My Foolish Heart

by Susan May Warren

  “Who are you? What happened to the Sebanator?”

  “He retired.”

  And when she searched his eyes, nothing in them disagreed.

  “Seb, I don’t want you to do this for me. I—I’m not going to be responsible for you giving up your dreams—”

  “It’s not my dream.”

  “You aren’t a quitter.”

  He flinched, but she didn’t take her eyes from his.

  Finally he said, “No. No, I’m not. But it’s not my dream anymore.” He ran his thumb down her cheek. “You are. And you always have been. I didn’t come back to Deep Haven to coach. I came for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes. You brought me home.”

  She pressed her cheek into his hand. She’d brought the golden boy home. “Then do me a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “I want you to win me one last game.”

  He looked at her, then glanced at the field. Raised his hand to the ref. “Time-out!”

  * * *

  Caleb just wanted to walk—or in his case, limp—off the field and head for home. Or perhaps the state border. He pasted a smile on his face whenever he glanced at Issy, of course, but . . .

  The entire town had seen him fall. And now they’d watch Brewster’s team walk all over him.

  He could only imagine what the school board might be saying.

  “It’s a fake! They’re taking it around the end—watch your containment!” He refrained from slamming his clipboard to the ground, but Seb’s team had advanced up the field like they might be the marching band. The Knights held them at the twenty-eight-yard line on the second down, but with less than two minutes left on the clock, Seb could score a field goal and wrap up the game.

  And then Caleb could pack his bags.

  He could just about grind his molars into dust thinking about landing on that turf, seeing it in slow motion as the world rose up to slam into him, as the cool air separated the suction from his leg.

  He should have worn his athletic prosthesis, but of course his pride had throttled his common sense. Why had he ever thought that keeping secrets . . . ?

  Although he had to give himself credit for standing on the sideline for two entire quarters when all he wanted to do was dematerialize into the dark night that had descended on the field.

  Except for Issy, he might have. Issy, standing beside him like some sort of cheerleader, cheering, screaming, believing in him, in his team.

  And Ryan, running every play he threw at him with everything he had in him. Oh, give him two more weeks with these boys and they wouldn’t miss tackles, wouldn’t drop the ball. A month, and they’d be able to read each other’s thoughts. By next season, he might even have them winning division titles. Okay, that might be ambitious, but—

  “Reverse! Reverse!”

  Thank you, Merritt. The defense shoveled the ball handler down on the line of scrimmage.

  And Seb was sending out his field goal team.

  “Wow, that Riley kid can kick. He’s going to be great on special teams.” Issy looked at Caleb as the ball sailed through the uprights for three points.

  And the way she looked at him . . . Truly, he’d imagined this moment, her standing on the sideline—although, frankly, he’d prefer her in the stands because she made him nervous, the way the wind reaped her scent, driving him a little crazy. And he had to stick his free hand in his pocket to keep from pushing her hair from her face, maybe curling one of those dark locks around his finger.

  Caleb nodded at her assessment of the kicker and glanced across the field at the Brewsters. Seb stood in the middle, the other coaches on the side. Lucy stood on a bench behind them.

  Six-nine, Brewsters, with 1:49 left on the clock.

  The Knights returned the kickoff to their own forty-eight.

  “What should we do, Coach?” Ryan snapped the chin strap on his helmet.

  “Twenty-two dive, up the gut.” A standard run play through the middle of the line. McCormick might get two yards.

  “Why are you doing that?” Issy looked at him. “You have less than two minutes on the clock. Do a flea-flicker or a reverse. We need to trick them. It’s getting desperate.”

  Desperate, yes. And he was fresh out of game-changing plays.

  “How about a draw?”

  “They don’t know those yet.”

  “What do they know?”

  “Basic power plays, a few running routes.”

  “How about a sweep play?”

  “How about you let me call the game?”

  She gave him an I’m-sorry face as the Knights gained two yards.

  He called a sweep play because she was right. McCormick put up five more yards.

  Less than a minute, with the Knights stuck on the Brewsters’ forty-five, still out of range of the field goal.

  He had nothing. They needed a deep pass or some sort of flashy play that might spin Seb’s team in a circle, but he had nothing he could show his team during a one-minute time-out and have them successfully execute.

  “We’re going to lose this game, Issy.” He kept his voice quiet. “I’m sorry.”

  She stared at him, and the expression on her face, her soft words, drove the roar of the crowd from his thoughts. “Use my dad’s play.”

  No. The minute her father’s crazy play had left her mouth, he knew. He couldn’t use it. Not and be taken seriously. The Quarterback Chaos? Only one coach could pull that off and not be laughed out of the high school football league. That was Presley’s play, not his.

  “No, Issy. I can’t use that.”

  “Why not?

  “For one, it’s your dad’s play—”

  “He gave it to you to use.”

  “And two, it’s crazy. It barely feels legal.”

  “Oh, it’s legal. I promise it’s legal because when he won with it, the state high school football league analyzed it from every angle. It’s legal. And you’ll win.”

  He looked out at Ryan, who watched him for the signal.

  “Don’t you want to win?”

  He drew a breath. “Not like this.”

  “Why not?”

  He shook his head. “It feels—”

  “Like you need help. This is my father’s signature play, and you feel like you’re weak, like you’re asking for my dad’s help, and the entire town will see it.”

  He looked away from her.

  “Listen, my dad gave you this play because he believes in you and wants you to win, Caleb. Receive his gift. Let him help you.”

  Receive. Unless I wash you, you won’t belong to me.

  He looked up again at Ryan, now nearly desperate as he glanced at the game clock, and signaled a time-out.

  * * *

  Seb had to admit that he’d never had so much fun at a football game. Back when he played, he had a sort of coiled steel in his gut, the kind that wound tighter as the quarters ticked by. Even when he won, the coil only slowly worked its way free until he could breathe sometime around Sunday.

  Not tonight. Tonight he watched football like a fan, feeling the thrill of the game in his bones. Yes, he could enjoy the sideline, especially with his boys fighting for their win. They’d actually earned those three points.

  This just might be his favorite game ever. Especially with Lucy standing on the bench behind him, screaming for his team in a wildest-dreams-come-true kind of moment.

  Knight called a time-out and Seb reeled his boys in.

  They grabbed water bottles from Lucy, and Seb crouched in front of them. “We’re going to take Johnson off the line and move him into a defensive back position. They only need three yards for the first down, but they’re running out of time, so they’ll probably go for a passing play. With five defenders in the backfield, that should stop them.”

  Lucy stuck her head into the middle. “Free donuts for the whole team if you stop them, boys.”

  See, this was why he couldn’t be Coach. This kind of incentive and his playe
rs would roll down the field. “Stop ’em, boys,” he echoed and sent them back out to the field.

  “Since when did you become such a football fanatic?”

  “I was always a football fanatic.” She grinned at him. “Go Brewsters!”

  Yes, he might have enjoyed coaching, with Lucy in the stands cheering. But even better would be sitting beside her, her tiny hand tucked in his. That was enough glory for him.

  The Knights came out and lined up with three wide receivers on one side. His defensive backs adjusted. Ryan lined up, called the first hut.

  Then Ryan stood and yelled toward Caleb, “Coach! McCormick doesn’t know this play! Coach!”

  Seb saw it happening before his eyes, and the familiarity registered, niggled something inside, but he couldn’t find the words fast enough.

  Ryan, in motion, began to jog toward the outside of the line, as if running to talk to the coach.

  Bewildered, his defense eased their stance.

  No—no—wait!

  Seb opened his mouth just as the running back called the hike and the center passed the ball to him, putting it into play. Ryan jerked into motion, cutting downfield toward the end zone, arms pumping.

  Seb found the words then, nearly ran out onto the field as he—and Bam and DJ, who also recognized the play—screamed, “It’s a trick play! Pass! Pass!”

  And pass McCormick did—a deep, end-over-end albatross that found a home in the unprotected arms of Jared Ryan. He clutched the pigskin to his body as he ran it the easy ten yards into the end zone.

  Quarterback Chaos. Coach Presley’s championship play.

  And just like ten years ago, the crowd went crazy. A wild frenzy as they—like Bam and Deej and even Seb—realized that Coach Presley had bequeathed his winning play to Caleb Knight.

  The rightful new coach of the Huskies.

  The game clock hit zero and Knight’s team descended on their coach. For the second time that day, they carried him across the field.

  Seb reached for Lucy’s hand, and they sat together on the bench, watching his team trot in to meet Caleb, watching the stands empty, watching the lights flicker on the chewed-up field.

  “Great game, Seb,” Lucy said, raising her sweet smile, those eyes he could find himself inside.

  Yes, yes it was.

  21

  It made perfect sense, of course. Caleb in no way blamed Mitch for showing up on his doorstep, his hands shoved all the way into his pockets as he said, “Sorry, Caleb. It’s just not going to work out—the coaching position or the teaching gig.”

  He didn’t offer any more than that, but Caleb did the math himself.

  The school board had added up the limitations of a disabled football coach, the extra staff he might require to get the job done; then they’d simply subtracted from his job application the word character.

  He could fight them, probably even win on grounds of discrimination. But this wasn’t about his leg. He shouldn’t have lied to them. No, he hadn’t exactly denied his situation, but he hadn’t revealed it either.

  Still, no one could steal the victory of watching Ryan run the ball into the end zone, knocking those last six points on the board. And he’d never forget the image of Seb going berserk across the field as he recognized Presley’s play.

  Seb would land the coaching job, but Caleb would take with him the admiration he saw in his players’ eyes.

  Next time—if he ever got a next time—he’d lay his cards on the table and still prove himself. He rubbed Roger’s ears, letting the dog slurp his chin. “You take care of her for me, okay, dude? Until I can figure this out.”

  He bit back the grimy ball lodged in his throat at the memory of Issy’s hand laced in his, her smile for him as he’d called the last play.

  In that moment, when he’d stood in the moist grass, listened to the roar of the crowd, watched the team victory-tackle Ryan, he’d . . . belonged. The team charged at him, scooping him up. As he slapped their helmets and drank in their joy, he knew he could belong to this town. These people.

  This life.

  And to Issy.

  By the time he exited the school, she’d left. He returned home to the light in her window. He caught only the last five minutes of her show and just about called in. “Hey, Miss Foolish Heart, can I come over, watch the stars with you?”

  Instead he’d watched the game tape, conjuring up drills and feedback for the next practice. Foolishly believing that the school board would choose him.

  Caleb rubbed the dog around his jowls one last time. He’d rented the house through Labor Day weekend, and then maybe he’d take his brother up on the extra couch where he could crash. He’d find a tide-over job until next spring, when he could start searching for another coaching job.

  The lump in his throat had the power to choke him.

  With a job, he might have stayed, just been the local psychology teacher. Maybe.

  Roger got up and whined at the door for freedom, so Caleb pushed himself off the sofa, his knee so swollen from yesterday’s wrenching that today he’d opted for crutches.

  He hopped over to the door and opened it to let Roger out. “Say hi to her for me.”

  “Say hi to whom?”

  Seb stood at the door, looking whole and undefeated in a black T-shirt, a pair of cargo shorts, and running shoes. He moved out of the way as Roger barreled through. “Hey, I had a pal who had a dog that big. He used to come and sleep on my porch when he was a pup.”

  “It’s not my dog. He just showed up.”

  “Funny. Looks a lot like Weatherby. But he was killed my senior year in high school. Tore up the entire town. Everybody knew Weatherby. He’d turn up on your doorstep, lick you until you cried mercy. We used to say he was the Deep Haven welcoming committee.”

  “I don’t know who Roger belongs to. He just shows up and I feed him. Then he goes to Issy’s house.” Indeed, the dog disappeared around the end of Issy’s fence, probably having made his own private entrance again.

  “Great game last night.” Caleb held back the rest, the part that bit at him, the voice that wanted to ask, “Did you come here to gloat?”

  But he understood, really. Who wouldn’t want a coach who’d been a part of the glory days, a coach who could inspire—even help heal this town?

  Seb was the perfect choice. Caleb nearly held out his hand to offer his congratulations when Seb propped his foot in the screen door, folded his arms over his chest. “We barely hung on by our teeth. You did a good job whipping your boys into shape.”

  “They’re hard workers, but you have some real talent on your team. The hands on that Samson kid? Wow.”

  Seb nodded. “He’ll do a good job for you.” He delivered the words so easily, so believably that Caleb could only stare at him.

  “What? I didn’t get the job. Didn’t they give it to you?”

  “I didn’t want it. I . . . well, I’m not a coach. I love the game, and I’d love to help with drills, maybe eventually work up to an offensive coordinator.” He shrugged. “But I’m not the coach of the Huskies.”

  So if they hadn’t given it to Seb . . .

  They simply didn’t want him.

  Caleb exhaled, a long breath that razored through him. They didn’t want him.

  Oh, he’d like to blame it on his scars, his disability, but clearly . . .

  They didn’t want him.

  A muscle pulled in Seb’s jaw. “They didn’t give it to you?” He shook his head, his eyes hard. “You’re a great coach, Knight. I’m really sorry to hear that. I don’t know why—”

  “I do.” He lifted his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have tried to dodge the truth. I should have told them.” He glanced at his missing leg, the fabric dangling below his amputation.

  “Why? I don’t see anything wrong with wanting to prove yourself. I should have tried harder to prove myself rather than ride in on number 10. You gave it everything you had, and frankly, we could all use a little Caleb Knight in us.”

 
He would have enjoyed playing for the Sebanator.

  “So what’s next?”

  “I have a brother in the Cities. He’s got an empty sofa.”

  Seb’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “I don’t think so.”

  It took a beat for Caleb to respond. “I don’t have a job, Seb.”

  “Yeah, me neither. But I got a girl.” He grinned. “And unless I’m wrong, you do too. Or wasn’t that Issy standing with you on the sidelines yesterday?”

  He noted that Seb tactfully omitted the wipeout in the end zone.

  “You know, she had a rule not to date football players.” Seb winked at him. “Don’t quit at fourth and goal.”

  I’m not going to let you go, Issy.

  Oh, he wanted to stay, but not in a town that didn’t want him, a town that didn’t need him.

  Seb glanced past him. “Where’s your leg?”

  “Why?”

  “You’re going to need it. I need help on a project.”

  Seb’s tone had changed, and for a moment, Caleb imagined himself back in the huddle, receiving a play.

  “What kind of project?”

  “My team and I are putting a hole in the donut shop. A little something for Lucy.”

  “Your team?”

  “Some of the guys from town. We were wondering if you’d help.”

  “I don’t know how helpful I’ll be, since, well, I’ve got this bum leg.”

  Seb rolled his eyes. “Excuses, excuses.”

  Caleb backed up, gesturing Seb inside. “Are there donuts involved?”

  “Could be.”

  Caleb looked out past him, to the glorious blue sky, his white truck in the driveway, Issy’s house, quiet and dark.

  “I guess I could do what I can.”

  “That’ll be just fine, Coach. Welcome to the team.”

  * * *

  Issy could smell victory in the Saturday morning air, in the bright sunshine heating the front porch, in the scent of fresh-cut grass across the street. It all screamed football.

  And today, she’d see her father. Yesterday’s game had stirred to life something inside her she’d thought dead. The image of herself, confident, strong, the woman she’d started out as.

  The woman she would still be.

  She had debated asking Caleb to join her, but perhaps this trip she needed to make alone.