by Lynn Shurr
Howdy unfolded from his place on the lawn, his legs carrying him up to his six-foot height, three inches shorter than Joe, and not so broad in the shoulders. But, his thighs pulled the denim jeans tight, and his calf muscles strained the cloth. Cassie saw where Nell’s eyes had gone, too, that dirty old woman lusting after this young guy when she had Joe. Disgusting. How could she want anyone else?
“Okay, Tommy. Let me see your soccer kick.” Howdy tossed the boy the round, white ball well-scuffed with use.
“I thought we were gonna kick a football?”
“I started learning by kicking a soccer ball over and over again against a barn wall. It’s good practice. Show me what you got.”
Tommy placed the ball and stepped back a little, then gave it a good strong wallop that sent it crashing midway up the barn wall. Both girls took a turn, but even at this young age, anyone could see they would never be power kickers. Both were bitty like their mother and the aunt who donated the eggs for Joe to inseminate. The only thing inherited from their father appeared to be their curls and lovely brown eyes. Nell had brown eyes, too, but not nearly as beautiful as the dark chocolate shade of the Billodeauxs. Dean, who had his dad’s eyes and curled thick lashes, hung back by his mother’s chair until Joe arrived and rested his hands on Nell’s shoulders.
“Go on, son. Give it a try. A good quarterback understands all the positions and what they bring to the game. No better way to do that than experience it yourself.”
With that encouragement, Dean smacked the soccer ball a good one. It soared higher than Tommy’s try and rebounded with a vengeance. Cassie cringed a little for her boy. At seven, Dean Billodeaux showed an inborn, natural athleticism that would be hard to top at any age.
“What you want to go for is smooth and long, not so hard and bouncy, kiddo. Hit with your instep, not your toe,” Howdy said.
Right then and there, she could have thrown her arms around the kicker and kissed those ridiculous cinnamon freckles across the bridge of the man’s nose. One thing nice she could say about Dean, he took constructive criticism well having heard since birth to “man up” from his dad. The boy nodded and asked for another turn, but the kicker told him he’d only wanted to get a feel for their style before moving on to the football.
He started with a demonstration using the child’s plastic tee to hold the undersized football. Setting up way back, he approached the ball in three smooth steps: one forward, one to plant his left foot firmly, and then a smooth, solid kick off the instep of his athletic shoe that sent the small object soaring over the barn roof and tumbling down the other side. Most eyes followed the arc of the ball as if the audience sat in a large stadium and watched the extra point being scored. Cassie’s eyes stayed on the kicker, his head down, his arms extended into the air and one powerful leg stretched upward in balletic perfection, a beautiful sight to see.
And then, he became loose-limbed, grinning Howdy again. “A mighty small target to hit. Glad I didn’t flub it.”
“Golly!” Tommy led the pack of children around the barn to find and retrieve the ball like a pack of eager puppies being trained to hunt. Nell and Joe applauded. Cassie kept her hands locked in a tight knot. She would not give this hick any encouragement. She wanted Joe, Joe, Joe, no one else.
One of the girls returned with the football tucked tight against her flat chest since both boys attempted to steal it. Tiny but quick, she already knew how to protect what she had.
“That’s the way, Jude. Don’t let the guys strip the ball,” Joe shouted. “And she scores!”
Jude handed the football to Howdy and executed a prim princess curtsey as if she wore a ball gown and not jeans and sneakers, her triumphant demonstration of victory over her brothers. Then, practice began in earnest.
Howdy chalked the insteps of the children’s shoes and showed them after each kick where their foot should have hit in the right quadrant. Cassie thought Tommy did the best. The girls were feeble kickers, and Dean always approached the ball too aggressively and shanked it. Annie, the quietest of the Billodeaux kids, cried when she missed the ball altogether and sniffed, “I want to be a ballerina, anyhow.”
“They say punters and kickers are the ballerinas of football,” Howdy told her. He followed that comforting statement with a silly pirouette on the tips of his big toes that got them all laughing. Cassie couldn’t keep in the smile no matter how hard she tried. Okay, so he was a nice guy just as Nell said when she’d told her another guest would be coming. You could detect the fix-up in her words. Cassie guessed she preferred bad boys like Bijou and Joe before he became a devoted family man because she had a bad streak herself and wanted another woman’s husband.
Howdy coaxed Annie to try again. This time she managed to hit the broad side of the barn a few feet off the ground. The children continued to take turns until the early winter dusk descended and the cold air prickled their skin. The pro kicker sent one last ball over the barn for the fun of it and let the kids scramble for its return. This time Dean brought back the ball with Tommy shadowing behind him as he so often did.
Cassie hugged her son and whispered too low for the other children to hear, “You were the best, the very best.” She did not lie. Dean and Jude always kicked too hard and Annie too soft. Her boy performed perfectly. He beamed at her, so proud.
She swallowed her hostility and forced herself to walk over to where Howdy waited by his shiny, new red truck with the double cab and extended bed, much like the one Joe used at the ranch. Nell had gone to make up a box of leftovers for which the cowboy said he would be “mighty obliged.” Did anyone actually talk that way, like the star in an old western movie?
“Thanks for teaching Tommy to kick. Dean is such a natural leader sometimes my son gets left his the dust. I thought he did really, really well. Joe might be right about his not being built for football, so this means a lot to him.”
The cowboy shrugged and leaned his length back against the truck’s cab. “Once the football coach tapped me, my grandpa built me a regulation goalpost in the cornfield. I had a talent for kicking, but I practiced all year round in wind and snow and into the sun to get better in all conditions. Drop a word and I’ll bet Joe would build the right-sized goalpost for Tommy, too. The good thing is kickers tend to have long careers and don’t get beat up as much—even if we are only glorified soccer players. If that doesn’t work out, plenty of other careers to choose from in this big, wide world, ma’am.”
She had the grace to blush again and apologize. “I am sorry I was so rude. You are a vital part of the team. What will you do when you are done playing? Coach other kickers?”
Another loose-shouldered shrug. “Maybe, but I do have a degree in psychology. I thought I might counsel troubled boys.”
“Really? I’m getting my master’s in psychology. I thought I’d like to work with troubled girls.”
He showed no surprise, nor had he about her being Tommy’s birthmother. Probably, Nell filled him in before introducing them. He hadn’t cringed or lost interest because she had an illegitimate son the way some men did. A nice guy and kinda cute.
He gave her that ear-to-ear grin. “Maybe we could go into practice together. Ma’am.”
That raised her temper. “Cut that out! Call me Cassie.”
“So we’re friends now? Friendly enough for you to give me your phone number and maybe go out on a date?”
Panic fluttered inside her like the huge flock of starlings rising into the blue-black evening sky from the fallow cane field across the bayou. Push him away, push him away right now, or you will never be held in Joe’s safe arms. Her mind scrambled for the words to fend him off and they came to her all at once. Something Joe had said very offhand about the Sinners’ punter, Brian Lightfoot.
“Oh, I thought you were gay! I mean you room with Brian Lightfoot, and I understand he’s…” She fluttered her hand back and forth.
Howdy took a turn at blushing and did it very well. “Only on the road. I mean, I’m not g
ay anytime. The kicker always rooms with the punter. I have my own place, a condo, same building where Joe has his, not the penthouse though, but still real nice.” He stumbled on, all of his cool evaporating like dry ice exposed to the air. “Honest to God, I’m not gay.”
“Are you sure? For a man, you are very graceful.”
“Only when I’m kicking. Otherwise, I’m a real klutz.”
“You know what they say about psychology majors—they’re trying to work out their own problems.”
“Maybe I do have some problems, but my sexual identity isn’t one of them. And how about you, Miss Going for her Masters? You must have twice the problems I do.”
Nell got between them, running interference with a plastic bag clutched in her hand. “Here you go, Howard. I put a couple of steaks in there and some baked potatoes, a sack of the veggies, and little containers of my yogurt topping and Joe’s steak sauce. Did you really like it?”
“Sure. I don’t lie about important things—like steak sauce. Just needs to be taken with a little moderation. You surely know how to make a man feel at home, Nell. Thanks for inviting me.” He climbed into the high cab with ease, giving Cassie one last glimpse of his fine, tight ass. To her, he said before he slammed the truck’s heavy door, “Evening, ma’am.”
A gay guy might covet that ass, and a straight girl could appreciate it every bit as much. Cassie exhaled with relief as he drove away.
Nell said all eager and excited, “Isn’t Howard McCoy the nicest young man ever? Cute, too, and the way he has with children. He won’t be single long. What do you think of him?”
“I think I will never see that man again.”
FOUR
Howard McCoy left Joe’s Lorena Ranch and Chapelle, Louisiana in a cloud of dust and a mighty roar of his truck’s engine. He breezed through Morgan City and across the swampy region south of there that brought him out on I-10 and back to New Orleans again. All the way, he muttered, “She thinks I’m gay,” and ran a mental inventory of any characteristics making Cassie Thomas think that. Other than having to room with Brian Lightfoot, he couldn’t think of a thing, but men saw stuff like that differently. He should ask Brian. No! The last thing he should do was pal with the punter.
Gregory, the doorman at the condos, raised his eyebrows when Howdy pounded through the front doors without waiting for him to open them. Mumbling under his breath, the kicker stalked by swinging a white plastic bag and gave him only a curt nod instead of the usual cordial greeting. At the elevator, Howdy turned back and pressed a dollar into the concierge’s hand.
“Thank you, sir, but I’ve done nothing for you.”
“Back home when I was a kid, we had a cuss jar. If Grandpa or me said a bad word, we put a quarter in the jar. Tonight, you are my cuss jar. I figured for inflation.”
“I do appreciate the tip, but you did not swear at me, sir.”
“I did. You just didn’t hear me. Don’t make it right as Grandma would say. Tell me, Gregory, do I seem gay to you?”
Gregory took the requests of his patrons very seriously. He gave Howdy a good once over and back again, shook his head. “No, not at all, though your western demeanor might be attractive to men of that persuasion. You know in a Midnight Cowboy, Brokeback Mountain sort of way.”
“Thanks, I needed to hear that. Evening, Gregory.” He returned to wait for the elevator. As the doors slid soundlessly open, someone called, “Hold it for me, Howdy.” He winced without turning, got inside, and held the button down to wait for the new arrival because that was the way Grandma had raised him. “Always be polite, Howie. Polite goes a far way in getting along with people.”
He got along with everyone including Brian Lightfoot who had just invaded his space. Joe put in a word for both of them with the condo board. Now, Howdy had a place two floors beneath Joe’s city penthouse and two flights above Brian Lightfoot’s apartment. Inevitable they would run into each other frequently, sometimes share rides to and from practice, but they didn’t room together!
“So, how went the day at Joe’s ranch?” Lightfoot inquired.
The man did have a beautiful, flawless smile, a smooth olive complexion, liquid dark eyes, and artfully tousled black curls. Shorter and slimmer than McCoy, he exuded a fruity scent of cologne into the small space. Howdy hesitated to inhale too deeply lest the punter think he enjoyed the aroma and bought him a bottle. Brian had a reputation for being a generous and spontaneous giver of gifts often accepted rather reluctantly by the straight men on the team.
“Fine,” Howdy answered shortly, keeping a good space between them.
“Not so fine, then. I’ve gotten to know you well, Howard McCoy, after all those days we spent together on the road. Something has you ‘riled’ as you would say in your charmingly old-fashioned way. I am here to listen, all ears, really.”
“You don’t know me that well!”
“Give me a try.” Brian smirked suggestively.
“See, that’s why she thinks I’m gay, that right there.”
“Ah, a woman of course. I might have known. They can be such bitches. Tell your friend Bri all about it. Was it Joe’s wife? I can’t imagine Nell bringing up the subject, especially with all those children hanging around.”
He wanted to spill to Brian, he really did. The youngest man on the Sinners’ team, a replacement for the venerable and legendary Ancient Andy Mortenson, he didn’t quite feel like one of the gang yet. The punter, starting a couple of years before him, had settled in as well as any kicker with the rest of the team. A lot of the guys actually thought of these special team players as only one step up from the soccer field just like Cassie. Not Joe. Joe treated everyone equally, though he could show temper if anyone of them failed to deliver during a game.
“Joe and Nell introduced me to this girl, young lady, woman, tall, slim but with a—a…”
“Big rack?”
“Nice bosom and sorta reddish-blonde hair.”
“Strawberry blonde.”
“I guess. Well, she took a dislike to me before I could say howdy and stomped off to sit under a tree.”
“What? She didn’t immediately fall for your rustic charm? A suggestion, try practicing ‘hello, nice to meet you’ instead of saying ‘howdy’ to everyone. That’s how you got your nickname which will stick to you forever unless you stop saying it.”
The door opened on Brian’s floor. He held the button to keep the elevator from moving. “Stop by my place, and I will give you a few more pointers.”
The heat of a blush climbed the column of Howdy’s long neck and suffused his face. “She thinks I’m gay because I room with you on the road, so this isn’t going to help. Cassie is really homophobic. Kept taking verbal swipes at me all through dinner.”
“Tell Uncle Brian how you responded to that.”
“I handled it like trash talk. You know when a guy on the other team says, ‘I’m coming to get you, Howdy, and break that pretty leg of yours.’ I say, ‘Try it. The Sinners have the best protectors in the league. You’re the one who will end up in the hospital.’ Then, I put it behind me and go on about my business.”
Brian gave him an arch smile. “So you told this be-otch you would put her in the hospital?”
“No, no! Don’t be ridiculous. I paid her some pretty hot compliments like I heard Joe would do back in the day. That shut her down. After I taught her son how to kick, she became downright friendly.”
“Nice move. You can always get to a broad through their kid.”
“Hey, I like teaching kids kicking, but how would you know about broads, women, I mean?”
“Let’s say I’m not exclusive in my tastes. Now stop being silly, come to my place, have some wine, and we’ll work this out.
“I don’t think so.”
The elevator bell dinged, someone else demanding its use on another floor.
“Howdy, did I ever hit on you?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m not trying to seduce you now. Come along. That�
�s probably the grande dame on the ninth floor. Any minute now, she’s going to call Gregory and say the elevator is out of order. You don’t want to enrage her. She already hates having the building and I quote, ‘overrun with athletes of questionable moral character.’ Don’t give her more ammunition to have us tossed out.”
Howdy stepped into the small, marble-floored and perfectly maintained foyer. A spindly table held a golden urn filled with two dozen obscenely beautiful cream and pink-edged hothouse roses, each one perfectly formed and in the act of unfolding to reveal its tight inner core like the labia of a naked woman.
“Hey, how come I don’t have flowers in my entry?” Howdy questioned.
“I pay extra for them. After a hot, sweaty practice, I like to be welcomed home by a pleasant scent and a beautiful form.”
“Okay, I think I can do without the flowers.”
Brian unlocked his door and stood aside to let Howdy pass. The kicker took a few long strides into the center of the room, but hesitated to sit on the white microfiber sofa or sully the sheepskin rug under the glass-topped coffee table with his dirty sneakers.
“Sit,” Brian ordered. “What do you have in the bag?”
“Leftovers. The thickest steaks you ever did see, baked potatoes, some of Joe’s steak sauce and Nell’s yogurt topping. Want some?”
“That would call for a nice pinot noir.” Brian made a graceful pivot toward the wine rack sitting on the breakfast bar and took down two inverted glasses from an overhead rack. He selected, opened, and poured a bottle with panache. “We’ll allow that to breathe while I heat up the steak and potatoes in the microwave. Let’s dine here at the bar. Hand over the food.”
“Okay.” Howdy took a seat atop a red leather and chrome stool while Brian fussed in the kitchen getting out utensils and plates, disrobing the potatoes from their foil wrappings, and popping them into the microwave.
“Talk while I cook,” Brian directed.
“So, this girl thinks I’m gay because I have to room with you on the road. Do I look gay to you?”
