the room clearing out quickly with Hank’s threat looming. This shit needs to be hashed out, and I will stay here all night if that’s how long it takes to come to an understanding with this kid.
Once the door closes behind the last person, I begin. “How long until you plan on letting this go?” He shrugs. “That’s not good enough. You have let a personal issue cause you to lose focus on the game. You damn near got yourself hurt on the field this past weekend. And now you’re attacking your teammates. You can be angry at whatever and whoever you want, but the minute you step into this room, you better check that attitude at the door.”
He continues looking at the floor, elbows on his knees.
“As your coach, I’m telling you don’t ever pull this bullshit again. This is not your team. This is not your locker room. This is not your field. I am responsible for it, and there is no room for people who cause problems. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” This time, when he speaks, it’s with humility. Looks like we’re finally getting somewhere.
“Now since you started this whole mess, you’re about to suit up. And you’re gonna give me five hundred up/downs and two miles. With pads. Got it?”
“Yes sir,” he says again without hesitation.
“But before you go, you need to know a few things.” I walk over and sit down next to him on the bench. He doesn’t look at me and that’s fine. It’s time to stop pussyfooting around the elephant in the room and lay it all out on the line. “Your mother spent seventeen years putting her life on hold for you. Seventeen years. You seem to think she was happy just being your mother and working, and yes, she’s always been happy. But she’s also had dreams and goals of her own that she set aside. For you. And now, when you’re finally an adult, when she can finally have a life of her own, you pull this self-centered, entitled bullshit.”
He winces, but I’m not done.
“I have talked to her every single day for the last two weeks, and you know what she’s talked about more than anything? You. How much she misses you. How many times she’s texted you and called and has gotten no response. I’ve watched her suck back tears because of how much your silence has hurt her, and as your mother’s boyfriend, it makes me want to take your ass down to the floor. But let’s get one thing clear, for as much as you’re worried I’ll break her heart, take a look in the mirror. The only one hurting her is you. You think you’re the shit? A big deal because your driver’s license says you’re an adult? Then man up and let her find happiness. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” he says, surprising the shit out of me. Maybe he’s scared he’s gonna lose his starting position. Or maybe I’m finally getting through. Either way, this is progress.
“Good. Now when you’re done with this practice, you’re gonna take your happy ass to the store and get your momma the biggest bunch of flowers you can find.” He nods. “You’re gonna drive over to her place, hand them to her with a smile on your face, and thank her for giving birth to you and for every day since that moment. And your gonna apologize sincerely for acting like a spoiled jackass. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now suit up.”
I stand up and start to walk away, but before I make it across the room, he calls after me. “Hey, Coach?”
I turn to look at him, surprised he’s finally speaking to me, but pleased he seems to have snapped out of his attitude problem. “Are you just sleeping with her or do you really like her?”
I take a breath as I figure out how to put my feelings into words he can understand. “I like her more than I’ve ever liked anyone. And I never thought I’d say that again after my wife died.”
He nods and rubs his lip as he looks away and turns toward his locker.
Everyone has a favorite chore. You know, the one you always pick first over every other task that has to be done around the house. Mine is laundry. Something about the monotony of shaking out a fresh piece of clothing, still smelling of laundry detergent and cleanliness, folding it carefully and sorting it all into piles is almost soothing. That and the fact that I can do it while watching TV and still consider myself productive.
Unfortunately, once Isaac moved out, the vast majority of our laundry went with him, so my favorite, most cathartic chore is over way too quickly. One load of clothes to fold and a few towels does not take an entire episode of Riverdale.
Instead, I’m sitting on the couch, watching a very wrinkly Luke Perry reprimand his teenage Archie for being a dumb ass once again, while the few clothes I have are piled in nice neat stacks around me. If I was actually watching this on the CW, I’d put everything away during the next commercial break. But no. I prefer to binge watch, which means no breaks. It also means no ability to pull myself away once I get sucked in. This is how I ended up sitting in this exact spot for the last three hours. The episodes just keep going once you start.
Not that I want to turn it off at this point. This twisted version of the Archie comics is giving me a much-needed brain break before my long day tomorrow. When I set my schedule, I opted to take all five of my classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays so I could work the other days. I still think it was the right decision, and I know I’ll do it the same way next semester. But it makes for a lot of sitting and concentrating all in a row.
Plus, the added emotional stress of Isaac’s behavior and my decision to wait it out instead of trying to force the issue, still makes my brain spin. It’s hard letting your children go their own way. Especially when it’s impacting your relationship.
Yes, sometimes mindless television is welcome.
I watch as my former celebrity crush instructs his on-screen teenager, the latest celebrity heartthrob, to get into the truck on screen, still berating him for finding yet another dead body. Seriously? How does anyone survive in that town? They’re all a bunch of sociopaths. It’s fascinating.
A knock at the door brings me back to the present, and the pile of clean underwear some poor, unannounced visitor is about to be subjected to. Oh well. If it’s Jack, he’s seen my panties before. If it’s not Jack, I’m not letting them in the house anyway.
Another quick rap sounds just as I turn the knob and open the door partway.
“Isaac,” I breathe.
He’s standing on the stoop, looking abashed and barely able to make eye contact with me, but holding a giant bouquet of flowers. I think I recognize some version of small sunflowers and maybe stargazers, but I can’t be sure. I’m too busy looking at my prodigal son, grateful he’s finally come home. And yet, not quite sure how to handle the fact that he’s here.
“Hi, Ma. Can I come in?”
I realize I’m still standing in the doorway, blocking his entrance. “Oh!” I blurt, moving out of the way and pulling the door all the way open. “Of course you can. Why didn’t you just use your key?”
He twists his lips and crinkles his nose, like he’s embarrassed I would even ask. “I, uh . . . I didn’t know if he’d be here.”
“Ah.” I nod in understanding. I don’t bother telling him sex in the living room is not really my style. I’m not opposed to it. I just have had a child for a long time. When it comes to protecting little eyes from things they shouldn’t see, old habits die hard. Not that my habits ended up protecting anyone, obviously, since his eyes, that aren’t so little anymore, were still traumatized. “Are those for me?” I ask, gesturing to the bouquet.
He looks at them, like he forgot they were in his hand. “Uh, yeah. I don’t know what they are, but I thought you’d like the colors.”
“I do.” I take the flowers from him when he offers them. My fingers graze over the purples and creams. “They’re very pretty. Thank you.”
&n
bsp; He nods and digs his hands in his pockets, but doesn’t make eye contact with me. I shift my stance to try and get him to look at me. “Isaac?” Finally, he glances up. “I’m glad you’re here.”
His shoulders relax, proof of just how hard it was for him to come over. I’m still not sure how this conversation is going to go, but what I do know is pride makes it really hard to say you’re sorry sometimes. Especially when you’re not totally sure what you’re sorry about. And I suspect Isaac isn’t positive which part I’m still upset about . . . the way he left, his two-week silence, or the fact that he hasn’t wanted to accept that I can have a life, too.
I stand in my spot, waiting for him to initiate the conversation. Obviously, he has something on his mind and I don’t want to make any assumptions on what it could be.
Finally, he speaks. “Can we talk?”
I smile at him and cup his cheek. “Of course we can.”
Without another word, we head to the couches. He sits on one, I sit on the other, still surrounded by clothing. Isaac looks from the clothes to the TV and back. “I guess you needed a brain break?”
He knows me so well.
“I did. Educational psychology is killing me slowly, and my biology vocabulary was starting to blur together.”
“Are you sorry you went back to college?”
His question is completely unexpected and throws me for a loop. “Not at all. I’m tired, and there are times my brain feels like mush. But I’m having the best time. I love learning and meeting people. And I can’t wait to be a teacher, you know?”
He nods and clasps his hands together, resting his elbows on his knees. I wait for more questions. I’m sure he has many. When he takes a deep breath, I know he’s finally ready.
“How did you meet him anyway?”
I know the happiness of the memory is written all over my face as I stroke some of the petals mindlessly. “We ran into each other. Literally. I was walking to class and he was, actually I don’t know where he was going. But neither of us were looking, and we crashed right there on the sidewalk.”
