Takes Two to Tackle

by Jeanette Murray

  “You’re the one who came here. Mellie? Why don’t you head back to the main house and tell your mom your sister’s at a study group or something.”

  Mellie grumbled but stood. Stuffing a few more mints in her pocket, she left after sticking her tongue out at Irene. Or maybe Cassie. Or maybe both.

  “Pleasant” was Cassie’s comment when Mellie closed the door a bit too hard behind her. “Now talk. This is the third time this week your mother’s been over here demanding answers for something you’ve done. What’s going on?”

  “I’m just acting out my juvenile frustrations at the emotional upheaval of my family dynamic. Because of my still-developing frontal cortex, I am more prone to lashing out without thought to the consequences.” When Mags stared, she added, “I also attend therapy twice a week with Mellie.”

  That explained it.

  “Talk, kiddo.” Cassie pointed a finger at the chair she’d left before. “Sit and talk. You can’t keep coming in here and expecting to just get pats on the head when you’re making poor choices. Last week, you skipped classes. Yes, I know, Deutsch sucketh, or whatever you said before. Don’t care.”

  “Bite me” was Irene’s succinct reply.

  “Hey,” Mags interjected, hoping to stop a bloodbath. “Irene, do you have a job?”

  Irene looked at her a moment, then shook her head. “Not supposed to.”

  “So . . . how do you get spending money?”

  “Allowance,” she said, in that duh tone teenagers were proficient in.

  “Huh.” Mags nodded slowly, letting her foot swing carelessly. “That must suck.”

  “Free money.” Temper cooling a little, Irene leaned on the arm of the chair Cassie had tried to get her to sit in. Cassie slid behind her sister, making the keep going motion with her hands. “Why would that suck?”

  “Well,” Mags said, thinking fast, “it’s free money, yeah. But you didn’t earn it.”

  Irene snorted.

  “Plus, I bet your parents hold it over your head a lot.”

  Brows furrowed, Irene thought for a moment. “Yeah . . . I guess.”

  “And that car you drive . . . probably your parents’ car, too. Right?”

  “How would I pay for one otherwise?” Looking completely confused by the prospect, Irene added, “That’s, like, twenty grand. Where would a kid get twenty grand, unless they were doing diaper commercials or dealing drugs or something?”

  “A car doesn’t have to cost that much. You could get a beater for, say, three thousand . . . not the hottest car in the school parking lot, but it would get you from here to there.” Her car might not even be worth that much, come to think of it. “Your money, your choice. It might not be pretty, but it’d be all yours.” Mags shrugged. “Just a thought.”

  Irene bit her lip a moment. “Kids my age work at fast-food restaurants. Or ice cream places. I don’t want people coming up and talking to me about Mom and Dad.”

  Fair point.

  “And Mom wouldn’t like it.”

  Another fair point.

  “What if I knew a job you could do and nobody would bother you, ever? I bet your parents wouldn’t mind, either, because it’s a really cool one, with an awesome boss.”

  Cassie snuck back in, looking intrigued over her sister’s shoulder.

  Irene looked skeptical. “No bosses are cool.”

  “They could be; you just haven’t met the right one.” Mags scooped up her keys from the table. “Come with me.”

  “But I have to . . .” Irene glanced at Cassie, who shooed her. “Okay. Whatever.”

  Whatever, Cassie mouthed at Mags as she glanced for confirmation that it was okay to take her sister with her, then rolled her eyes and grinned. “Just try to get her home before dinner. Not sure if I can keep Tabitha from blowing a gasket past that.”

  “No problem.” She found Irene standing beside her car, staring at it in horror. “Yup. You, too, could own a car like this.”

  “It’s ugly,” Irene said.

  “But it’s mine,” Mags pointed out, and climbed in the driver’s seat.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I don’t know how to clean a house,” Irene said an hour later, around a mouthful of one of Mrs. M’s cookies. “I’ve never even picked up my own room.”

  “That,” Mrs. M said as she poured a glass of milk, “is a complete shame. Everyone should know how to clean. It’s simply a privilege to hire it out. Why, you should be paying me for the chance to learn the art of domestic tidiness.”

  “Uh . . .” Cookie halfway to her mouth, Irene glanced at Mags for help. Margaret laughed.

  “She’s teasing. Mrs. M could clean her own house, and did for plenty of years, until I came along. She’s picky about who she lets in the house. Now, Mrs. M . . .” She took another cookie for herself from the platter on the kitchen island, swearing she would take a walk later to make up for it. “Irene here is going to be a senior¸ but she’s got quite the course load. In addition to that, her family situation is a bit . . . sticky right now. So from time to time, she might need to switch days she came over, due to moving and homework and such.”

  “Understandable. As long as she’s able to clean the same number of hours per week, when she gets them done is irrelevant to me.” With a wink, Mrs. M settled on a stool across from Margaret and Irene. “How were your grades junior year?”

  “Good.” A flush crept over her cheeks, and she ducked her head to look at her plate. “They were better first semester.”

  “I assume the upheaval at home has had an adverse effect on your academics. Is that why you’re in summer school?”

  “No.” Defiant, eyes flashing, she looked up now. “I’m not failing. Just not getting all As like I was. I’m not stupid.”

  “That much has been evident from the start. So I wonder why such a smart, clever girl like you is allowing herself to be outsmarted by life.”

  “I . . . what?” She took a gulp of milk. “Nobody’s outsmarting me. I just can’t control stuff. I can’t make my parents stay married.”

  “Oh, of course not, sweetheart. I never meant anything of the sort. See . . .” She paused, taking a cookie. Mags hid a grin behind her own glass of milk. Mrs. M was in her element. “You can only control yourself. The world could fall into chaos, but you have control over only what you do. Why did your grades slip?”

  “They just . . . did. I couldn’t concentrate.”

  “That’s a defeatist attitude, and not very wise. Try again.”

  Mags held her breath, waiting for the emotional teen to blow up at the elderly lady. Instead, she sighed, and her eyes watered. “It was hard.”

  “Hard how?” Reaching one delicate hand across the island, she rubbed over Irene’s forearm.

  “To focus on school stuff. With all the yelling,” Irene finished in a whisper. “I kept forgetting assignments and due dates, and I’d turn in things late.”

  Mrs. McGovern made sympathetic sounds, smoothing her paper-thin hand over Irene’s arm, patting every now and then. “I understand. Did you ask anyone for help?”

  “And tell them all about why I couldn’t focus?” Irene snorted. “That stuff goes straight into the papers. I can’t tell anyone that junk. My parents told me I’m not supposed to share that stuff with anyone. Ever.” She blinked. “Like now.”

  With a smile, Margaret’s old landlady settled back, hands cupped around her cup of coffee. “I’m sure you will take this with a healthy dose of skepticism, but I’m not a journalist, nor do I care to report all the gossip I learn throughout the day to any . . . blogs or vlogs or whatever you younger people are doing this week.” She took a sip of coffee, made a sound of pleasure, and smiled. “I’m too damn old to care.”

  Irene made a sound that was half sniffle, half laugh.

  “As it happens, I’ve been on a committee or two with your mother.” When Irene looked surprised, the landlady nodded. “I’ve met her a time or two, though she might not remember me. I guarantee, though, sh
e would believe it when I tell her you are in good hands. I can promise you this much . . . if you work for me, you’ll earn a decent wage. Not what Margaret was making,” she added, “but she was an experienced housekeeper. You’re still being broken in. I won’t mention you by name to anyone; I won’t share that you work here at all. And anything you say to me will be kept in the strictest of confidences. Think of me as your priest. If you need a soft place to land after a fight with your mother, with your boyfriend, with a teacher . . . my house will be open at any time for you, and you alone.”

  “My mom . . .” Irene looked at Mags, who nodded. “My mom has to say yes before I can work for you. I might have to drop German.”

  Mrs. M raised a thin brow at that. “German sucks.”

  Irene laughed hard enough to knock over her glass of milk. She rushed to the counter to get a paper towel, apologizing for the mess.

  “Not a worry. It’s good to have someone around again to laugh with. This one abandoned me,” she said, with a point and a wink at Mags.

  “I’m horrible.” With a grin of her own, Margaret finished her cup of milk and rinsed it out in the sink. “So what do you think, Irene?”

  The teen hesitated, fingers worrying the hem of her prep-school skirt. “I might be bad at it.”

  At that, Mrs. M scoffed. “Nobody was born knowing how to scrub a toilet. It’s simply a necessary skill. Shame you haven’t already learned. And if your mother would like to come over to ascertain if I am a threat to her daughter’s welfare, she is more than welcome. But when you come to work, you come alone. I don’t want your mother coming with you to hover. No . . . what are they called these days?” she asked Mags, making a twirling motion with her finger.

  “Helicopter parents.”

  “Yes, none of that nonsense in my house. You’re seventeen, and you can act like it. Do we have a deal?”

  Hesitating only a moment, Irene nodded. She shook the hand Mrs. M held out, then gasped when the frail lady pulled her into a hug.

  “There, now.” Closing her eyes a moment, she pulled back and cupped Irene’s face in her hands. “It will all turn out okay in the end.”

  Eyes watering once more, Irene nodded and stepped back. Mags tossed her the keys to the car, wanting to have a moment of privacy with Mrs. M. “Start the car, would ya? I’ll be there in a minute.”

  The teen hurried out, closing the door quietly behind her.

  “She’s in pain,” Mrs. McGovern said quietly. “An introvert with nowhere to turn for solitude.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. M.” She hugged the landlady gently. “You’re amazing.”

  “Without you around, I miss having the built-in company. It’s as much for my own good as it is for hers. I’m no fool.”

  “I’ll come with her the first few times and walk her through the process. You can’t pay me,” she warned quickly, “but I’ll make sure she doesn’t ruin anything and gets a good jump on the work. Help her see the pattern.”

  “Coming with her once is enough. I’m old enough and rich enough to not care if she damages anything. I can replace a rug or a dish. Let her figure it out on her own. She could use the confidence boost, that one.” Mrs. M walked her to the door. “How is your young man? Have you spoken with him lately?”

  “He’s . . . fine.” She had no clue. Stephen hadn’t called once. She knew Cassie had received one very rushed call from Trey. But her? Nada. “Very busy at camp. We’ll talk more when he gets back.”

  “Of course you will.” With another pat on the cheek, Mrs. M waved good-bye.

  “She’s cool,” Irene said after a few minutes of silence. “Where’d you find her?”

  “She saved me when I was eighteen and had nowhere to go.” With a grin, Mags turned to her. “Your turn.”

  ***

  “Getting pushed around again, Harrison!” The tackling coach walked over to where Stephen stood, hands on his knees, sucking wind. “What the hell is this, a tea party? Put some more damn meat on your bones or you’re gonna get steamrolled. I need a brick wall, not a flimsy cardboard box standing in the way of our QB.”

  “Sure, Coach.” He did his best to breath in through his nose, out through his mouth, but it wasn’t working. He’d been landed on too many times to count. Being out of breath at this point in practice wasn’t uncommon . . . but it was usually because he was tired of standing and wanted to sit down. His stamina was kicking ass. The rest of him, unfortunately, wasn’t.

  After another moment, the coach shook his head. “Go play with defense for a while. See if they can make some sense of you.”

  Matthew Peterson walked up, his dark brown skin glistening with sweat, dreads bouncing with each step. Stephen never understood exactly why the man risked having one pulled out of his scalp by keeping them longer than his shoulders, but admitted he’d look weird without them now.

  “You’re looking a little beat-up, man.” Hooking an arm around Stephen’s neck, he pulled him away from the offensive linemen and toward the defense. “Come hang out with us awhile. I think you’ll fit right in.”

  Stephen approached the defense with Matt, wondering if this was the start of something ugly. One group after another trying to get rid of him until he was sitting on the bench, and then ultimately snipped completely from the team.

  That fear fueled his fire to stay. If he had to push over a skyscraper to stay, he would. Feeling renewed energy, he straightened his shoulders. Beside him, Matt muttered, “There it is. Straighten the spine, man.”

  “Harrison.” Barry Williams, the defensive coach, nodded once in greeting. “Run a few with us. We’ve got Leeman standing in here as our opposing QB behind the pylons. You’ll note the red jersey, gentlemen. Tackle him, and you’ll regret it. Harrison, third in. Let’s see what your skinny ass can manage now.”

  A few guys chuckled but lined up to wait. In a game situation, he’d be face-to-face with some ugly son of a bitch breathing heavily, smelling like the bottom of a gym locker hamper, and making trash talk. For now, he was nose to nose with vinyl and plastic dummy tackles, which provided resistance without the real risk of injury in a full-contact tackle with other players.

  The coach yelled, “Ready!” and then a two count later, blew the whistle. Stephen pushed hard, angled his shoulders at just the right direction and slid through with barely a brush against his shoulders. He tapped Josh Leeman’s shoulder—taking care to not push hard while he ran by—and turned around to see where everyone else was.

  They were still standing by the tackle dummies, staring at him.

  Shit. He’d done something wrong. Well, what the hell did they expect, throwing him in here with no instruction? “Sorry, I—”

  “Sorry my ass.” Coach Williams came over and grabbed his shoulders in a grip so hard, he felt his joints cringe. Then he shook once. “Was that a fluke? Tell me it wasn’t a fluke.”

  “I, uh . . .” He glanced over the coach’s shoulder to Matt, who shrugged and grinned, lifting the bottom of his shirt to wipe his face free of sweat under his helmet. “I don’t know?”

  “Do it again. One to the right, but again.”

  Not entirely sure what was wrong, he lined up, waited for the whistle, then dove between the dummies and tapped Josh’s elbow as he prepared to make a break from the safety of the pocket.

  “Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch!” Coach Williams blew his whistle, hard, in three rapid successions. All around the field, groups of players conducting drills stopped and turned. Stephen felt his face burn. Jesus, were they going to make this big of an example of him? He made a mistake—maybe?—but did it have to be so public?

  “Mine!” he shouted at the offensive line coach. “I’m keeping him, and you can’t have him back!”

  The other coach only held his hands up, as if to say, So?

  “Welcome to the dark side,” Matt said, punching Stephen’s shoulder none too lightly. “We get to hand out candy and ass whoopings.”

  An hour later, exhausted but thrilled with it,
Stephen left the field with his new group. He couldn’t put up a huge block for Trey at his size anymore . . . but apparently he could slip through another team’s defensive cracks enough to sack a quarterback. At least, that was the hope. And that hope gave him the juice to get through practice, and then some.

  An assistant wearing a Bobcats polo approached him and handed him a folded piece of paper. “You’ve got a meeting in ten with Simon in conference room B.”

  “My schedule says I’ve got social media training,” Stephen corrected. “This is for someone else.”

  “No, it’s yours. It’s a change to your schedule. I’m just the delivery guy,” he added when Stephen wanted to argue some more. The younger man stepped away and headed back toward the main offices of training camp.

  “What’s up?” Josiah approached. “How was practice? Weird not seeing you as much.”

  “Yeah,” he said absently, unfolding the paper. On it was exactly what the assistant had said. “Looks like I have a date with Simon Poehler.”

  “Have fun with that. The guy is . . . interesting,” Josiah said simply. “See you tonight at dinner?”

  “Yeah,” he said again, not really hearing his friend. A private meeting with the PR manager was never a good thing. “See ya.”

  Ten minutes later, as freshened up as he could get without taking a shower, Stephen sat while Simon went over the list of things he would accomplish before the season truly started. They included, in a very exact order, interviews with an approved list of journalists to indicate his remorse for his previous actions, to explain his steps toward recovery, additional charity work beyond what was required of each player every season, an article written by himself—edited by Simon, naturally—on the pressures of alcohol for professional athletes and how to avoid it, and a couple of appearances not already booked, at places like libraries and other family-friendly locales.

  “The hope,” Simon said, waiting while Stephen perused the list, “is that we can use this, alongside other players’ positive news, to overshadow the unfortunate circumstance of Coach Jordan’s impending divorce.”