Coach Love

by Liz Crowe

  The fact that she maintained her uber-bitch persona around his family killed him. But he was hooked.

  Still.

  Mostly.

  His phone buzzed on the seat next to him. He held it against the steering wheel as he passed another geriatric on the road. A message from Melinda flashed on his screen:

  Running late. Won’t be home until tomorrow. See you then. Sorry. Kisses.

  Cursing, he threw the thing on the seat then checked the rearview mirror for cops before flooring the pedal, grinning when the needle caressed ninety miles an hour.

  The landscape transformed from pastoral to suburban. Letting the Mustang slow on its own, he took a deep breath, realizing that the tight band around his chest at the concept of facing Melinda tonight, hung over and still reeling from his embarrassing hook up with Cara had released its hold.

  Deciding to go to her place anyway, he drove into town, threatening the traffic under his breath, and found street parking near her condo building. He’d stopped trying to convince her to spring for the extra space in the underground parking and had paid an expensive fine for parking in her spot one night after he’d driven them to her place.

  Jingling his keys in his pocket, he whistled his way past the doorman who, luckily, remained a fan from his college-playing days.

  “Evenin’, Love.” The man grinned at his overused pun over the top of his computer console.

  “Back at ya,” Kieran said, feeling jaunty at the thought of lying around on Melinda’s leather furniture and drinking her booze, taking a shower in her huge bathroom, and sleeping it off in her bed alone. He used the keycard she’d finally surrendered to him so he could gain access to the higher floors and walked down the hushed hallway to her end unit. After cranking the AC down to where he didn’t need a sweatshirt, he snagged a beer from the fridge and flopped onto her couch.

  After a few hours channel surfing and fighting off a looming cloud of depression, he glanced over at the giant leather ottoman thing she claimed as a coffee table, somewhat alarmed to note that it was covered in empties.

  Figuring he’d best get rid of the evidence, he snagged all of them, lurching into the kitchen and trying to recall where she put recyclable stuff. After rinsing them all thoroughly he realized he’d filled the bin and cursed again. He had no idea where garbage or anything went from this snooty high-rise. Maybe fairies arrived at night and spirited it all away after installing the toilet paper so it dispensed a certain way to suit her, and folded her towels the same direction so they were neat inside the closet.

  Propping up on the edge of the sink he took a moment to acknowledge his drunkenness. Melinda’s face loomed large in his consciousness, the day she’d broken off the engagement a few months before their original wedding date.

  It had been the day of Antony’s wedding to the therapist lady Margot, a week after Aiden had married Rosalee Norris, Antony’s one-time girlfriend. Quite the soap opera, but Kieran had been thrilled that his brothers had found happiness after the year of drama they’d caused between them. Both Rosie and Margot were amazing women, different but alike in many ways.

  “You people,” Melinda had sneered at him that morning as they got ready for Antony’s wedding. “I don’t get it. Must be some redneck thing.”

  Kieran had frozen as he tied his tie. He’d been second guessing their relationship already, thanks to his mother’s shocking outburst, calling Melinda the C-word of all things in front of the whole family after he and his brothers had acted like hormone-addled teenagers at one of her famous neighborhood Halloween parties. He’d tried to ignore Melinda’s attitude, writing it off as something she’d get over once they were married and had a kid or two. But more often than not, everything that came out of her mouth made him grind his teeth, no matter how incredible she’d been between the sheets. Of course that had been back when they’d had an actual sex life.

  He’d yanked her arm and pulled her away from her bank of mirrors.

  “Don’t you dare manhandle me,” she’d spat out, glaring at him. “I’m not one of your stupid groupies or high school sweeties.”

  “No, you are definitely neither of those things,” he’d said. He recalled it now, as if it were unfolding in front of him like an overly dramatic movie. “I am sick of your snooty bullshit. This is my family. Take ‘em or leave ‘em.”

  She’d not flinched in the face of his words, merely crossed her arms over her chest and pondered him as if he were day-old road kill. “Okay, I leave them.” She’d taken off her ring, set it on the bathroom vanity counter, and breezed past him.

  “You…what?” Panic had skittered around in his chest like a nest of mice.

  She’d slipped her feet out of the fancy wedding shoes. “What? You gone deaf? I leave them. It’s over. Your ring is there. The door is over there. Take one. Use the other.”

  He’d waited a few seconds, letting it sink in before grabbing the ring and running after her into the kitchen, this kitchen where he now lingered, his head woozy and gut churning. The abject loser he’d acted like then haunted him to this day. He’d begged her to change her mind, told her he’d not make her go to the wedding, anything, if she’d reconsider. He loved her. He’d do anything to keep her.

  Blah. Blah. Blah.

  Without realizing it, he slammed both fists down on the stainless-steel counter—a perfect surface for someone like Melinda, impervious, ice cold, antiseptic.

  The pain that shot up his arms and into his neck shocked him, sending him reeling, fury coiling in his gut like poison before tripping over something and landing on his ass, biting his tongue in the process. Blood filled his mouth. He lurched to his feet and barely made it to the sink before emptying his stomach of the last seven or maybe ten beers he’d imbibed. The red-tinged goo lingered in the drain a while before he helped it along with a blast of water from the faucet.

  “Oh fuck,” he blurted into the empty room, liking how it sounded. “Fucking fuck!” He rinsed his mouth out and decided to leave the bottles in the bin in plain sight. Screw her and her cleanliness.

  Stumbling to the bedroom, he bounced off the walls, trying to repress the memory of her cold gaze and set jaw when she’d told him to take back the ring and booted him out the day of Antony’s wedding. He’d gone without her, determined not to spoil his brother’s moment. Antony had been through so much, he deserved what happiness fate or karma or the Almighty might toss in his path. After a few glasses of champagne, dances with his mother, his sister, the bride, a few random others, Kieran had gone home, head clear and determined to make up with Melinda.

  After a good night’s sleep he’d showered, dressed, and driven to her condo. She’d let him in, looking completely out of character in a ratty bathrobe, her face makeup-less and red from crying.

  “What do you want,” she’d asked, but the realization that she’d been upset enough to shed tears gave him hope, so much hope that instead of answering he’d tossed her down on the bed. They’d stayed there all day, emerging for food at midnight. But she’d insisted on pushing the wedding out to the fall. Her practice had gotten busier, she claimed. She’d be out of town a lot. He needed to find a new job, which he’d promised to do and done exactly nothing about, enjoying the spring semester too much and counting on the switch to permanent status in June. Which of course, had not been the case.

  She’d gone cold physically then, using the excuses of tiredness and girl problems. For a woman fierce and downright nasty when it came to sex, she could pull the prude act like a nun—a quirk and something he’d gotten used to, as long as he got laid. Which he most definitely had not for months, well, until last night of course.

  He shoved that memory out of his head, unwilling to go anywhere near it lest he call his ex-girlfriend and beg her to come and rescue him from himself. His legs hit the edge of the bed in the dark and he fell face forward, letting the alcohol fuzz him into a stupor, and then to sleep.

  His dreams were tangled but featured Cara, mostly which even in
his beer-induced sleep haze he avoided, unwilling to revisit that horror. At one point after she’d dream-slammed the door on him for the millionth time, a sound he still hated, he sat, rubbing his face, and needing to take a leak. After hanging onto the wall next to the toilet so he wouldn’t fall into the thing, he flushed and reassembled his shorts, hoping he could get back to sleep sans the redheaded presence of his first girlfriend. A grown man in his thirties should be over such an ancient breakup by now, he reminded himself as he dropped onto the pillow, not bothering with covers.

  Something that sounded like a giggle floated through his mind, confusing him at first and making him think he must still be dreaming. When a pillow over his head didn’t drown it out, he went on full alert. The giggle had morphed into a low murmuring and a wet noise then a shuffling and a loud bang and a squeal. He scrambled off the bed, dropping down on the floor behind it, heart in his throat.

  Someone else was in the condo. He peered around the bed but didn’t see anyone. The noises stopped but then they resumed, instantly familiar as he sat propped against the bed frame.

  “Come on, baby, you know you can do better than that,” Melinda said, and not to him. “Oh yes,” she hissed. “Right there.”

  Some dude groaned and a rhythmic banging hit his eardrums. They had to be doing it against the wall in the living room. Kieran had done the same with her a few times. She liked it fast, rough and dirty. There was no making love to Melinda, even in make-up mode.

  Amazed at his analytical frame of mind at the moment, he sat, listening to her usual patter: “Harder! I can’t even feel you! Fuck me like you mean it!” and actually experienced a thrill of relief that he wasn’t on the receiving end of her bossy sex talk.

  But on the heels of the relief, a tidal wave of rage blinded, deafened, and choked him, nearly bending him double. Against his better judgment he squared his shoulders and marched into the hallway, head spinning. Part of him wanted to believe the whole thing nothing more than a dream in vivid porno-vision. He blinked, cleared his throat, did everything short of waltzing over to the dude still in his dress shirt with his suit trousers around his ankles thrusting into Melinda’s body.

  Finally she ceased her screeching. “Do it,” she gasped, pushing the guy away so they disconnected like a couple of dogs in the front yard. “Do it now.”

  As Kieran gawked in utter amazement from a few feet away, she fell to her knees and let the man give his dick a few jerks and come all over her face.

  “Well, hell,” Kieran blurted. The man grunted and stumbled, still spurting like a fountain. “Seriously, Melinda, I would have happily obliged you with that move. We should really communicate better.” He watched, ears ringing as the poor, unfortunate douche-bag crouched on all fours.

  Kieran burst into laughter that he realized bordered on hysterical. But he couldn’t stop. He guffawed so hard he could barely breathe and had to grab the back of a chair to keep from passing out. Melinda tugged her skirt down and sauntered past him into the kitchen. When he finally had exerted some control over his reaction, he followed her, waiting as she calmly wiped her face with a paper towel, washed her hands, dried them with yet more paper towels then toed the garbage can lid open. She glared down at its contents then over at him.

  “Who drank all this?” She pointed down at the empties.

  The urge to defend his actions rose from his throat. He shoved it down and away.

  “You are a scheming, slutty bitch.”

  Giving him her best ice-queen glare, she dropped the paper towels on top of the pile of bottles filling the air with the lid’s metallic clanking echo. He had to give it to her—she had balls staring at him as if he’d just cheated on her in plain sight, and in spectacular, porn- clichéd fashion. At that moment, a huge weight shifted off his shoulders.

  “Hey, babe, you told me he didn’t know we were back.” A deep voice said behind him. Kieran turned and faced money-shot man who was buckling his belt and appearing mildly put out. Kieran whirled around to face Melinda.

  “Yeah, babe,” he ground out between clenched jaws, his head filled with a sort of scary, white noise and his vision dimming. “What’s up with that?” He crossed his arms, mainly to keep from throttling the woman.

  “I...it’s....” She blew out a breath and attempted to stalk past Kieran. When he gripped her arm, he got a nose full of some other guy’s spunk combined with Melinda’s own spicy, aroused aroma—one she’d been denying him for the better part of three months now. “Let go of me,” she demanded.

  The desire not to fail at this, at relationships, at marriage, had driven him for the last year and a half. His ingrained need to please others had blinded and deafened him to the fact he’d been ready to be tied forever to a grasping, snotty, know-it-all, ice queen of a—

  “Cunt,” he spit out, not taking his gaze from hers. The dude hovered nearby, but Kieran had no sense of anyone or anything but the woman currently trying to writhe out of his grasp.

  “Loser,” she replied, relaxing her arm. He let go of her, absorbing that single word, the one word he hated to hear but one he’d been playing in a fairly regular loop in his own head since snapping his leg in two on national television.

  The slap came out of nowhere, catching him off guard. He tripped over some low-lying piece of furniture and landed on his ass, staring at her, his face flaming, and fury roaring through his entire body.

  Both Melinda and her new friend gawked at him from a million miles away, until he launched forward, head-butted the man, and shoved Melinda out of his way lest he shame his raising by pounding her into the floor like some kind of abuser.

  “Get out you stupid, lame-ass....high school teacher,” Melinda yelled.

  He clenched and unclenched his fists, blew out a breath, and walked calmly out of the condo door.

  Chapter Ten

  The summer night air punched him in the face like a damp-towel-covered fist. Kieran doubled over on the sidewalk and puked out the rest of Melinda’s expensive beer and stayed crouched over awhile, contemplating his shoes and his next move. After wiping his lips and getting back to his feet, he jingled his keys and whistled his way toward his car.

  Dizzy, elated, furious, horrified, and already pondering how he might beg her to not kick him to the curb, he got behind the wheel of the Mustang and turned the key, delighting in the low, throaty roar of the powerful engine. He’d paid for the car with his dwindling cash, nodding and smiling when his old high school buddy Drew Atherton charged him an amount of money this side of usury for a six-month insurance premium.

  “Sorry, pal,” Drew had said, frowning at his computer screen. “It seems as though you have a not-so-great driving record down in Florida.”

  Kieran gripped the wheel, closed his eyes a split second, which made the whole down-on-her-knees-come-on-her-face scene he’d been subjected to in Melinda’s condo replay in Technicolor behind his lids.

  “Fuck her!” he roared. “And the fucking horse she rode in on, fuckin’ bitch.”

  He screeched out into the deserted street and punched it, not giving a single thought to any cops hiding out nearby. The speedometer needle obliged him by caressing seventy miles an hour through darkened city streets. Without making a conscious decision, he two-wheeled it around a corner and onto the old road to Lucasville, eschewing the interstate.

  Drowning his whirling thoughts with a too-loud stereo, mentally acknowledging that he shouldn’t be driving that fast on a winding two-lane road, still legally drunk, he hung his arm out the driver’s side window and sang, badly, along with Nine Inch Nails. Keeping a light touch on the wheel, he took each curve faster and faster, justifying it by claiming in his head that, for all intents and purposes, he had the route memorized. He’d driven it hundreds if not thousands of times in the past, sometimes alone, many times with his high school girlfriend.

  Wild, irrational laughter burst out of his mouth, scaring him but relieving some of the tightness and stress in his spine and neck. He laughed a
nd laughed and by the time he careened into Antony’s driveway, spitting gravel behind him, his throat and chest hurt from sobbing.

  Goddamn my leg. Goddamn my focus on nothing but basketball. Goddamn Melinda, my holier-than-thou brothers, my meddling parents. Goddamn Cara for dumping me for no reason. Goddamn me.

  The car made a television-worthy roar when he flew over the berm surrounding the pond, and he went Dukes-of-Hazard-style airborne for a few minutes until the car made contact with the water so hard his head bounced against the steering wheel.

  Since when do I not wear a seatbelt? Dumbass. Dumbass. Dumbass...dumb....

  Then everything went dark.

  “Kieran! You idiot son of a bitch.”

  His face stung. His neck ached. He seemed to be encased in a fish tank or some other sort of watery, claustrophobia-inducing space.

  “Cut it out.” A jolt of agony sliced down his neck to his left shoulder, which had jammed against something hard. Attempting to shrink into his own skin to escape the pain, he had a flash of panic when water filled his nose and ears, making him splutter and cough.

  “Grab my hand.”

  He blinked, trying to sort out why in the hell he felt so cold and wet and why Antony was in the cold and wet place with him.

  “Come on, dude. Ambulance is on its way. Let me get you out of here.”

  “Don’t need ambulance,” he mumbled for no real reason as Antony hauled him out through the open window then let him go and he floated, serenely but for the agonizing pain in his head, neck, and shoulder. The velvety-black sky sparkled with pinpricks of light. The full moon filled a corner of his vision. Its calm, quiet perfection gave him a moment of regret as he dropped beneath the surface.

  He heard a muffled curse, and then Antony lifted him under his arms and jostled him to the side of the pond. Kieran landed with a hard thud that echoed so loud he figured his great-granddads in the old country heard it. He put a shaking arm over his face.