False Start (25 page)

As he approached, he clenched his jaw and checked his watch to confirm that he had enough time to meet with the guys at the shelter later.

This was his third session with Paige Sumner, his latest in a string of over-privileged clients and hopefully his last. With her girlfriends continually, and somewhat suspiciously, interrupting their first two workouts, it became clear to him that Paige wasn't as interested in becoming a better runner as she was in being seen running with him.

When a broken nail emergency cut their session mercifully short, he informed her that his services were no longer available.

That night, he pulled into the school parking lot promptly at seven. Well over five hundred parents, faculty, students, and other tax-paying citizens were packed into one of the district's middle school auditoriums. By the time Nick arrived, it was standing room only.

 Not wanting to draw attention to himself, he leaned against the back wall not sure what to expect. While most everyone in attendance had their backs to him, one head kept turning around, looking toward the doors.

Bobby Crenshaw.

When Nick caught his eye, he saw him smile and mouth, "Yes."

Paul Quincy, the school board president called the meeting to order. After taking roll and addressing open items from last month's meeting, he asked if there was any new business.

On cue, all of the boys from the cross-country team stood up. Drew raised his hand.

"Mr. Quincy," he started, his voice sounding nervous, but determined, "I have here over two thousand signatures on a petition mandating the reinstatement of Mr. Nicoli DeRosa as coach of the boys' cross-country and track teams at Knollwood High School.

Nick beamed with pride for Drew, a boy who had overcome a severe stutter just a few months into practicing with the team last summer. As the crowd burst into applause, he backed deeper into a shadowed alcove at the back of the room. He wasn't even sure if he should be there. He only came because the boys asked him to.

Paul Quincy, a man nearing sixty with little more covering his head than the beam of the spotlight above him stood and approached the edge of the stage. "May I see the petitions, son?"

As Drew approached the stage, the other boys joined him until they had formed a cluster at the base of the stairs leading up to where the board was seated.

After flipping through the pages, the president turned and handed the pages over to the others. He then leaned over with his none-too-attractive backside facing the audience while they all whispered like crazed conspirators plotting the hostile takeover of a well-stocked ice cream truck.

Unable to see their faces, Nick looked on, amused, yet anxious about the outcome. To steady his nerves, he tried anticipating potential outcomes.

If they reinstate me, I won't have to coach adults and can move on with my life.

If they don't reinstate me, I can always move back in with my folks and figure out what to do next.

But this little exercise didn't seem to work its usual calming magic.

The only thing he knew for sure was that coaching high school boys was a breeze, and he loved it, but it wasn't nearly as great as coaching Mattie had been. Witnessing her transform into someone who felt good in her own skin took what he did for the boys to a whole new level. Especially since it was his own brother who had inflicted her with so much hurt and disappointment.

I just want Mattie.

He took a deep breath to try and push back the ache he felt when he heard, "…the Comeback Kid."

He missed what Mr. Quincy had said before that.

"But according to our bylaws," he continued, "we still need to put it to a vote."

Standing behind the podium, he adjusted the microphone and spoke into it. "All those in favor of re-instating Nick DeRosa to the position of boys' cross-country and track coach at Knollwood High School say 'aye.'"

The walls of the auditorium rumbled as the crowd shouted, "Aye."

Hunched over the microphone, the president stated the obligatory, "All those against reinstating Nick DeRosa, say 'nay.'"

A moment of silence ensued.

"The motion is carried. Let the record show that Nicoli DeRosa has henceforth been reinstated to his former position by a unanimous vote."

Before he had a chance to let it sink in, he heard a voice yell, "There he is."

He had no idea who that voice belonged to.

As people began turning to shake his hand and offer their congratulations, he heard the thumping sound of fingertips tapping against a microphone.

"Hey, Nick, why don't you come on up here and say a few words?"

That voice he knew.

It belonged to Lester Crenshaw.

*  *  *

The
Gazette
ran Mattie's letter of apology to her readers as a full page ad the week after the race.

Dear Readers:

For almost three years, I have been posing as someone I'm not—a married mom. Please accept my humblest apology.

As the Plate Spinner, I gave advice and tried to build a community in which you could commiserate with other working parents. While I stand behind every single word I wrote, I know I led you to believe that I was someone I'm not.

Your trust is a sacred thing, and I trifled with it. For that, I am deeply sorry.

Aside from your forgiveness, I ask only two things. First, please know that I acted alone. It is my hope that you will still consider the
Gazette
the premier news publication that it truly is. Second, know that I remain fully committed to running the Chicago Marathon. My own effort in this and my pride in Team Plate Spinner were and are completely authentic.

If my actions have in any way prompted you to reconsider your participation in this endeavor, please don't stop on my account. While you would be fully justified in returning or tossing any Team Plate Spinner gear, please do not let what I've done cheat you out of achieving this auspicious goal.

I hope to see each and every one of you at the start line in October.

Sincerely,

Mattie Ross

The only thing more daunting than continuing her marathon training was having to face it alone. The first day after Nick left was the hardest. She arrived at their usual corner at the usual time, half expecting, half hoping, to see him waiting for her; but of course, he wasn't. She waited for fifteen minutes.

When he was a no-show, she took to the path, trying to find her rhythm. Week after week, she kept at it, using a plan she had pulled off the Internet and counting the days until the big event.

"It's like I'm running with one leg," she tried explaining to Claudia while attending her nephew's soccer game over Labor Day weekend.

"You haven't heard from him at all?" Claudia ventured.

"No," Mattie sighed, her eyes welling up behind her sunglasses. "I'd give anything to see him again, Claud. I keep hoping I'll run into him, but I don't. It's like he disappeared."

 "Just give him some time, hon. He'll come around," she soothed before yelling at the referee, "Off-sides. That kid was offside. How could you not see that? What are you, blind?"

In late September, Mattie set out for an early morning run. The sunrise over Lake Michigan was hidden behind a thick layer of clouds, and the wind was blowing in from the east.

As she headed north along the lakefront, a cramp started developing on her right side, just under her rib cage, and she heard Nick's voice—his low, encouraging, kind voice in her head.

"You'll be fine. Just breathe through it. Don't focus on it."

A gust of wind, smelling of seaweed and fish, stung her eyes. She slowed to a jog.

 "On your left," a deep, husky voice announced from behind her.

A quick jolt of panic shot through her, and she veered out of the way. As she chugged along, a diverse, tattooed, and somewhat menacing crowd of men started passing by. They moved in a synchronized rhythm like a well-practiced military unit, minus the uniforms. Feeling more than a little intimidated, she slowed to a shuffle.

Must get mace.

Just as the last man blew past, he turned and glanced back at her. He looked to be in his late teens or early twenties. His short blond hair and sweet face belied his otherwise intimidating presence.

"Hey. You're that Plate Spinner, right?"

Huh?

She nodded.

"I thought so." He slowed to her pace and said, "You look just like your picture. It's Mattie, right?" he asked as he jogged alongside her.

Again, she nodded, astounded that her readership now included young adult men. "You read my column?"

"Oh, yeah. And Nick's always talking about you."

"Nick?" Her heart raced. "Nick who?"

The young man shook his head. "Not sure what his last name is. We just call him Nick. Or Mr. D. Or Coach."

A smile crept over her mouth.

"Hey guys. It's Mattie the Plate Spinner."

A couple of them turned and waved.

"I can't wait to tell him we ran into you."

"How do you know him?" she panted.

Waving his hand toward the guys running ahead of him, he replied, "He started this group. We're all from the shelter on Fullerton Parkway. Nick volunteers there. A lot. "

Mattie thought for a moment. "Do me a favor, huh?"

"Sure."

"Tell him Mathilde Jean can't find her kick."

The young man frowned and repeated, "Mathilde Jean can't find her kick. Got it."

Not sure he'd follow through, she looked at him and said, "Promise? It's important."

Smiling, he replied, "I promise." After a few more strides, he added, "Hey, maybe we'll see you at the marathon. I'm John, by the way." He held out his hand to her.

"Nice to meet you," she huffed as she shook it.

"Well, I'd better go. I'm gonna lose my team. Catch you later."

She watched as he caught up to his group and waved. "Catch you later."

Certain that John would make good on his promise to deliver her message, Mattie was filled with anticipation. She happily busied herself with helping Nancy sort through the avalanche of recipes that had been pouring in since she had announced the first official "Team Plate Spinner Carb-Loading Recipe Contest." While her numbers had initially dipped at her outing at the half-marathon in July, the bulk of her readers, it seemed, were card-carrying members of Lester's church of second chances.

The top three winners of the contest would have their pictures and recipes printed in the
Gazette's
food section the week before the marathon. The first place winner, however, would also get to have dinner with Mattie at Salvatore's, the exclusive Italian bistro in the city's River North district, the Friday night before the Sunday marathon.

Banking on John delivering her message to Nick, she checked her phone frequently for messages and missed calls as she sifted through every pasta-based dish imaginable.

When her stomach growled, she asked Nancy, "How do you stay so thin? Just reading this is making me hungry."

"You sure you don't want to be a judge? Looks like it's going to be a close competition."

"I can't. It has to be impartial. However, when you're looking for judges for the Christmas cookie contest, you know where to find me," she said with a wink.

By the end of the day, Mattie's cell phone hadn't received a single call or text, and her anticipation fizzled into disappointment.

After work, she left her cool, air-conditioned building behind and stepped into unseasonably balmy air. When she finally made it to her apartment, she was sticky and tired. Her arms full of groceries, she balanced one bag on her knees while she fished in her purse for her keys.

Despite the sauna-like conditions outside, her living room felt tolerable. She had learned soon after she moved in that keeping her shades closed from June to October kept her place from baking.

Eager to take a nice long cool shower, she set the bags and her phone on her kitchen counter and started down the short hall to her bedroom.

If it weren't for the snoring, she would've missed the man sleeping on her living room couch altogether.

Her heart leapt to her throat. She stood frozen, debating which to grab first—her baseball bat or her phone, each in an opposite direction. Gripped with fear, she couldn't quite wrap her head around the fact that the intruder crashed on her couch posed no imminent threat.

After taking a few deep breaths, it occurred to her that the guy might have been out partying into the wee morning hours before mistakenly breaking into her unit while she was at work. She tiptoed over to the couch to get a better look.

Whoever it was had his back to her. Peeking over his shoulder, she saw that his head was partially buried in one of her favorite throw pillows that would now have to be either dry cleaned or disposed of. But she could still make out his profile.

Oh. My. God.

She hadn't laid eyes on him in three years. Still, his hair seemed wilder and more untamed since she had last seen him, and he looked to be sporting a full beard.

Icy cold fingers of panic locked themselves around her neck.

The man rolled over.

Oh God. Oh God.

Her mind raced. The trap had actually worked. Working in concert with Lester and Detective Rohmer of the F.B.I., Mattie had agreed to act as bait. Through some clandestine network that she didn't really want to know about, they put the word out that she had recently come into a large sum of money.

Per the detective's instructions, if Eddie did show up, the first thing she was supposed to do was to call him and then act natural until he showed up with reinforcements. That was well over a month ago. When he didn't reply, she figured Eddie had somehow been tipped off to their ulterior motives. She had nearly forgotten all about it.

Now, she just had to make sure she didn't end up getting caught in her own trap. With no time to lose, she dialed Detective Rohmer's number and set her phone on the kitchen counter next to her still-bagged groceries.