Bridge to a Distant Star (15 page)

The intense look on Charles’s face slowly evolved … relaxed … into a wide grin.

Charles would never forget the first time he noticed Francine. He was a junior, the star quarterback on the college team. Somehow he’d missed completing a requirement for graduation, a science course—either geology or biology. For that reason alone he’d registered for Biology 101 and was dreading it, until he glimpsed the gorgeous brunette sitting in the first row.

In the first five minutes he’d learned her name: Francine Dupre. Yes, she’d patiently answered, her father was French, her mother, American. She’d gone to France every summer to visit relatives and spoke French like a native. Amazing eyes, her body tall and slim and poised—she looked like a model and carried herself that way. The aura around Francine tended to set every male within twenty feet on edge; she was that noticeable.

Still, those attractions alone wouldn’t have provided enough impetus for Charles to pursue her. He’d eventually learned of a deeper quality. Though she appeared as delicate as the English teacups and saucers his aunt kept in the curio cabinet of his adopted childhood home, there was a side to Francine not readily apparent—a flint-like will. And like flint, when struck with steel, she sparked. Charles Edgar Thomason soon realized the delicate bone china was the perfect match for his steel.

As he watched Fran’s eyes flash and spark now, Charles couldn’t help but think back to the girl who first caught his attention in Biology 101.

“What are you grinning at?” His smirk and raised eyebrows made her anger even more intense.

“Always did like a spark of fire in your eyes,” he said, his own eyes glowing.

“You’re absolutely despicable, Charles.” She charged up off the chaise, her feet barely skimming the floor as she covered the distance to the door. She flung back over her shoulder, “I’ll take this to mean we are in agreement now. You will stop pressuring Charlie. And I will make an appointment with the doctor once this tournament is over.”

“Hey. I never agreed to that. He’s got a bruise, Francine!” Charles moved to the landing outside their room, leaned over and called down, “We are not in agreement on this.” He scowled at her retreating back, disgusted with himself for the momentary distraction.

But she had moved on. Was already checking on Charlie. “Okay, love?”

Apparently engrossed in the ballgame, Charlie merely glanced her way and barely nodded. “Sure. Doin’ great.”

Charlie’s eyes were on the game, but his attention had roamed elsewhere. From the moment his parents started bickering, he’d begun fretting. More and more frequently, their disagreements focused on him—his schedule, which was a constant rush to varied activities; any physical issues, from mere sniffles to the broken arm he’d suffered last year; and his emotional makeup, whether he was happy or merely out of sorts. The need to be constantly upbeat dogged Charlie; the slightest sign of weariness or negativity caused his mom to worry. And then his dad lectured them both.
No matter what, it’s my fault when they fight about me,
Charlie lectured himself.
I gotta be more careful about what I do. What I say.

“My fault,” Charlie mumbled to himself.

“You say something, Charlie?” his mom asked, poking her head around the corner to check on him.

“Nothin’, Mom.” He shrugged his shoulders, grinning now. “I’m great.”

When Charlie woke the next morning, his thoughts immediately went to the game. And then to his leg. Gingerly, he moved it a little. Reaching down to feel it, he noted the area of swelling just below his knee.
Not nearly as sore as yesterday,
he thought. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and heard a slight rap on the door.

“Awake, Charlie?” His mom eased the door open a fraction, peeking in.

“Hey. Just woke up.”

Fran was tying the belt of her robe as she pushed open the door with her elbows. “How you feeling this morning, love?”

“Fine.” He stretched out his leg. Testing. “It’s better, Mom. The ice must’ve helped.”

“It feels good enough to play?”

“Mom.”

“Okay, I get the point.” She grinned at him, holding her hands up in surrender. “So, eggs, bacon, and toast this morning?”

“Sounds great.”

“Charlie, if at any point you’re hurting and need to stop playing,” she hesitated, cautiously weighing her words, “well, I know Coach Henry would agree with me. It’s okay. Will you please remember that for me?”

“Sure, Mom.”

She leaned down to rest her cheek on top of his head for a few moments while she whispered, “I love you, Charlie. Whether you play and don’t do well. If you score and win the game for the team. Or if you don’t play at all. Every bit of that has nothing to do with how much I love you.” Then she tilted his head up to her so she could look into his eyes again. “Okay?”

Charlie nodded. “Okay.”

Silently, she turned and left his room, closing the door behind her.

What would Dad say if I came off the field?
Charlie had not spoken the question out loud, but he might as well have. The words were just as concrete and real in his mind.

He stood up, feeling a stab of pain as he put all his weight on the right leg. But as he stretched and walked around his room, the pain seemed to ease.
It was just stiff from sleeping,
Charlie reassured himself.
It’s better. I’m sure of it.

Donning his uniform, Charlie’s mind and heart began racing. He smiled to himself, anticipating the excitement of being on the field. Feeling the ball at his feet. Sensing—knowing when to pass. And when to shoot for the goal. It was his own pep session, his way to psyche himself for the game—mentally, physically, emotionally. By the time he was dressed, he’d mentally run through several drills. Lastly, Charlie stood before his mirror. Ran a comb through his hair, but decided it was a waste of time to wet down the untamed curls. He knew girls liked his hair, but the curls were his nemesis.

He trotted down the stairs, enjoying the aroma of frying bacon wafting its way to him, ignoring any twinges in his leg.
It will only bother me if I allow it to,
he’d decided.

Bradley had been sitting at Fran’s feet, eagerly awaiting any bits of food that might fall his way. But as soon as he heard Charlie, he came running, wagging his tail, demanding his morning ear rub. “Hey, Brad. Mom drop any treats for you yet?”

“Mornin’, sport,” from his dad. He was buried behind the paper at the kitchen table, but he peered around it to look Charlie over. “Your mom says your knee’s doing great, eh?”

“I did not say great.” Fran pivoted to give Charles a glare before turning back to the stove to retrieve bacon and eggs for the three of them. After taking her place at the table, she asked, “Charles? Could you pray for us, please?”

Charles neatly folded the paper, putting it beside him. “Big day, huh, Charlie? It’s gonna be a great day, I just know it.” He bowed his head, Fran and Charlie following suit. “Lord, I ask for protection for all the boys today, especially Charlie, for his sore leg. Help them to play hard, to do their best, to play fair. Thanks for this food and all you give to us. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

Father and son both gulped down the meal, despite frequent disparaging looks from Fran. She eventually gave up, realizing they both were far too excited—and anxious to get out the door—to attempt even a pretext of proper manners this morning.

Wiping her hands on her napkin, Fran asked Charlie, “Is there anything else you want or need before you go?”

Charlie thought a moment. “Just wish me luck, Mom.”

Fran reached out to hug him, pulling him tightly against her chest.

“Always remember what I told you this morning, okay?”

“Sure, Mom.”

“Charlie, I—”

He waited, gripping the doorknob, impatient.

“Never mind. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Have fun, okay? Promise me—you’ll have fun?”

“Aw, Mom.” Charlie laughed. He opened the door and rushed down the steps, calling over his shoulder, “No way I hafta promise that!”

Fran stood by the door, tension making her shoulders and back ache. She heard the car start and seconds later, the garage door close. Still she stood there, instinct telling her to call them back. Resigned, Fran turned back to the empty kitchen. And trudged upstairs to get dressed.

Charlie and his dad were lost in their own thoughts as they drove to the field. Charles was second-guessing himself, wondering,
Have I been too hard on Charlie? This is your doing, Fran—making me doubt.

Shooting pains were traveling up Charlie’s right leg. He fidgeted, stretched it out again and again. Glanced up to his dad to see if he’d noticed, but Charles’s eyes remained focused on the road. Charlie turned his head away, willing the pain to stop.

By the time they’d pulled into the parking lot, Charlie’s adrenaline was pumping so much he was able to ignore most of the discomfort. He nearly bounced out of the car in his excitement, shouting, “Later, Dad. Wish me luck.” As he jogged away, he turned back to give his dad a quick wave and then hurried over to the group of boys who were huddled near Coach Henry.

“Go get ’em, son.” Charles leaned against the car a moment, savored watching his son high-five his teammates. Noted how they gathered around as he joined them, their leader, many addressing him as
The Toe Thomason.
He felt a flush of pleasure, intense pride.

Coach Henry motioned for Charlie to join him for a private conversation. He looked worried, concern making a deep groove between his brows. “Seems like you’re still favoring your leg, Charlie. How is it this morning?”

“I iced and rested it like you said,” Charlie offered, eager to emphasize the positive first. There was no sense trying to fool his coach; he knew their movements and skills better than anyone, including themselves. Knowing he’d be asked about his leg, Charlie had already prepared an answer, determined to soften his response yet still be truthful.

“It’s still a little sore, but honest, Coach,” Charlie stretched the leg out before him, tilting it left and right, demonstrating his flexibility, “it’s
better.
It won’t stop me from doing what I need to do.
Promise.
” He looked up at Coach Henry, his face an open plea for permission to play.

Torn between his responsibility to protect Charlie, his desire to acquiesce to him, and the team’s need for their leader, Paul Henry weighed the options. Charlie had no idea what his coach was thinking, but he watched conflicting emotions move across his face. Noted how his eyes softened. Saw a twitch of tightening muscles about his jaw, and feared the decision as his mouth remained in a grim, straight line. But Charlie knew to keep quiet. More pleading would only come across as overkill. So he waited, sensing more than a game waited in the balance.

Coach looked down at Charlie’s leg once more and began slowly nodding his head. “Okay. You’re in. But if I notice you limping more, Charlie …”

“I know, I know. You’ll pull me. But it won’t happen, Coach.” Charlie had kept the practice ball at his feet, and he toed it up onto his knee, bounced it from one knee to the other and back down to his feet. “See? I’m good!”

Coach grinned at him. Reached out to squeeze his shoulder and then called out, “Okay, Flames. Out on the field. Drill time.”

Charles had been intently observing the interaction between the two. He followed Paul’s every move until Charlie ran away from him, laughing and dribbling the ball onto the field. Only then did Charles breathe a sigh of relief and casually stroll to the sidelines where he joined the other parents. All were exhibiting either excitement or tension, most demonstrating both. He was exchanging greetings and shaking hands when he felt a firm pat on his back. It was Pastor Greg, Charlie’s youth pastor, offering his hand and a cheery, “Good morning, Mr. Thomason. What a great day to win a soccer game.”

Charles shook his hand firmly, appreciating his appearance on this busy Saturday. “Hey, thanks for coming, Greg. Charlie will be so excited when he sees you here.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it. Several of my guys are playing today. Figured I needed to see the game myself to keep ’em honest. When they start bragging about their moves tomorrow in Sunday school—to impress the girls, of course—I’ll know who’s exaggerating just a tad.”

When it was nearly time for the game to begin, Coach Henry stepped to the center of the swirling mass of motion and emotion—the squirming, energetic players. They were like thoroughbred racehorses in the starting gate.

He offered a short pep talk, reminding them of their fundamentals, and then said, “I’m proud of you, each and every one of you.” Barely getting out the word
you,
he had to take a deep breath to regain his composure. “Whether you win or lose, I want all of you to remember that. It’s been a great year. And it’s been a privilege to be your coach.”

Coach Henry smiled at them, a spark of his competitive nature escaping from his taunting grin. “Now, get out there and let’s show ’em how the game of soccer is played.”

Led by Charlie, the boys shouted their ritual chant. “On
three.
One, two, three …
Flames. Make ’em feel the burn!”
And Charlie repeated his ritual tribute—locating his parents in the crowd, waving to them, and finally, positioning into a handstand. Walking on his hands to the center of the field. It never failed to make Fran chuckle and shake her head, Charles to glow with pride, and the entire crowd—Flames fans
and
opponents—to respond with laughter.