I drag my fingers through the ends of his hair and smile. “Yeah, you will. But it won’t be so bad. And I’m sure you’ll end up with some extra cash, too. Some money to spend on Jo Jo.”
My son glances through the house, out the back door, where his girlfriend plays with Archie. He smiles, and I can’t help but smile as I watch him. Young love is powerful, and no matter who comes after or next, or who ends up taking his last name and wearing his ring, he will never forget Jo Jo.
Sometimes I wonder if they’ll stand the test of time, and turn their high school sweetheartdom into a long life together.
“I’m saving for prom. I want to surprise her and get her the dress she wants.” He looks at me, his cheeks showing light embarrassment. “I know her dad would buy her the dress, but I want to get it for her.”
I place my hand on his knee—the one not acting as a dinner plate—and give it a squeeze. “That’s sweet, Rawl. And as soon as state testing is done, you can start coming down toGoode’s after school and washing dishes until Tanner needs a ride. A couple hours a day for a few weeks. Who knows, you may like it.”
He rolls his eyes. “I like money, mom. But I’m not going to like washing dishes more than I like being at home.”
“No,” I agree, “you won’t.”
He finishes the sandwich and heads out back, and I glance at my watch, finding that I have thirty minutes before I have to pick up Tanner, and after that, only an hour before we’re meeting Dean for dinner. Knowing I’ll have to force Tanner into a shower once I get him home, I opt to take my shower now, happy that I remembered to pick up more lilac and lavender body wash on my way home.
Archie decides to stay at home with Rawley and Jo Jo when I go to grab Tanner from his first practice after his injury. I think this is the first time in weeks I’m not grabbing him straight after work—I mean, I worked this morning for a few hours, but at least changed into jeans and a blouse when I got home.
Pulling in, there are football players littered all over the parking lot, their red cheeks and mussed hair showing their hard work. A group of boys near a down tailgate work on pulling gear off of each other, and I park a few spots away, next to a van pulling out, full of teenagers.
Tanner isn’t milling around with the rest of the boys, but one of his friends stops me with a nod of his head. “What’s up Mrs. Colt, Tanner’s in the training office, icing his collarbone.”
I can’t remember the boy's name, but I thank him and follow the direction of his outstretched arm, toward the open metal blue door. Inside the training office, it’s a little dim, and smells like a dried out sauna and old gym socks—which is pretty much what it is.
The old wood paneled walls are stained and warped, and the concrete ground is covered in a thin layer of dust and dirt. On the largest training table, lying on his back with a sandbag of ice lying across his collarbone, is Tanner. He peers my way through one eye, the other pinched closed due to the torque of his head. “Hey, mom.”
I push the strap of my purse up my shoulder, and tuck hair behind my ear as I approach, sizing him up. “Precautionary or reactionary?” I ask of the long tube of bagged ice resting against his body.
From behind me, a deep male voice answers, and I turn to see the tall, lean man in the white Bluebell Bruisers polo, track pants and sneakers. “A little of both. Icing the collarbone is good to reduce swelling, and with that heavy equipment, he’s bound to experience some tonight.”
I nod my head then look at my son. “How was it? Are you sore?”
He nods, though I can tell it’s with great reluctance, which tells me he’s probably far more sore than he’s letting on. If he was just a little sore, he would have told me he feels fine.
I wince a little, and run my fingers up his bare forearm. “Do you think it’s too soon?”
“No,” he barks back, “Coach said I’d be sore. He said the first few weeks back would be rough, but that’s just becausemy body is still adjusting to the weight of the gear, and taking hits again. That’s all, mom,” he assures me.
I glance at the man in the white polo with the whistle around his neck. He smiles, extending his hand to me, which I shake.
“I’m West Dupont, I’m the athletic director for Bluebell High and the surrounding schools. I’m also a sports trainer and a teacher.” His smile is genuine and not at all smarmy, which is surprising for how good looking he is. Usually dark, swoopy hair, a little chin stubble and a lean frame gives “you’d be lucky to have me” vibes, but West seems genuinely nice.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Dupont.” I look at my son, my only concern at the moment, and glance back at West. “You think this is normal soreness? I know he wants to be back, and he’ll hate me if I say he’s not ready, but I would hate to have a worse injury occur because he’s back too soon, and then have him be out longer, and miss out.”
West bobs his head in understanding, keeping one fist pressed into his other palm as he speaks. “Definitely. I completely understand your concerns. Totally. But the discomfort that Tanner is experiencing now is very much normal for his injury. And I want to warn you, he should take some Advil tonight because the soreness will likely increase. I liken it to getting braces.” He looks at Tanner. “Have you had braces?” Tanner nods, and smiles, showing off his straight teeth.
“He got them off last year,” I tell West.
“Right,” West says, “then you know what I mean. You get braces on, and you think it’s no biggie. The day you get them, you may even have a celebratory meal. But later that night, when it all sets in, your jaw is bumpin’ and your head is throbbing, and all of a sudden, havingbraces sucks.”
I can’t help but snicker a little at that. “We got you a ten-piece nugget meal and you inhaled it. Then that night,” I say, turning back to West, “he was in so much pain.”
West nods. “Yeah. That could be how you feel tonight, right up here,” he says, moving his hand around his collarbone, extending over his shoulder and up the sides of his neck. “This entire area is going to realize you just wore thirty pounds of gear and smashed into a bunch of people today. I’d suggest icing all evening, off and on, every twenty minutes, and staying ahead of it by taking Advil now.”
Tanner nods, waving him off as he pushes up to sitting, letting the ice packs fall to the table. “I’ll be okay.”
West motions to the bags of ice as Tanner tugs his shirt on. “Take the bags. Take some Advil.” He gives Tanner a fist bump. “Good work today, kid.”
“Thanks, Mr. Dupont.”
