Pride & Joie (#MyNewLife)

by M. E. Carter

  Unfortunately, in late summer that breeze is so hot, it’s like the devil himself is breathing over your shoulder.

  Did I mention it’s hot as fuck out here?

  “Come on, ladies!” my boss and the man in charge of this field, Hank Stellan, taunts. “We’re playing football, not practicing for a dance recital. Get your heads out of your asses.” He bangs his clipboard for effect.

  I barely notice, my mind too busy searching for inconsistencies on the field and patterns we can tweak.

  Hank and I have worked together with this team for over a decade, and we have our coaching practically down to a science. He watches the overall picture and screams obscenities for most of the practices. I stand with my arms crossed, chomping on my gum, scrutinizing the tiny details that can make the difference between a good player and a great player. After practice is over, Hank and I meet and discuss what we each saw.

  It’s a good system; led us to four national titles in the last ten years. It’s not a sweep of all the trophies but still something to be proud of.

  Scratching the back of my neck, I curse myself for not wearing sunscreen again. I can already feel the sunburn coming, and we’re not halfway through this practice. This isn’t my first rodeo. I should know better. But I keep forgetting to pick up some 50+ SPF at the store. Sheila used to make sure I always had it in stock, so it’s taking some time to get into a new routine.

  I chuckle to myself. It’s been three years, Jack. You should be in a routine by now.

  But I’m not. You can call me helpless or a good-ol’-boy or lazy, but I’m not really any of those things. Sheila was just really, really good at running our home. I never had to make a grocery list or put my laundry away. She did all that. I took care of the bills. She took care of the rest. It was simple and perfect for us, and I guess I still have a hard time remembering I’m the only one in charge of all that now.

  What can I say? I’m a middle-aged man who settled into my ways a long time ago. This old dog likes those tricks.

  My mind begins to wander as we wait for everyone to get into position on the field. I find myself thinking about the dark-haired beauty I ran into earlier today. Who does she take care of? A husband? A boyfriend? Just herself? What brought her to Flinton State and how long is she going to be here?

  “Dammit!” Hank yells next to me, banging on that damn clipboard again. I chide myself for losing my focus on my job. I’m here to win football games, not troll for women. “What the hell was that? You aren’t holding a greased pig. It’s shouldn’t be that hard not to fumble.”

  The players get in position again, and I cock my head as I watch our tight end’s stance. He seems hyped and jittery. That’s nothing new. Lots of our players get hopped up on endorphins when they play. But his take-off on the hike is half a second too late.

  “Take-off drills,” I comment to Hank.

  “He’s pushing late?”

  “About half a second.” Which means he’s late getting across the field. Which means he’s having to reach that much farther to make the catch. Which means he’s screwed when a member of the opposing team is gunning for him.

  “All right that’s enough, ya bunch of pansies!” Hank bellows and stomps onto the field. “Let’s set up for take-off drills.”

  Someone hands me a water bottle, although I’m not sure who. I typically don’t pay much attention to anyone on the field other than the players. It’s not because I don’t appreciate them. I just get hyper-focused by my job.

  As the assistant coach for the Flinton State Vikings, I’ve seen a lot of players either make it or break it on this field. My goal is to help them make it. Not only so we can win, which means job security for me, but so they can go on to have successful careers. We’ve had several kids receive very lucrative offers in the pros. Hell, two years ago, we gave the NFL the number two draft pick in the country. That means paying attention to anyone other than the guys who are actually passing the pigskin around isn’t my priority.

  But I certainly appreciate whoever remembered to put ice in this water. Squeezing a good-sized gulp in my mouth, I cringe as the icy water gets that much colder when it mixes with my minty gum. It’s almost uncomfortable, despite how refreshing it is for such a hot day. I think it was 107 degrees last time I checked. But losing the gum isn’t an option. Five years ago, when Sheila got cancer for the third time, I finally quit smoking. In its place, I chew gum. Lots of it. And I suppose it keeps my breath minty fresh, so I shouldn’t complain.

  “Fucking typical Texas heat,” I grumble to myself, making a petite female trainer stop and eyeball me. “Ma’am.” I nod in her direction. She shakes her head and walks away, handing out more water.

  One of the guys catches my eye and I find myself watching him run drills. He’s not the biggest player on our team, but he’s definitely bulked up since he made it as a walk-on two years ago. And he hasn’t lost his grace as he’s grown. That’s a huge problem for most college players.

  Let’s face it. Boys aren’t done growing until they’re practically out of college, so these guys are constantly having to relearn their bodies and how to manipulate them for maximum effectiveness. For instance, pull-ups aren’t the same after suddenly growing four inches. The floor isn’t as far away, but your arms seem longer. And that’s not the only time rapid growth makes things hard. Every time you think you know how to do something, your body changes, and you have to relearn it all over.

  Crossing my arms and keeping my eyes on our guy, I watch as he explodes from the ground, attacking the tackle dummy with such force, it throws the training coach off balance. But I can see where he can do better.

  “Stevens,” I call and wave him over. He rips his helmet off and jogs my direction.

  “Sir?”

  “How are those tackles feeling?” I keep my eyes off him and on the field. No use in making anyone on the team get too comfortable. I’m their boss, not their friend. Their feelings are of no consequence unless it carries onto the field. Don’t get me wrong, I care about each one of them on a personal level. But during workout practice is not the time or place.

  “They’re feeling pretty good,” he replies. “I’m concentrating on powering through my legs like you said, and I think it’s working.”

  I nod once. “Make sure you don’t forget you have an upper body.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Use your legs to explode, just like you’re doing, but once you get to your opponent, don’t forget to push off with your arms. Draw on your back muscles to make that same kind of explosion with your upper body and knock his ass to the ground.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Always so polite. His mama raised him right.

  “And Stevens”—I turn and stare him down—“if Coach Matthews isn’t flat on his ass after knocking into that dummy, you’re doing it wrong.”

  The kid spouts a lopsided grin. I can see motivation in his eyes. As a coaching staff, we don’t put up with shit. Our players will show us the respect we deserve. There are no exceptions.

  However, putting one of us down because we’re tackling too hard doesn’t count. That’s just good football.

  “Yes, sir,” he says one last time and runs back to his position when I wave him off in dismissal.

  Hank sidles up next to me, instinctively knowing something’s about to go down on the field. He just doesn’t know it’s Matthews yet.

  “Still think he was a good addition to the starting lineup?”

  I nod once. Even though Stevens wasn’t talented enough to get here on scholarship originally, he’s worked his ass off, always with a good attitude, and it’s paid off. He plays football for the love of it, not as a way to make money and get girls. At least, that’s not the vibe he gives off. When the university randomly opened up a little more scholarship money, we gave it to him. It took a bit of convincing, but I still think he was the right choice.

  “Yep. He’s about to flatten, Matthews.”

  We both watch as Steven
s gets into position again. Just a few short seconds later, he explodes off the field, his thick legs using all their strength to launch him across the short distance. As he connects with the tackle dummy, it’s obvious his entire lower body is doing the bulk of the work. But then, just a micro-second into the exercise, his upper body gets in on it. The force of it throws Matthews, who is standing behind the dummy to hold it stable, completely off balance, and he barely has time to register that he’s going down before he ends up flat on his back.

  Hank and I snicker.

  “That right there is why I stand behind the decision to put him on the books,” I point out, still chuckling. Matthews frowns over at us and flips us the bird, making us laugh a little harder.

  Watching one of our own get mowed down is fun sometimes, but playtime is over. We have a job to do.

  Hank begins yelling and banging on that damn clipboard again. And I get back into my cross-armed, gum-chewing stance, eyes studying the field, spotting other small problems that can be fine-tuned.

  This is college football. Here in Texas, this is life. And I’m damn proud to be a part of it.

  “Where are the dice?” My best friend, Amanda, stares blankly in the game cabinet, trying to find all the supplies for Bunco night while I work on setting up a third card table. We love game night. Once a month I host it at my place, and all our gaming friends come over for the fun.

  Or course, “gaming” means a whole different thing to us than it does to our children. Face-to-face interaction for one. A variety of snacks for another. And of course, the alcohol. Because what game night would be complete without mimosas and margaritas? They’re made with fruit juice, which means the calories don’t count. Plus, after my first full week of classes, I need to relax and reset my brain.

  “Check the drawer.” I gesture my head that direction. “I didn’t want them to get pushed to the back and the container to accidentally pop open.”

  She shifts her attention and within seconds raises them in the air. “Found them. What else do you want me to get out?”

  “I was thinking about Farkle and maybe Scattergories,” I grunt as I fight with the table leg.

  Amanda stands there observing me, an amused smile on her face. “You okay there, Joie? Looks like that table leg is stronger than you are.”

  I grunt again, pulling until it pops into place, and let my breath go. “I got one with the strongest legs I could find. We’re not having a repeat of last month’s table debacle.”

  Amanda starts chuckling. “Every time I think about it, I still laugh.”

  “That’s because you weren’t stuck on bottom.”

  Gamers, live action or video, can get pretty competitive. Just because this group is a little older doesn’t mean we’ve become passive. Things can get heated really quick. The last time we played Bunco, Amanda and I both went for the dice at the same time. The table couldn’t hold our weight and collapsed underneath us while our friends watched in horror.

  I blame the fact that it was an old table, because I refuse to believe we’re too heavy.

  Amanda comes over and peers at the leg supports I’m still putting in place. “That seems really solid. But if it ends up not being able to support the weight of two grown women, we may have to consider celery and peanut butter as our regular snacks at these shindigs.”

  “Well then, it better not break, because I’m not giving up those cake balls Drea brings,” I jest.

  “Quick! Add more supports,” Amanda jokes, making me laugh.

  Amanda and I have known each other since our boys were in middle school football. She and her husband, Jeff, have become good friends of mine. We all used to sit together at games and would trade off transporting the boys to and from practices. They’re really more like family to us than friends.

  “How are your classes going anyway?” she asks, as she unfolds the plastic chairs and puts them around the tables.

  “Good! I’m not enjoying taking college algebra again.” She grimaces, which is exactly how I feel. “But I am taking an educational psychology class, which I really like, and it kind of keeps my eye on the prize.”

  “That’s great. I really admire you for going back to school. I have zero desire to ever step foot in a classroom again.”

  “It’s kind of a culture shock, that’s for sure. I never thought of college kids as being young, but I’m so old now, they all look like babies.”

  Amanda grabs the rest of the games and puts one on each table. We set it up like stations. Pick your game of choice and go for it. We’ll have a couple of intermissions, allowing people to move around and enjoy it all.

  “Well yeah,” she says, opening a couple decks of cards and shuffling, “they’re literally half your age.”

  I shake my head. “That just blows my mind. How did we get this old?”

  “That’s life, I guess.” She shrugs. “Better not blink or we’ll be sixty.”

  “No kidding.”

  We meander our way into the kitchen and start pulling out our special game-night glasses. I got them for Christmas a few years ago from Isaac. Each glass has the logo of a different board game on it. I love them. But I only pull them out once a month.

  “Speaking of, have you run into Isaac on campus yet?”

  “No!” I vehemently shake my head. “And I don’t want to. I don’t want to be known as the football player’s mom any more than he wants to be known as the football player whose mommy followed him to school.”

  Amanda chuckles again. “I didn’t say you had to interact. I just wanna hear how big both your eyes get when you run into each other and how awkward it is as you run away from each other. Cause you know that’s what’ll happen.”

  “I’ve been practicing my unaffected facial expression for that moment. See?” I shoot her my best nonchalant look.

  A laugh bursts out of her. “I can’t tell if you’re about to have a psychotic breakdown or are constipated.”

  “Hey!” I half-heartedly complain because I’m sure she’s right. I’ve never been accused of being a good actress. Typically, what you see is what you get with my emotions.

  A knock at the door and a “Hello!” yelled from the front bring us out of the kitchen and back to game-central.

  “What do you have here?” I take a giant box out of our friend Brenda’s hands and carry it to the sofa.

  “Phew. Thanks.” She hands Amanda a plastic bag, probably of food, that she’s also carrying. I’m hoping it’s her famous green sauce dip for tortilla chips. “I was cleaning out my closet today and found all these purses. Most of them I haven’t used more than a couple times. I figured some of you might want one. Otherwise, they’re going to Goodwill.” She plops down on the couch and begins thumbing through the goodies. “There’s some good stuff in here.”

  One of the bags catches my eye, and it’s like a homing device to me. It’s black and shiny and huge. Pulling it out of the box, I open it wide and feel giddy at all the room inside. Reaching my hand in, I find my entire arm will fit inside. That means plenty of supplies will also fit. I stick my head all the way in, and when Amanda starts snickering, I realize I may be taking this a little too far.

  “What are you doing there, Joie?”

  “Making sure it’s perfect.” I pat down the outside, pushing all the air out and admire that there are no nicks or scratches on it. It’s in amazing condition. “Yep. This one is mine.”

  “Don’t pick the first one,” Brenda argues. “Maybe there’s a better one.”

  “Nope. There’s nothing better.” Seriously. This purse is exactly what I need. You can’t find them this size and of this quality anymore. Trust me. I’ve tried.

  “What are you going to use it for?” Amanda seems confused by my all-consuming love of this bag.

  “My new job!” I announce, eliciting another confused look. Poor Amanda. Sometimes she can’t keep up with my energy. Of the two of us, she is definitely the more subdued. Always has been.

  She shakes her he
ad just slightly. “I'm sorry, your what? I thought you quit working.”

  Hiding my new treasure in the game cabinet so no one will try to steal it, I respond, “I’m picking up a little part-time job to help pay a few of my bills. Maybe have a little spending money.”

  Kasey continues digging through the purses while we chat. “At the construction company? What do you think of this one?” She holds up her find for me to assess.

  “White is hard to clean and once the bottom gets dirty, it’ll ruin the leather.”

  “Good point.” She puts it back in the box and keeps searching for a treasure. “Where is this new career of yours?”

  “At Carnival Station.”

  Amanda and Brenda both stop, mid-movement, and size me up, like they’re waiting for me to say I’m kidding. “The bouncy house kids place?” Brenda finally asks.

  “Yes. But I won’t actually be working for Carnival Station. I’m going to be the entertainment.”

  “I’m confused,” Amanda says, looking even more baffled. “What kind of Carnival Station are we talking about here? Is it a strip club after hours or something? Because I just can’t picture you taking your clothes off for money.”

  “Oh stop.” I grab a deck of cards and begin shuffling mindlessly. “It’s not a strip club. Once a week, I’ll go to the restaurant part to make balloon animals for the kids and read stories. Paint faces. Things like that.”

  “That sounds kind of fun.” Brenda tosses a purse back in the box, and Amanda immediately picks it up. She really does have a lot of bags to choose from. “Does it pay well?”

  “Nothing significant. But even a couple hundred dollars not taken out of my savings each month helps.”

  “You did a really good job saving enough money to go to school without working. Not a lot of people would plan like you did.” Amanda holds up another find. It’s a Coach purse, a very light lavender color, straps long enough to put over your shoulder, but not too long. It’s beautiful.

  I nod my head in approval, and she sits down, clearly pleased.

  “I only started saving ten or twelve years ago. And thank goodness Isaac earned that scholarship. There’s no way I could’ve gone back this year if I was trying to pay for both of us.”