Music and dinner are all that’s on my mind as I sit at the stoplight until I see a group of boys running around a field at the park beside me. In the three rounds of green, yellow, red, I haven’t even made it to the light’s white line, but my heart’s already beating just a little too hard.
It looks like a football practice, or what’s supposed to be one. There are probably twelve boys out there, around eight or nine years old, I’d guess, not that I’m good at judging kids’ ages. But they’re goofing around with a pigskin, playing more keep-away than running plays.
I remember being that small, just learning the ropes and enjoying every minute of it. Coaches yelling advice, Dad proudly clapping me on the back when I did well, and Mom cheering from the sidelines. We were so little, there weren’t even bleachers, just foldable camping chairs the parents would set out to watch us play. It was picturesque and easy, and the bulk of my childhood centers around those happy memories.
I learned a lot on those fields in the early days, lessons that carried me through puberty and later, through high school in ways both good and bad. Football gave me a focus, a drive, and made me who I am. I hope for the same for those random boys.
A sentimental smile crosses my face, two in one day, which is probably a record for me. But it’s premature because in the next instant, I see two of the bigger boys tackle one of the smaller guys. He goes down hard, and it was definitely not a clean hit or a good fall. To add insult to injury, I see one of the tackling boys, a blonde-haired lanky kid, dig a toe into the other kid’s side.
Not just dirty but mean.
It shouldn’t be like that. Not at that age, not ever. If you’re not good enough to earn the win, take the L and do the work to deserve it next time.
I blink, and I’m pulling into the parking lot of the park, marching across the field. “Hey! You! What the hell are you doing?”
Who said that?
Well, shit. Guess that was my grumbling voice calling out Mr. Kicks-A-Lot. The kid looks like he’s about to piss himself, which would serve him right.
I lean over and set the smaller kid back on his feet. He’s got dark hair, which he shoves out of his face revealing big, frosty blue eyes that’ll serve him well with the ladies later in life.
“You all right, kid?” His lower lip trembles, and I realize belatedly that it might be partially from the tackle and partially because I’m a scary looking motherfucker. Especially to someone his size.
I bend down, taking a knee and pulling my shoulders in to round them. It’s as small and unimposing as I can get. I even smile to soften the fear factor I cause.
“It’s okay, you ain’t in trouble. But those shits might be.”
I throw an arched eyebrow to the other kid, who’s standing with his buddy-slash-partner in crime. While my attention was focused on the little guy, Kicks-A-Lot is digging down and finding his attitude, judging by the sneer on his face. He kinda reminds me of Brody in a four-foot-tall sort of way.
Little Guy sniffles once, but it turns into a sort of laugh. “You can’t say that.” I look at him questioningly. He shakes his head, the laughter blooming a little louder. “You can’t say the S word.”
I do honestly grin at that. Out of everything that just went down, getting tackled, kicked, and having some random guy step in to save his ass, he’s worried about my language.
Mama Louise would like this kid, I think to myself.
“Uh, sorry. Just wanted to make sure you were all right. Saw what happened, and that’s not all right.” I say the last bit over my shoulder, accompanying it with a glare at Kicks-A-Lot.
Little Guy nods like a bobblehead. “I’m good. Johnathan’s just mad that I can actually create a play, not just go where I’m told like a dog. Woof, woof!”
He smirks at Kicks-A-Lot, I mean Johnathan, like a badass. Little Guy’s got big brass ones, I’ll give him that. Something tells me it’s not because he’s got me for backup, either. If I had to guess, judging by the prepubescent testosterone floating through the air, Little Guy might’ve earned that tackle. Just a little bit.
And don’t that just change the whole situation.
“I’m Bruce. What’s your name?” I ask him, not sure what I plan to do with the information, but it seems like the proper thing to do.
“Cooper, but most folks call me Coop.” He shrugs like he kinda wishes he hadn’t said that part.
Johnathan’s buddy pipes up, “Because you’re a chicken, Coop. Bok, bok, bok.” Several of the kids laugh at that and Coop flushes. No, not Coop, because that ain’t right if they’re nicknaming him to be cruel.
I turn my full attention to the gaggle of boys, stroking my beard like I’m thinking mighty hard about something. “Seems to me that the only chickens here are you bunch. Cooper,” I say his full name with a bit of extra emphasis, “took a hit and got up swinging, verbally, at least. Took the whole lot of you to mob up on one little guy. That don’t seem much like the chicken you’re talking about.”
They look suitably chastised, a couple of them even rubbing their toes in the dirt. But I’m not done. “Besides, you wanna know a secret?”
Twelve sets of eyes look at me with curiosity and I swear a couple of them lean in. I lower my voice like I’m imparting great knowledge, rumbling, “Chickens are mean as hell. They’ll peck your hands even as you’re feeding them. Yep, mean little things.”
I nod sagely, pointing at some of the rough scars on my working hands. None of them are really from chickens, but these kids don’t know that.
“My brother’s got a whole flock of them, and a rooster too. He’ll wake you up long before the sun even peeks over the horizon, and his girls lay enough eggs that she can feed our whole family breakfast every day. All the while pecking the sh-stuffing outta ya.”
I correct my language at the last second, thinking Mama Louise would be proud.
Somewhere from my left, a voice cracks out, “How many eggs is that? You got a big family or a small one?”
I tap my temple, winking. “Smart question, kid. I guess it’s a big family, but mostly because we’re all big guys and big eaters. There’s six of us like me, my sister, two other women, and one of them’s got a baby but she don’t eat much yet, and then Mama Louise. So we get enough eggs for ten people to eat breakfast, I reckon.”
Rattling off the attendance roster of breakfast brings home just how much my life has changed in the last few months, because damned if it doesn’t seem like those folks are something to me. Maybe not family, exactly, not really, but I’d do anything for Mama Louise and most things for the rest of the Bennett boys, which is a far cry from our previous pointless feud that was based on Dad’s whims. I’m glad that’s done and over with, even if it took his passing to make things right.
The same kid whistles. “That is a big family. You say you got brothers the same size as you?”
I can feel those same sets of eyes measuring me, so I go ahead and broaden my shoulders back out but keep my lower profile on my knee. “Well, let’s be real, there’s not a lot of folks as big as me. But my brothers are close enough.”
They laugh like that was funny. I guess it might’ve been. “Hard to believe that once upon a time, I was as small as you guys.” I hold my arms out wide, showing off my wingspan and the big paws attached to my wrists. “Eat your veggies, work hard, play right, and you can be a big motherfu— I mean, a big guy like me one day.”
The boys start flexing, working their lungs more than their biceps as they hold their breath and try to show off to one another. And to me, I realize with a hint of humor.
From across the field, a voice calls out. “Hey, guys, I’m here.”
I look up to see a thirty-something-looking guy hustling across the field, eyes locked on me. “Who’s that?” I ask the kids.
Cooper says from beside me, “Coach Mike. He’s Evan’s dad.”
There’s the smallest, tiniest hitch beneath the words, something most folks probably wouldn’t even hear. But I do.
When he gets close, I can see his eyes darting from me to the boys, like he’s checking each one of them over and head counting his ducklings while never taking his attention off the interloper. He’s a good dad, I’d bet.
He holds his hand out. “Mike Kauffman, Evan’s dad. And you are?”
I take his hand, careful to walk the fine line of a solid handshake without breaking his hand accidentally. “Bruce Tannen. I was just happening by and saw some roughhousing. Thought a little intervention was warranted.”
I purposefully don’t say any names, feeling like I’ve handled what happened well enough and hoping it made an impression.
Mike looks behind him to the parking lot and then shakes his head. “There’s literally six or seven moms sitting over there in their cars or at the playground with little brothers and sisters, and you’re telling me that you just walked up to the boys and no one said a word to you? Stranger-danger mean nothing these days?”
Seems like he’s asking that of the boys as much as the universe.
I hold my arms out wide, showing I’m no threat. “Look, man, didn’t mean to cause problems. Just saw a dirty tackle, a bad fall, and some overzealous afterplay. Wanted to make sure everyone was all right because there didn’t seem to be anyone overseeing practice. No worries, I’ll leave you to it.”
Mike’s still watching me carefully, which I can appreciate. At least these kids have proper supervision, though he’s got a point that I’m a scary looking bastard for not a single parent to have said a word. We live in a safe town, but nowhere’s that safe.
I hold a meaty fist out to Cooper, giving the kid a tame half-strength glare. “Watch that mouth.”
He bumps my hand with his own, a smirk curling his lips. “I will, but I can back it up, and that’s what counts, right?”
He says it like someone’s told him that before. I raise a brow, silently telling him to think again.
I offer my fist to Johnathan too, who returns the goodbye with a bit less cockiness. “Words first, then get it out on the field correctly. Head up, shoulders down, feet buzzing, drop into position, and shoot and rip.”
He nods like he took a mental note of everything I just said.
I toss a two-finger wave to Mike. “Have a good practice, Coach.”
I’m halfway across the field, almost home free to the parking lot to head home for dinner when I hear a voice behind me call out.
“Brutal?”
Bruce
I turn around automatically, more used to the nickname almost everyone calls me by than the name my mom gave me when I was born. “Yeah?”
Mike’s eyebrows rise up to his hairline, or where it used to be, at least. His hair’s buzzed down, and based on the slight dips above his temples, my bet is he’s disguising an early receding hairline.
“You’re Brutal Tannen?” he asks, and I nod once in confirmation. He claps his hands once before sticking his hand out for another shake like we didn’t already introduce ourselves. “Why didn’t you say so?”
I shake his hand again, though I’m not sure why, and lift and lower one shoulder. “I . . . did?”
He chuckles like I said something funny. “No, you said your name is Bruce, like you’re not known around here for being one of the best football players to ever grace the grass in the whole city. Didn’t you play for State too? Figured you were going pro!”
He recites my history like he has a clue. I thought I was going to get drafted too.
Plans changed.
“What happened?” he pries.
I grit my teeth. It’s been years and I’m over it, but I don’t think it’s ever easy to expose your greatest pain for public consumption, especially to someone you don’t even know.
“Family stuff,” I say coldly, not inviting further discussion.
Mike seems to realize that he’s overstepped and retreats politely. “Yeah, I get it. Family’s everything. Anyway, I was thinking . . . since you’re here, you think you might hang out and help with practice? Like a guest coach or something?”
He looks hopeful, but I don’t feed into it. “Nah, sorry. Gotta get home, got dinner waiting.”
“Oh, uh . . . yeah. Of course,” he stutters, like my refusal was not at all what he was expecting. “I was just hoping you might . . . I mean, you’ve got a lot more knowledge about football than I do. I’m more of an armchair quarterback, if you know what I mean, but Evan wants to play and I was the only dad who would do it. Kinda got voluntold by the wife.”
He tapers off, not saying anything bad about his wife, and the smile on his face says he doesn’t mind being voluntold for this gig at all. Past him, I can see those same sets of eyes watching our interaction. All except one pair of icy blue ones that are fastidiously studying the laces of the football in his hands. Something about that hits me. This smart-mouthy kid doesn’t think for one second that I’m going to do this.
Has he been disappointed before and is protecting himself from useless hopes? Or can he see that I’m not cut out for helping kids figure out the game I know inside and out? Considering I said ‘the s-word’ within moments of walking up, it’s likely the latter. But lack of a filter aside, I could probably help them with football and the most important part of the game, being a team.
I gnaw on that for a quick second, dissecting my reasons and remembering my youth on the field.
Football was everything to me for so long, truly saving me. Mostly from myself. Could one of these boys need that opportunity to? Could I help with that?
Though that’s really bigger than what Mike’s asking right now, he just wants a couple of hours of my time. That, I can do.
I sigh, testing the words on my tongue. “Yeah, I could hang out for a little bit, I guess. Let me just send a text home.”
He smiles heartily. “Of course, thanks! I’ll just tell the boys.”
He steps away, and I fish my phone out of my back pocket. I remember a moment too late that I promised Shayanne I’d be home for dinner, but I feel like these boys need me more than she does today, especially for some special announcement she’s making that’s definitely not that she’s pregnant.
Hell, she’s probably just gonna tell us all that she and Luke are going on another trip. I don’t begrudge her that excitement, but I don’t need to be there to hear the blow-by-blow of their itinerary. Especially not the first time because she’ll talk about nothing else for days if that’s what her news is.
Still, even though I know she’ll be fine when I explain why I’m skipping dinner, I decide to not incite Shayanne’s wrath by texting her directly. I bypass her and text Brody instead.
Something came up, won’t be home for dinner. Tell Shay sorry.
I get back a middle finger emoji so I check that off my responsibility list and head over to the boys, who are all sitting cross-legged and listening intently to Mike, who’s singing the praises of my high school glory days.
“All right, Brutal . . . or, uh, Bruce. Which do you prefer? Or Coach B, even?” he asks. I can tell that in his mind, it stands for Brutal and that he really wants to call me that. Like I’m famous or some shit when all I did was crunch a few bodies damn near ten years ago.
“Coach B is fine,” I tell him and the boys. Though everyone calls me Brutal, and I answer to it readily, I’ve never felt right introducing myself that way. The name brings up too many questions when you’re a grown ass man who looks like I do. “I think first things first, I need to know everyone’s name.”
The boys start rattling off their names from their seated positions, and after three, I stop them. “Okay, hold up. Let’s start with the proper way to introduce yourself, especially when you’re looking to impress. Whether that’s a coach, an employer, a girl’s dad . . .” The boys giggle a bit and my lips quirk. “Or whoever. So, you stand up. Never introduce yourself to anyone sitting down. Offer a hand and shake firmly, but don’t do that stupid squeezy thing where you’re trying to break their hand. Look them in the eye and say your nam
e clearly and loud enough to be heard. Like this.”
I turn to Mike, dipping my chin to make sure he’s on board with being an example for the boys. I hold my hand out and clasp his. “Bruce Tannen. Nice to meet you.”
“Mike Kauffman. Good to meet you too.”
We both turn back to the boys and I continue the lesson. “Your turn.”
The first boy stands up. “Johnathan Williams. Nice to meet you.” Seems Mr. Kicks-A-Lot is a fast learner, a plus in his column, especially given the good handshake and eye contact he offers me.
Down the row they go.
Evan Kauffman. Joshua Williams, apparently Johnathan’s fraternal twin brother. Killian Bloomdale. Cooper Meyers. Anthony Mondela. Christopher White. Derek Simpson. Liam Holt. Julio Ruiz. Trey Thedwell. Marcus Stacy.
A better-behaved group of young men stands before me than were on this field just a few short minutes ago. “Nice to meet everyone. Great job, guys.” I turn to Mike, moving on. “What did you have planned for practice?”
He shrugs, admitting, “It’s only our second practice, our first active one because the last one was mostly going over rules and dates for the practices and games. I figured we’d run sprints and do a few drills today.”
I nod. It’s a good start. “Sounds good. Can I make a suggestion?”
Mike smiles warmly. “That’s why I asked you to stay. Please do.” He gestures toward the kids who are watching, waiting for any tidbit I can share.
I search my head for the words I’d heard from one of my favorite coaches. I’ve had many over the years, some great, some good, and some just okay.
I drop down to my knee again and address the kids. “What’s the most important thing about a football team?”
“Touchdowns!” Derek shouts, his arms reaching over his head like a referee.
The Blind Date Page 37
