Beauty and the Baller(21)

I slip a cap on my head, then put my hands on my hips. “I want you to find me a personal assistant.”

She plops down in one of my chairs. “I’m working on it. You seem tense, Coach. I’ve got this book about breathing exercises that help you relax. You should read it.”

I nod absently as the team spills into the locker room, and I watch them with discerning, eager eyes. We’ve got a good crew of athletes. Even though I don’t play in the NFL anymore, my competitiveness hasn’t dwindled. In Texas, it’s a necessity.

Toby, Milo, and Bruno stop at my door, three of my best. All juniors. I’ve been working with them for a year, shaping them into winners.

Toby, my quarterback, sends a head nod. “Coach. What you got for us?”

I point to the folders. “Get the playbooks. Study. Then we hit the field. I want to see some quick play action. Got it? How’s the arm? Loose?”

Tall and dark haired, he grins and rolls his shoulder. “I’m ready. More than ready. Sir.”

“Did you get enough hours in at the bookstore this weekend?” He works to supplement his family’s income.

He nods. “Saturday and Sunday. I ran five miles before I went in.”

“That’s good. I like the dedication.”

Bruno, my running back, reaches over and scrubs Toby’s head. “He’s been jawing all day about how we’re gonna decimate Wayne Prep, bragging to all the girls, especially Sabiiiiine.”

Toby shoves him, and they scuffle around.

“Cool the ribbing, boys,” I say. “Wayne Prep went seven and three last year. Their defense wins games. Never underestimate an opponent.”

Bruno touches his chest with his fist and calls out, “Win the heart! Win everything!”

Several whoops come from the guys out in the hall, echoing our motto.

“All right, all right,” I say. “I like the spirit, Bruno. Now get those binders.”

He snatches them up off the table, and he and Milo leave, while Toby lingers, a hesitant expression on his face.

“Coach? Um, my mom’s fortieth birthday is coming up. She doesn’t know a lot of people, and I—I know how y’all are friends . . .” He licks his lips. “She hasn’t had many good days lately, and I thought . . .”

I’ve spent a lot of one-on-one time with Toby. Visits to his house. Talks with his mom.

“We’d love to do something for her,” Lois chimes in as she gets up and pats Toby on the back. “I’m the party planner. What day, dear?”

“The Friday of our bye week. I don’t think she wants to do anything big. Just . . . she’s been talking about getting out of the house, maybe going out to eat.” Red blooms on his face. “My dad . . . he hasn’t called in a while . . .”

His mom has a debilitating heart condition. She gets breathless easily and tires fast. His father works in the oil fields. When he’s home, he hangs out in bars. Toby hasn’t seen him in months.

I nod, my gaze steady on his. “Lois will plan something. I’ll be there.”

Toby gives me a broad smile, a relieved look on his face as he walks to the locker room.

“He’s a good kid,” Lois murmurs.

“Yes.” His situation—and his talent—reminds me of my own childhood.

Skeeter pops his head in. “Cheerleaders have lice. I’m shook. It’s gonna be everywhere by the end of the week.” He whips his hat off and scratches his head.

“And?”

He gives me a glare. “You ever have lice, Coach?”

“Not that I recall.”

“It’s awful! My mama used to put mayonnaise on my head to kill ’em. Then she’d comb out my hair with this tiny little pick. She gave up one time and shaved my head in fifth grade. Worst school picture I ever took.” He takes a breath. “We need to disinfect the helmets, uniforms—hell, maybe Lysol the whole field house. I’ve got a pressure washer at home. We can mix up some chemicals and let it rip.” He motions spraying the walls.

“No pressure washer or man-made chemicals, please,” I say as I pinch my nose. “Get someone on it—”

“Who? We’ve got practice. Our flunky left us.”

Frustration flares. Hayden, our all-around helper and my PA, was a local college kid who ran errands and did whatever we didn’t have time for. He got married last year, and his wife delivered a new baby a couple of weeks ago. He quit for another job, and no one has thought to hire anyone else.

I lift my arms at him. “We’ve got five assistant coaches on staff. Figure it out. If you’re that worried, do it yourself.”

He ambles away, muttering.

The lights on both landlines start up again, and I groan and snatch one up. It’s a news station asking for an interview before the Huddersfield game two months from now. “Fine,” I growl and pencil in a date on my calendar. I grab the other phone. It’s Randy’s Roadhouse offering to host a celebratory party after we beat Huddersfield. “We may not win,” I mutter, then get off.

“You’re going to get a reputation as rude,” Lois murmurs as she files her nails. “You should try some peppermint oil for your stress. Just rub a little on your temples, and voilà. It smells nice.” She points her file at me. “I’ll bring you some.”