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I allow myself to get distracted by all the thoughts going crazy in my mind right now as I make my way back to my bedroom.
Coach has cancer.
Could I even step up to run the training?
Am I really the best role model for those kids?Just last night, I allowed mindless sportscasters to get in my head and drowned myself in the bottom of that bottle.
It’s a lot to process, especially while the thoughts wage war against the throbbing hangover.
I flop backward on the bed.Bam!My head bangs against the headboard. “Fuck,” I yelp, thankful to have the house to myself. Massaging the back of my scalp, which only adds to the tightness in my head, I take that as a sign to get my ass out of bed and stay out.
Chapter 6
Cooper
Gravelcrunchesunderthetires as I turn off Brigham Lane and onto the long driveway that leads to the two-story log cabin–style house set back about a mile off the road.
We spent plenty of evenings here back in the day. Coach Benson was more than just a coach—he was a role model, a hero, and a father figure to many of his players. He had an open-door policy where his athletes could come talk to him, even if not about baseball but seeking advice about life. He judged no one and listened with an open mind and heart.
My hand trembles as the life-size version of a Lincoln Log cabin comes into view. My favorite feature of the house has always been the porch that wraps around three-quarters of the house and leads to the stone-paved patio out back.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, attempting to calm my nerves. I spent the entire morning after Austin left trying to process the news. One of the strongest men I know has cancer—a disease that takes no prisoners. I’m having more trouble wrapping my head around this than I am the fact that I recently lost my career.
After putting my truck in park, I adjust my hat and grab the bouquet I picked up for Coach’s wife, Ellie. Mama taught me to never show up somewhere empty-handed.
“Oh my stars, if it isn’t Cooper Graham.” Ellie rises from the rocking chair on the front porch as I approach. She opens her arms, welcoming me before wrapping me in a big hug.
“Hi, Mrs. Benson.”
“Oh, enough of that,” she waves off as we part. “We’re both adults here. Please, call me Ellie.”
I nod in understanding, although as I test out the waters, it feels odd on my tongue to say. “These are for you, Ellie.” I hold up the flowers between us.
She brings them to her face and inhales. “These are beautiful. Thank you, Cooper. Gerber daisies are my favorite. How did you know?”
I just shrug and smile while shoving my hands in my pockets. I don’t admit that they were the only style at the store.
“Your mama may have taught you to never arrive empty-handed, but I bet your mama also taught you not to give another man’s woman flowers. She’s spoken for,” a deep voice bellows from behind.
I turn around and find Coach Benson gripping the doorframe as he steps out onto the front porch.
“Oh, hush, Verne. When was the last time you brought me flowers? 1987?” she taunts.Maybe I should’ve brought popcorn instead of flowers.
“Don’t be telling the boy lies, El, or I’ll have the florist stop their weekly deliveries.” The smile on his face as he looks at his wife is what true love is.
I look down at my feet, feeling like I’m encroaching on a private moment. When I look up, Coach’s gaze has turned from Ellie to me. He tilts his head to the side, probably deciding if he’s dreaming or not.
With slow and steady steps, I close the distance between us while I take in his appearance. The years have put plenty of wear on him, just like it has on all of us, but it’s not until I wrap my arms around him that I feel the effects of the disease. Coach was always a larger man, but the large light gray sweatshirt hides the now smaller frame.
“It’s good to see you, Coop.” He slaps my back twice.
“You too.” Somehow, the words don’t get caught up in my throat.
Neither of us makes a move to separate right away. When we do, he gives me a once-over similar to the ones my parents did when I arrived home. He pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger and jerks my head from side to side. He makes a loud clicking sound with his tongue. “What, they don’t pay you a big enough salary to afford a razor? That’s a shame. Here I thought the league paid players well.” He smirks.
Asshole.
I shake out of his grasp and run my hands over my beard. “Why is everyone always hating on this?” First, my mother, then Austin, and now Coach? “I think it makes me look distinguished.
