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Lace Face
Too late. I’m withering away. See you on the other side.
A full-on laugh tumbles out of me, and the room turns silent. I look up, and everyone is staring at me. My cheeks flame under their attention, and I tuck my phone away.
“It’s time for me to run,” I say, pushing back in my chair and standing up. “Thanks for coming out to the game today. Get home safe, and we’ll see you all next week.”
There are a few last-minute questions shouted at me, but I tune them out. When I walk out the door, coach mode goes off. It’s a separation—aneededseparation—of my professional and personal lives.
No one tells you what the transition is like from player to assistant coach to head coach in a matter of six years. It’s a different world on this side of the field, with microphones and cameras and strategic planning. My first season on the sideline with a headset instead of a helmet, I ran myself into the ground.
I was constantly awake until four in the morning, delirious and drunk on whiskey as I sorted through plays and lineups. I slept around, trying to find an outlet for my stress and the pressure of this new gig, and I thought being in the bed of a model was the answer. I stopped visiting my family, stopped seeing Aiden and Maven, and I only emerged from the dark cloud I lived in on Sundays, Mondays, and Thursdays.
Fifteen pounds, three months without sleep, and a phone call from my mother yelling at me that she was scared about my health—both physical and mental—later, I decided to go to therapy to get some help on how to balance the new role I had taken on.
I’ve learned ways to prioritize the different parts of my life. I set a hard stop to football talk and shut off my work phone. I don’t read articles about the team unless I’m in my office and on the clock. I give the guys two full days off a week, an unheard of freedom in our grueling sport.
People forget their mental and physical health matters, too.
I take my job seriously. I respect that I’ve been given a gift to dothisas a career, but that’s all this is. A career. One that could end any day. Watching guys throw a football back and forth isn’t above the people I care about, and if my friends want to see me, then I’m finished for the day. Everything related to work can wait until tomorrow.
I smile at the athletic trainers as I walk down the hall lined with posters and players’ pictures. I stop to shake hands with the photographer from the Associated Press and ask him to email me any photos he might have snapped of Maven and her friends in the suite, so I can share them with Maggie and Aiden. I’m in such a good fucking mood, like I’m on top of the world. Winning helps that elation, but the other stuff does, too.
Like my goddaughter sprinting to me and throwing her arms around my neck, whisperingthank youin my ear. Signing jerseys for all the girls at her birthday party and posing for a photo where they put bunny ears behind my head. Kissing Maggie’s cheek and shaking Aiden’s hand. Laughing as Lacey pretends to fall over when I walk by, acting like she’s worshiping me.
“Our savior,” she says. “We’re not worthy.”
“Get up, you weirdo,” I say. I offer her my hand and she takes it, standing back on two feet. “Did you have a good time in the box?”
“It was incredible. The service was fantastic, and everyone was attentive. People called me Ms. Daniels, and I panicked because that’smy mom.” Lacey chuckles. “Do I look like I’m in my sixties having a midlife crisis?”
I look her up and down, and I appreciate the tight leather pants that hug the muscles on her long legs. The jersey hanging off her shoulders and the jewelry clasped around her neck—a silver heart sits in the hollow of her throat. The earrings dangling from her ears and her pink cheeks, half from the cold and half from screaming at the top of her lungs. I swear sometimes I can hear her yelling from the stands over the roar of the crowd.
“No.” I tap her nose. “You’re too hot to be having a midlife crisis.”
“High praise from Playboy’s Player of the Year.”
“Fucking hell, Lace. Did you do an internet dive of all my accolades?”
“Of course I did. You can’t be friends with the league’s youngest head coach in history andnotknow about their amateur modeling career. Who cares about your Rookie of the Year award when you were Mr. December in a calendar back when you were in college? The bow was a nice touch,” she says.
“I’m never talking to you again.” I walk away, ignoring her laughter and quick footsteps to chase after me. She jumps on my back and my hands hold under her thighs, carrying her toward the garage and my parked car. I look over my shoulder at Maggie and Aiden. “Did you drive or take the Metro?”
“Drive,” Maggie calls out, and she waves at us. “We’ll meet you there.”
I set Lacey on the ground when we get to my Range Rover, and I open the door to help her safely inside.
“I could’ve ridden with them,” she says. “I know you like to turn your brain off after games.”
I slide into the driver’s side and glance over at her. “How do you know that?” I ask, peeling out of the parking lot and passing the throes of people still exiting the stadium.
“I saw you do it once. You put on your headphones, close your eyes, and listen to classical music.” She pulls her knees to her chest, and her white high-top sneakers rest on the leather seat. “Is it superstitious?”
“No.” I flick on my blinker and change lanes, heading for the diner. I shift in my seat and grip the steering wheel. “I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out during your research.”
“I was giving you a hard time.” Lacey reaches out and rests her hand on my arm. Her palm is warm against my skin, and I can feel the blood returning to my limbs after hours outside. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t. There was an article published a couple of years ago by—” I take a deep breath. “I dated someone at the tail end of my playing career, and it was serious. Serious enough where she lived with me and came to all my games. I guess I wasn’t moving fast enough for her, and when I didn’t propose to her on our one-year anniversary, she dumped me and aired all my dirty laundry to a tabloid for a hefty chunk of change.”
