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“Oh damn,” Kyle Lanigan gasps. “What if she bangs someone else to get back at you? Or two people . . . a threesome? Dude, she could be doing it right now! Like right now!”
DJ’s face crumples.
I walk to the bench, move his legs, and sit down.
Then I sigh. “You screwed up, Deej.”
“I did,” he sniffles. “I screwed up so bad, Coach.”
I look around at the faces of my players. “But, this could be a good thing. It’s better you all know the truth now, while you’re still young.”
They move closer, gathering around, staring at me like I’m Jesus Christ on the mount, about to preach.
“What’s the truth, Coach D?” Wilson asks, wide-eyed.
I lean forward and lower my voice. “The truth is, when it comes to guys and girls, men and women? We need them, more than they will ever, ever, need us.”
I’ve passed on a lot of life lessons to these boys, but this may be the most important of them all.
I mean, Stacey wasn’t even that great of a wife, but my brother’s a fucking basket case without her. Ryan without Angela? I don’t even want to know what kind of disaster that would look like. Hell, my old man can’t even make microwave popcorn without my mom telling him what buttons to push.
And me . . . it’s only been a few weeks . . . and the thought of Callie walking out of my life again makes my stomach fold in on itself and twist around in my gut.
I’m so incredibly screwed.
“Holy shit,” Wilson whispers, his teenage mind utterly blown. “You’re right.”
I nod my head. “Damn skippy.”
DJ sits up, wiping his eyes. “I gotta get her back, Coach. I love her, for real. I know we’re young, but . . . she’s the one . . . the only one for me . . . you know what I mean?”
I think about green eyes, soft lips, and sweet laughter. I think about the voice I could listen to forever—how I’m captivated by every thought and wish and idea in her fascinating mind. I think about the feel of her arms clinging to me, wanting me—strong and delicate, fire and lace—and the scent of roses and vanilla.
Oh yeah . . . I know exactly what he means.
“Okay, then here’s what you’re going to do . . .”
He huddles down, the same look on his face as when I’m breaking down a play.
“First, you kick ass tonight on the field—show her you’re a winner. Girls like winners. Then you’re gonna admit you acted like a jackass, and tell her you’re sorry. Because that’s what real men do when they fuck up—they own it.”
“A grand gesture may be in order,” Dean suggests, leaning against the wall near the door.
DJ’s face scrunches in deep thought. “What kind of gesture? How?”
Jesus, have these kids never seen a John Hughes movie? It’s times like this I worry about the future of our youth.
“Do something big, something she won’t expect—dedicate a song to her or a Facebook post or one of those Snapgram story things—whatever the hell you kids do now.”
“You get extra points if it involves begging and humiliation,” Dean adds.
I put my arm around his shoulder. “And then . . . maybe Rhonda gives you a second chance. You earn another shot.”
He wipes his nose. “What if she doesn’t? What if I really lost her?”
I pat his back. “It’ll hurt like a hell, I’m not going to lie. But you’ll get through it. You’ll know you gave it your all and that your relationship with her was a moment in your life that you’ll never forget. You learn from it, let it make you better. And maybe, down the road, you’ll meet someone else and that’s how it’s supposed to go. Or maybe, one day if it’s really meant to be . . . you’ll get another chance with her. And if that happens . . .”
Even if it’s twenty years later . . .
“You make damn sure you don’t screw up again.”
~ ~ ~
Friday night-home games are always big in Lakeside—and not just because the parents of the players and students are in attendance. The whole frigging town shows up. My parents are here, my brothers, Callie’s here with her parents and her sister too. I saw Callie outside my office before the game.
She let me cop a feel for good luck.
And then, I took the field with my team.
No matter how old I am—fourteen or thirty-four—football games all sound the same. The crunch of the pads, the grunts, the war cry, the vicious shit-talking that would reduce grown men to tears, the drumbeats of the band, the chants of the cheerleaders, and shouts of the crowd. They look the same—the glare of the lights, the smoke of our breath, the streaks of dark mud on white uniforms. They smell the same—grass and dirt, popcorn and hot dogs, adrenaline and victory almost within reach.
