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Yep, that’s where I thought Mike was going and I’m already shaking my head. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bruce doing the same thing.
“I can’t, Mike. I’m sorry. I’ll be there for the games, but I’ve got work during the week. That’s why Michelle and I rotate. Surely, there’s someone else you can put down as head coach if it’s only on paper,” I argue.
Mike’s eyes narrow, not checking me out but sizing me up as an adversary. I square my shoulders and stand straighter.
His voice is hard as he tells me the truth. “There are no dads who come to practices. You know that. Maybe Killian’s grandparents, but they can’t even walk to the sidelines every practice. You know they’re not the youngest or the healthiest. As for the moms, yeah . . . there are at least three who come to every practice and will be at every game. And you know as well as I do, they’re only half here for their kid, so if you think for one second that their husbands are going to be onboard with their working elbow to elbow with Brutal, you’re delusional.”
He looks to Bruce. “No offense, man. We talked about this.”
Bruce spreads his hands like ‘whatcha gonna do?’ I can’t help but roll my eyes. I mean, he’s not wrong, but does he have to be so damn arrogant about it?
Mike zeroes back in on me. “You don’t want those women working with him, either.”
He says it so quietly I tell myself that it was my own consciousness speaking and not him saying that out loud in front of Bruce, but the lift of Mike’s eyebrow daring me to disagree says it was him.
He’s right. I don’t want that, but I don’t want to admit it. So I bite my tongue, refusing to give in either way.
“You want football for your boy? You want this team for him?” Mike asks, driving his point home. “This is how that happens. Brutal handles X’s and O’s, and you do the organizing and be the face of the team.”
“Damn, that’s some serious guilt-tripping. What else you wanna throw at her? Got some shit about football being a metaphor for life too?” Bruce comes to my defense, but the damage is done. I know Mike’s right.
This is going to suck. And be so ridiculously awkward. And lead to so many sleepless nights and ruined panties.
But I told Cooper he would get to play. And I told Bruce we could be adults about this. One kiss and a trip down sunny memory lane doesn’t change that.
I take a deep breath, willing my words to be a prophecy. “It’s fine. I’ll be okay as head coach. On paper.” I look to Bruce, fearful that he’s going to desert me right as the shit is hitting the fan.
I might be willing to fight for this, but he doesn’t have any skin in this game. Not really. These aren’t his kids. He’s only here for the love of the game and because he said he would. But the situation has changed drastically and I wouldn’t blame him for walking away.
Well, I would. I’d blame him a lot and be pissed, but deep down, I’d understand.
Bruce’s eyes search mine, his hands clenched like he’s holding them back. “Are you sure?” he asks gently. So kindly and sweet that it almost brings a hot burn to my eyes, but I nod. “Okay, if Al’s in, I’m in. What do we need to do?”
Mike’s mouth hangs open in surprise. He didn’t expect that to work. Guess he doesn’t know the strength of his own arguments.
Or maybe he underestimated me and Bruce?
“I’ll take care of it as my last official head coach duty. But starting Thursday, it’s you two. Good luck,” Mike says, almost like he’s ready to see some fireworks start any second. “I’m going to get on home. But holler if you need anything. I’ll get back with you during the day when I’m not at work.”
He whistles loudly, and Evan perks up, used to the sound. He runs toward us, throwing back a goodbye over this shoulder to his teammates, and then he shakes Bruce’s hand. “Bye, Coach B! See you Thursday!”
And we’re alone. Mike and Evan are gone, and Cooper and Liam are down at the pond. They’re not far, but they can’t hear us.
“Are you sure about this?” I hedge.
“Are you?” he counters.
Our eyes lock, so much unsaid between us. But I can feel the commitment we both have to see this through.
“Give me your number so we can talk about practices and stuff,” I say, using my business mode as a shield.
Bruce pulls his phone out of the bag at his feet and rattles off his number. I text it, and the ding sounds like possibility, like opportunity, like a really bad idea when I’m hot and bothered at three in the morning from dreaming of him.
