Womanizing and drooling over waitresses when you’re a married man—totally fine. Legally divorcing when things aren’t working out—nope. Can’t have that.
It’s ridiculous. But I’m not naive enough to believe it wasn’t a huge scandal around here when my wife packed up and left me to go to her parents’ house. That she didn’t come back and soon after, filed for a divorce.
“What does that have to do with me winning games?” I ask, my shoulders slumped as I play with the condensation on my glass.
He shrugs, looking almost guilty. “I just, you know . . .” No—I don’t know, and I’m growing tired of him not telling me. “Don’t give them a reason to fire you.”
I turn to face him, the rickety barstool squeaking with the motion. “They’ll fire me if I lose a game?”
“Not a game.” He tries to pass it off like it’s no big deal, but I’ve known him long enough to know this is weighing on his mind. He’s friends with a lot of school board members.
He hangs out with Anthony for fun. They play the powerful-men thing up way too much, but I suppose in Kensley they sort of are. “What did they say?”
He huffs and uses the tone he always does when he’s trying to calm me down, even though I’m not one to fly off the handle. “Nothing. I just think you should watch your back, you know? I mean the divorce wasn’t the only thing that happened . . .”
“LeAnn?” I ask incredulously.
“Yes.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Your daughter screwing her teacher wasn’t exactly screaming good values.”
My hands flex with my need to throttle him. But I take in a deep breath and barely manage to let it out, my anger threatening to choke me. “My daughter fell in love with her teacher, who didn’t and wouldn’t get involved with her until she was well out of high school.”
“Yeah, well that’s not how everyone saw it,” Billy says nonchalantly, and again, I want to scream or punch him in the face.
But I always expect my players to remain cool. I don’t allow fights. I don’t allow trash talk. They’ll be doing laps until graduation if they do either and will piss me off in the process, so I try my best to stay calm.
“I don’t care how everyone else saw it. She’s an adult, and she’s happy. She’s in love.”
“I know, man.” He places a hand on my shoulder. I gotta say, touching me right now is a bold choice on his part, but I grit my teeth and try my breathing techniques. “But that paired with the divorce has some of the guys worried. They’re talking about wanting a more family-friendly coach.”
“Family-friendly?” My brows shoot up, and he removes his hand from my shoulder, lifting both of his hands up in the air.
“Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just trying to give you a heads-up.”
“So if I lose a game, I’m fired?”
He drops his hands and takes another drink of his beer. “No. But if you start losing instead of winning, I’d say you have a good chance of that. Just don’t give them a good reason to.”
“Because I got divorced.”
“You divorced Nancy Hopkins.” I cringe. It was like everyone in town had our entire lives planned out for us before we even met. The star football player and the cute, blonde cheerleader. The good church-going girl from the good family. The same for the boy.
“She left.”
“I know.” He finishes his beer with a loud belch. “But it doesn’t matter. You know all the pearl-clutching and social politics that goes on in this town.”
“I’m not interested in politics,” I grit out.
“Yeah, well.” He stands from his bar stool. “You’re the head coach at Kensley. You better get interested in the politics.”
I grimace again but give him a nod on his way out.
Just another fucking day in Kensley.
FOUR
CHANCE
It’s so damn weird to be dressed in black and red. Not sure I’ll ever get used to this, but it is what it is. I walk into the locker room, ready for the team to come through the doors at any minute. But instead, I hear a retching sound echoing through the room.
I’m stunned stupid when I hear a toilet flush and then see Coach walk out of the stall, wiping at his mouth. His expression is stern when we lock eyes. Neither of us moves or says a word for entirely too long.
I finally get my brain to work and ask, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says briskly, walking over to the sink to wash his hands. I don’t miss him cupping water into those hands and bringing them to his mouth, swishing and spitting to likely get rid of the taste of vomit.
“Are you sure?” I have to ask. He looks pale but not really sick. If I had to say it was anything, I’d say nerves are making him sick to his stomach, but that can’t be right.
The man is tough as nails.
“Yes. I’m sure.” He glares at me, annoyance and fury filling his eyes like I’m used to. “I’m fine. Get your head in the game, Leighton. I’m not what you need to be worried about.”
I fight rolling my eyes at him and this big brute routine, barely managing to do that just as the first few members of the team burst into the locker room to get ready for the game.
It’s hectic after that, getting these guys ready to go out on the field. Hyping them up and enduring the glares from at least half of them because I’m a—gasp—Bear. But for the most part, it’s uneventful until we get out on the field.
It’s our first home game, and the crowd is wound up and ready. You can hear them cheering and hooting and hollering. Ready for football season. It’s still warm out, even though it’s seven at night and the sun is still in the sky but starting to lower, leaving an orangish purple hue.
The game is going fairly well for the most part, and I’m getting my bearings as the new assistant coach.
That is, until the fourth quarter.
We’re behind by a touchdown, and Coach Asher looks two seconds away from blowing a gasket. Seriously, if he turns anymore purple, I’d worry he’ll pass out. One of the linemen in particular is getting a rather harsh verbal beatdown when I can’t take it anymore. “Coach,” I say loudly as I make my way over to him.
The lineman, Jackson, doesn’t dare look at me, instead keeping his eyes trained on his head coach. But Coach Asher turns his steely glare at me. “What?” he barks.
I’m not backing down from a little harsh tone. “It’s enough, don’t you think?”
He turns back to Jackson. “Do you think it’s enough? Are you ready to go back out there and play this game using all the talent and ability you were given? Are you ready to use your damn head?”
The poor kid looks like he’s shaking. I mean, he’s really huge for high school. Bigger in frame than the coach, but it’s clear he doesn’t want to be on his bad side. “Yes, Coach. I’m sorry. I’m ready.”
“He’s ready,” I reiterate.
“Go,” Coach says to the kid, who doesn’t waste time putting his helmet back on and heading out onto the field. But now Coach’s attention is on me. “Why don’t you stick to your job, Leighton?”