My Foolish Heart (24 page)

“She's broken, Seb. You need to see that before you get hurt.”

Through the window behind Bam, a thunderhead hovered over the lake, turning black.
She's broken.
He met Bam's eyes. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might be the reason for that?”

His own words shook through him. Seb stood. “Just give her the loan, Bam.”

He let the door bang as he walked out of the office.

* * *

Caleb was living a double life.

Was it cheating on Issy to call
My Foolish Heart
? It sort of felt like it, although he wasn't dating Miss Foolish Heart, just . . .

Thinking about her. Thinking about her laughter through the phone line and her words of encouragement and the way she'd talked to him about his leg.

Just telling someone had released the vise around his chest. His deception had begun to choke him. And he liked how she didn't pander to him, didn't act like he might be some tragedy.

But then there was Issy. On Saturday night, she'd held on to his hand like it had the power to set her free.

He couldn't nudge that feeling out of his mind. Nor her smile, the way her eyes held him, untainted by pity or sorrow. At least for now.

Yes, in a way his life tasted of cheating, although he wasn't really dating Issy, and Miss Foolish Heart was only a voice on the radio.

Still, he'd never been the kind of man to dish out his heart to multiple girls.

One woman at a time, one for all time. Just like his father. And his brother Collin.

The thought had nagged him all through the day on Sunday, as he'd attended church, as he'd parked himself at the Laundromat, then checked in with Collin.

He might have also listened to the Sunday recap of
My Foolish Heart
as he did it. He heard his own voice, twice.

Probably he liked Miss Foolish Heart too much. So maybe he'd just focus on Issy. And winning Friday night's game.

Which meant calling the boys in from practice before they got too winded. He needed them to feel strong this week. He'd deliberately moved their practices to the afternoon so they would get used to playing with the sun low and in their eyes. Now he blew his whistle to round them up from where they were running around the track. Ominous cumulus clouds hung over the field and a soggy wind lifted the collar of his Windbreaker. But the cool drizzle had always been Caleb's favorite condition for practice.

Dan huffed in, having taken a final lap with the boys.

No wonder the team loved his assistant coach. He even got a couple back slaps as he gripped his knees. The man had lost a few pounds, it seemed, with all this practice.

Caleb walked onto the field, his shoes squeaking on the clipped grass. “Bring it in, boys, and take a knee.”

He would stand. He found his balance, leaning heavily on his good leg as the team pulled in.

Ryan flopped down, lying flat on the field.

“Ryan, either sit up or take a walk.”

Ryan muttered something under his breath as he pushed to a sitting position, bracing one arm on his helmet.

If he only had another quarterback. But the backup QB—Michaels—played for Seb's team.

“We have four days until the big game. Some of you are giving it your all—and like I said, this game is about heart. If you've shown up at practice every day and shown me all you got, you can expect to get some playing time on Friday. Frankly I'm not as much interested in winning as I am in seeing what you give me out there.”

From the back, Ryan shook his head, pulling at the grass. “We're not going to win.”

Caleb glanced at Dan, who went and stood behind Ryan. Oh, to be able to haul this kid up, make him run until he showed some respect.

Yes, if Caleb landed the job, Ryan might be sitting the bench his senior year. They didn't have to win the first year. It took a while to build a football program from shambles.

“Whether I end up as coach or not, I'm going to be assessing every single one of you for playing time in the fall—”

“Teach us a play that we don't know, Coach!”

He hadn't expected the words from Bryant, nor the look Bryant exchanged with Ryan, a sort of smirk.

Perfect. Now Ryan had riled the team.

“We can win with what we have. We just have to play solid ball.”

Bryant shook his head, leaned back on his hands. “Nope, we're not going to win.”

Caleb tightened his jaw and drew in a breath. “Yep, you're right. You're not going to win.”

A couple heads shot up.

“In fact, Bryant, you might not even play.”

“Coach—”

“Because you've already lost. You believe it in your heart, then you believe it in your head. And that's where you lose the game.”

He debated a moment, then got down on one knee, on their level, facing them. Fire burned down his leg, but he wanted this moment to feed truth into them.

For a second, he wished he could share his story. Tell them that when he woke up in Germany, he'd believed the voices that told him he would have to settle for less. That he couldn't see his hopes and dreams happen. That it was okay to have an out.

The words climbed up his throat, nearly made it to his lips. He could almost see their expressions, the shock and then the courage.

Or . . . disgust. With Ryan leading the pack, they just might turn on him. A handicapped coach. Not the glory coach they wanted to follow.

No, Caleb had to prove himself first. Had to show them that he could be their coach without their sympathy-induced loyalty. He had to win their hearts through pure coaching.

“Guys, listen to me. No one wins by quitting. And if you play with all your heart, fight with everything inside, even if you lose—” he swallowed as he spoke out of the dark, pained places—“you can stand proud.”

He had their attention. Even Ryan stopped fiddling with the grass.

“I believe in you guys, and I believe you can win. If you give everything you have and leave it out there on the field, you'll never lose. I promise.”

He couldn't get up. Not without them seeing him fall, because with the soggy ground eating his good leg, his prosthesis dug into his stump and turned it to liquid fire. Instead, he motioned to the boys. “Bring it in.”

The team rose and huddled in.

And suddenly Caleb had the urge to pray. The words nearly came out on their own. “God, we ask for Your help to play our best. To give all our talents and our skills, our hearts, to playing this game. It's not about the game, but life. And how we live it. But it starts on the field, so . . . protect us, and bless our efforts.”

“And help us win.”

He wasn't sure who said it, but a murmur went through the huddle.

He wouldn't mind winning either. “And . . . help us win. Amen.”

The team looked up, and something seemed to have changed because a few of them smiled at him. Genuine smiles that said perhaps, for the first time, they might have the makings of a team.

“Thursday night, we're having a barbecue at my neighbor's house. After practice. I hope to see you all there.”

They ran for the locker room as rain began to spit on the field.

Caleb still had to figure out how to get off the turf. Or maybe he wouldn't. He leaned back, caught himself on his hands, and straightened his legs. Oh yes. He breathed out fully for the first time in ten minutes.

Dan started picking up footballs, dropping them into a mesh bag. He shot a glance at Caleb. “Great speech. And it was good to pray for the team.”

“But?”

Dan tightened the bag, then picked up the various water bottles littering the bench. “You might want to consider just one trick play. These guys have earned it. I was here for the run of the championship team. Coach Presley had some great plays. We could ask—”

“I'm not using Coach Presley's plays.” Caleb lifted his face to the rain. Cool, soothing. “This is a new era, a new team, and we're going to have new plays.”

“I don't think Coach would care. He might be honored.”

“I care. I need to prove to the school board that I can do this job. That I don't need any crutches—like the legacy of Coach Presley helping me along. I can come up with my own plays.”

“Really? Because I'm thinking you can't even get off the ground.”

He stared at Dan, blinking. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you have a bum leg, and the entire team knows it. You've been limping around for a week. What happened—old football injury?”

“I can get off the ground.” In fact, to prove it, he crossed his good leg over his residual leg, rolled over, and pushed up. Smooth.

Without even a hop.

He held out his hand, and Dan tossed him a ball.

“And just so you know, I
have
been thinking about a trick play. But I'm not sure they're ready.”

“I am.” Dan came over to the line. “Show me.”

Great, he had another Ryan on his hands. But he could hardly back down now.

Especially with Coach Brewster in the bleachers.

Caleb had seen him as the team dispersed.

Now he debated: if he showed his hand, Seb might duplicate it. But didn't he have an entire Presley playbook of trick plays? He hardly needed Caleb's.

“Okay, I've been working on something. It's sort of a reverse flea-flicker or a double pass . . . I call it the Rough Rider. The QB takes the hike with the wide receiver in motion, who stops short of the line of scrimmage. The QB then laterals it to the wide receiver, drawing the defenders over. Meanwhile the QB runs a hook pattern and is hopefully wide open to get the pass from the wide receiver.”

“Let's run it.”

Let's run it.

Okay, it didn't have to be fast and hard. And he could catch just about anything, even if he'd been a running back.

“Fine. I'll take the snap; you go in motion.” Caleb lined up, called it, and Dan set off behind him. He took two steps back, turned, and pitched the ball to Dan.

He didn't wait for Dan to catch it but followed the imaginary fullback blocking for him down the field.

For a second, he saw himself young and whole, heard the crowd, tasted the sweet adrenaline of a well-executed play.

Then, he turned on his prosthetic leg to hook inside.

He'd blame it on the rain transforming the freshly mowed lawn into a sheet of ice. Or perhaps that he had worn spikes to catch his footing. Whatever the reason, it all happened in a flash. He planted his leg, turned, but his prosthesis didn't.

His good leg slipped and he went down, tearing the suction away from his prosthesis and twisting it under his jeans.

If he'd had two good legs, the injury might render him a cripple, the way his leg seemed to twist ninety degrees at the knee socket. For Caleb, it just meant he would have to lie there, his knee wrenched nearly out of joint, and explain why he wasn't screaming in pain.

Even though he wanted to. Because as the football sailed past him, as Dan ran over to him and Seb rose from the stands, Caleb knew . . .

His double life had come to an end.

* * *

Seb looked like a dog left out in the rain.

Lucy looked up as the door jangled, watched him walk in, past the counter, and slide into a curved Formica booth seat.

The rain drenched him to the bone, his curly dark hair in ringlets, his Windbreaker slicked to his body. Even his shoes left a trail along the black-and-white linoleum.

Folding his hands on the table, he hung his head as if he'd lost his best friend.

But she didn't have time to slide into the booth across from him, find his eyes, and ask the question. Not with a lineup of customers finishing off the last of her daily production. She'd been deliberately staying open later, hoping she might sell another hundred or two donuts, staying until she'd peddled the very last crumb.

“I'd like a powdered sugar cake donut, and two—”

“Chocolate glazed. Absolutely, Mrs. Howard.” Lucy pulled out the wax paper and scooped up the donuts, dropping them into the bag.

Seb had peeled off his jacket, now hung it on the edge of the table to dry.

“Hello, Jerry, what can I get you?” She smiled at the mayor, although she still couldn't get over his rather callous response to her predicament. See if she voted for
him
in November. He might want to consider his campaign donuts before he started shutting her down.

“I want that last skizzle, please.”

She dumped it into a bag, glad that it had sat under the glass for a while. A hot skizzle could make her mouth water from ten feet. A skizzle after an hour crunched in her mouth and shattered in her hand. She hoped Jerry found it in pieces on his pressed black jeans.

“Hey there, Lucy.” Tall, thin Bree, with her finished nails and smoky eyes, that bleached hair. Where she put her donut-hole-a-day habit baffled Lucy because the woman probably painted on those jeans.

Lucy handed over the bag with the lone donut hole. Bree winked at her and dropped the eighty cents into her hand.

“Next?” A tourist—Lucy smiled as the woman cleaned her out of plain cake donuts.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Bree sit opposite Seb. He looked up but said nothing.

Lucy took the tourist's money.

See, Bree, he's not interested.

But Bree opened her bag, dumping her donut hole onto the table, then leaned close to him to say something.

He smiled.

“Can I buy a donut?”

She glanced at the customer. Oh, the hotel owner from across the street. “Sure, Anthony, what would you like?”

“That last glazed knot.”

She dumped it into the bag for him.

Bree was touching Seb's arm.

“And those last two bismarks?”

She glanced at Anthony. “What?”

He had kind blue eyes, and they even followed her gaze into the eatery. “I'd like the last two bismarks, too.”