My Foolish Heart (29 page)

“The Sebanator,” Issy said. “Always the champion.”

“I think he does want to be my champion, a little.” Lucy let herself linger on the memory of his hand in hers, the taste of his lips. And this time around, it didn't feel quite as dangerous, as if he'd keep his promises. “I think he wants to be the town hero, too. He's really worried about tomorrow's game.”

Lucy fished a stack of letters out of her bag. “I probably need to stop by my PO box more than twice a week, although all I get is junk mail. Oh, the bank sent me something.”

She sawed her thumb through the lip of the envelope, then pulled out the letter and read it. “Are you kidding me?”

“What?” Issy dumped a clean potato in the pot.

“They're foreclosing on my loan.”

“What?”
Issy grabbed the towel again.

“It's from Bam. He says that due to loan default, he's calling in the loan on World's Best.”

“Can he do that?”

Lucy laid the letter on the counter. Drew a breath. “Yes. Because the loan is technically a contract for deed. And the previous owner of our property can take it back if we default.”

“Why would they do that?”

Lucy shook her head, but she had a pretty good idea. And it all started in Bammer's office, probably when Seb handed over her stellar—
his
stellar—predictions of her earnings with her new addition to Bam the banker. Bam the all-state blitzer.

Bam, the holder of her contract for deed.

Bam, the married womanizer who'd made a nonfootball pass at her during the Fish Pic street dance a few years ago, one that ended with her climbing out of his truck in the wee hours of the morning, a moment she wanted to erase. Unfortunately Bam wasn't used to having a girl slam the door in his face. Add that to his high school crush and he had a pride to soothe.

And Seb had helped his pal betray her.

* * *

“Stay in your lanes! Hustle all the way to the ball!”

Seb gritted his teeth as he watched the ball slip as if greasy through the hands of his receiver. It squirreled around the field while one player after another on the receiving team pursued it.

The defense and offense tangled up in the middle of the field.

“Grab the ball!” He couldn't watch.

“They're not wrapping up. They're not staying in the hip pocket to tackle. They're getting stuck on their man, not getting by.” Bam listed off his complaints under his breath even as, next to him, DJ nodded.

“You can't make yards if you can't hold on to the ball.”

Seb had taught these boys nothing in the space of two weeks. Not even spending the last three days in drills had made a difference, not when all they wanted to do was run the handful of plays perfected by the old state champs.

“Maybe you should run a few tackling drills.” He glanced at Bam, who had shown up for every practice since Monday without a word of apology. It didn't matter—they were here to play football.

Bam shook his head. “It would take another week of hard practice, and we got a game tomorrow. Call 'em in; let 'em rest. We've already overworked them.”

Seb blew the whistle, his gut burning. The boys pulled off their helmets, ran in as he walked to the fifty. “Take a knee, guys.”

Most of them simply flopped on the grass. So much for discipline. He'd watched Knight's team huddle up for another prayer today.

Not even praying would help, probably, although he hadn't exactly sought God's help—hadn't really thought he needed it.

He threw his clipboard to the ground, his hands on his hips. Bam and DJ edged over, their eyes on him. The old quarterback, rallying his team.

Only he'd never had to rally his old team. Not with Coach Presley at the helm. Coach always knew what to say, how to encourage, how to push. And if this had been Presley's team, they'd be barbecuing tonight in the coach's backyard.

The sun hung low, the evening stretching dark fingers into the field. Gnats hovered in swarms over the boys' heads, although fatigue kept them from shooing them away. Crickets sawed into the night, and a languid summer breeze swept through the air.

They were going to get slaughtered.

And they had no one to blame but Coach Brewster and his glory days.

He swept off his baseball hat, ran his hands through his hair. Blew out. “Boys, I owe you an apology.”

Bam narrowed his eyes. DJ looked at the ground.

“I failed you. I haven't taught you what you needed to know these past two weeks.”

Eyes considered him, wary, angry.

“I taught you some fun plays, yes, but without knowing how to tackle, hold the ball, or even block, a great play doesn't matter. Substance matters. Not flash.”

Bam shook his head and turned away from him. DJ folded his arms over his chest.

“The reason our team won state wasn't Coach Presley's fancy plays; it was because he drilled us until we knew how to play good football. How to be men who wouldn't quit. Men built for others, for their team.”

He stared at the boys, the way a couple of them bore down on him with a hard look. Others looked at the turf or away, as if embarrassed.

He should have picked up that playbook like Coach said, stopped by Issy's to ask for it. But what could be in it that he didn't already know?

“Are you saying we're going to lose?” Michaels asked. His sophomore quarterback, lean, blond, slippery as an eel with a throw that could make it all the way to the end zone with the right blocking, wore a stripped look.

Yes. But watching the boys . . . they deserved a coach who believed in them.

They deserved a coach they could believe in. A coach like Caleb Knight, who knew how to be man of honor, who didn't let his past cripple him.

He'd given Lucy a chance to tell him about her past last night, and she'd said nothing. Why were Bam's words eating him? So she'd dated—okay, slept with—other guys. He hadn't exactly been a choir boy since leaving Deep Haven.

Bam watched him, one eyebrow up.

He had to find something to give them. “I'm not saying we're going to lose. But maybe . . . maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe we get out there and have fun and see what we can do. We worked hard and we owe ourselves—and them—a good fight. And we're going to give it to 'em. We're going to play hard, hit hard, and most of all, remember that you're playing for your position for whoever the coach may be, so go out there and give all you got.”

He got a few nods, but nothing that would set the world on fire. He wasn't particularly enthused either.

A good part of him wanted to run off the field and never look back.

“Go home and get rested. Be here at three tomorrow for warm-ups.”

The boys pried themselves off the field.

Bam walked over. “What kind of pep talk was that? Have fun? We're not playing flag football here, Seb. We're in it to win. Do you want Knight to get your job?”

Yes, maybe. “Knight is a good coach. The team would be lucky to have him.”

“He doesn't belong here.
You
belong here. You're the coach we need.”

Seb picked up his clipboard. “Hey, did you hear back from the board on Lucy's loan? We got Gary's crew lined up for Saturday—”

“Board turned her down.”

Seb looked at him. “What? Why?”

Bam drew in a breath. “Lucy's defaulted on her loan for three months, Seb. I can't fix that.”

“You saw it in the business plan—she'll make the money back, and more.”

“She's got a contract for deed. Which means the owner can call in the loan or foreclose at will if she misses her payments.”

“Let me go talk to him. Who is it? Let me explain—”

“It's me, Seb.” Bam met his gaze when he said it.

Seb blinked, not sure how to process his words. “It's . . . What do you mean it's
you
?”

“My family owned the property where World's Best sits. They want it back.”

“Only because you saw the moneymaking potential. You can't open a donut shop. You don't know the first thing about making donuts.”

“But Java Cup does. And I'll hire them to come in and make donuts. People don't care about the secret recipe. They care about having a donut with their cup of coffee. And yes, your business plan helped us see the potential of the place. It's not our fault Lucy dropped her loan payments.”

“You never intended to give Lucy that loan, did you?”

Bam picked up a football. “Get over her, Seb. Everyone else has.”

Seb didn't realize he'd dropped the clipboard until it banged on his foot, but by then, he didn't care. By then he'd launched himself at Bam. Tackled him into the turf, snuffing him so hard it rattled his own bones. Then he cocked his fist and committed the first of a string of personal fouls.

Practice ended with the team watching the quarterback of the Deep Haven Huskies get bloody with his star defensive end.

So much for team spirit.

* * *

Issy had traveled back in time to the days of the Thursday night Presley barbecue. Hickory-smoked hamburgers, hot dogs, teenage boys talking swagger and smack on the deck, some of them pitching a football around the garden.

“Watch out for the hydrangeas!”

“No problem, Miss P.!”

On the grilling deck, wearing a white apron and a pink oven mitt, Caleb served up burgers.

He looked way too much like her father after the Thursday night practice. Smiling, confident, trustworthy.

Safe.

“Is that number three for you, Jackson?” She remembered the names as Caleb had introduced them, mostly by their position. “Being a tackle doesn't mean you have to be built like a brick.”

The blond, pimply kid had the girth of a moose. “Saving room for cookies, Miss P.!”

Caleb grinned at her as she came up to the deck after making the rounds with Kool-Aid. “That potato salad is a thing of joy and beauty.” His paper plate, scraped clean, lay on the railing.

“It was my mother's secret recipe. She always served it at the barbecue.”

“No wonder the Huskies always won.” He winked at her.

Yes, she very much could get used to this.

It nearly felt like attending a game. She let that thought sink into her, waited for the swirl of panic. Nothing.

“I'll get the cookies.”

“We
do
want these boys to be able to run tomorrow.”

“They're my mother's secret recipe too.”

“Bring them on.”

She had propped open the back door, still waiting on the glass from the lumberyard, and now nearly tripped over Duncan, sprawled in the middle of the kitchen floor. The team's quarterback sat beside the dog, rubbing his head, reading—

“That's my dad's playbook.”

Ryan, she thought his name was, looked up. “Really? It's got some cool plays.”

“He won three state championships with them.”

Ryan nodded. Went back to the book.

Lucy stood at the sink, stirring a new batch of punch. Stirring, staring out the window, stirring.

“I think it's ready,” Issy said, slipping her arm around Lucy. She still appeared as if someone had just set fire to her house. Drawn. Hollowed out. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I lost my parents' business. The business that has been in our family for three generations. How could I do that?”

“I don't think it's entirely your fault—”

“You're right, Issy.” Lucy turned to her, something wild, unrecognizable in her eyes. “No football players. Number three. I should have listened to you and your list. Miss Foolish Heart knows best.”

“Shh—”

Lucy opened her mouth, then clamped her hand over it. “Sorry.”

“Ix-nay on the ow-shay. There are extra ears in the room.” Her gaze darted to Ryan, still paging through the playbook. Maybe someday she'd have the strength to part with it, bequeath it to the school. After her father okayed it, of course. Until then, she could almost hear his voice in her ears when she read his plays, could see him on the sideline. No, she was far from ready to part with it.

“Sorry. I just . . . I was so stupid. Here I thought . . .” Lucy's mouth opened again, some sort of conspiracy playing behind her eyes. “What if Bam set me up? What if he sent Seb to spy on me? What if they deliberately got my hopes up in order to watch me fail? Bam has reasons not to like me. And I'm sure he told Seb.”

“What kind of reasons?”

Lucy shook her head.

“What are you talking about, Lucy?”

“What if this entire thing was just payback?” Her voice sounded strained. Lucy closed her eyes, something that looked like real pain on her face. “Payback from Bam. And Seb helped him. I knew he never really cared for me. This was probably some joke to them.”

Issy took her hands. “Payback for what?”

“Everything okay in here?” Caleb stepped inside, too cute in his pink oven mitt. “I have some big boys outside who are willing to separate you two.”

“We're not angry at each other,” Issy said over her shoulder. “Not ever.”

He came over to lift the cooler from the sink as Lucy moved back. “You sure?”

“Hello, the house. Are there pancakes here?” The voice came from the hallway, and Lucy froze.

Issy turned, not sure if she should smile or not. She glanced at Lucy, who turned away. Oh, boy. “Seb Brewster. It's about time.”

The years dropped away as he walked into the room. He'd filled out, his shoulders bigger, although he still had the look and build of a quarterback, along with the Saturday morning bruises. Apparently he'd been working hard with his team, too, although he'd taken a tackle on his chin.

Seb always had a sheepish smile for her—usually when he showed up on a Saturday morning, eating pancakes at their breakfast table. He produced that smile now. “Hey, Issy.”