Quickly, I send him a text, that way, I can’t chicken out. The man brings my boys food, and fixes my washer, and doesn’t want me to bring him anything, and touches me in a way that quite literally awakens dormant things inside me. A conversation needs to be had.
After the game tonight, if you’re not busy, I’d love to see you for a few hours.
I was hoping we can talk
Good luck!
I have no idea if that text was bad luck or tacky, and for a moment I get nervous that I’m throwing off his good luck or good vibes mojo or something—coaches and athletes can be picky about their pre-game rituals and communication.
Thankfully, he replies quickly.
Can’t wait to see how Tanner does out there tonight
I’d love to see you, too
Meet me on the field, then I’ll head back to your place behind you?
I smile. I’m sure the man would love to go home after a long day in the classroom and on the field, but he knows I can’t do that without bringing all of my spawn, so he offers to head to my place. Though it’s a small thing, it's considerateand thoughtful; at my age, those two things are sexier than gray sweats and an erection. Seriously.
Sounds good.
And then for some reason, I text one last thing.
I stare at the emoji for less than a second before locking my phone and sliding it away, refusing to hyperfixate on the fact that I boldly just sent a kiss face emoji like a fourteen year old girl with a crush.
It’s fine.
I sit up, and tug my sweatshirt on, and am just about to make Rawley, Jo Jo and Archie some early dinner when my phone rings. Maybe it’s Dean calling off our date because of my ridiculous use of a kiss face emoji? No, that’s not likely. Tanner’s at school—the players stay on campus before the big game— and the other kids are here. Everyone at the restaurant is programmed into my phone, and that man at Wrench Kings is even programmed in, too.
I don’t recognize the number, and it’s not a familiar area code.
I don’t know why I do, but I answer the call. Maybe the adrenaline and excitement for Tanner tonight, or the hope in my heart that my talk with Dean will go well. I don’t know, but I answer.
“Hello?”
There’s a moment of pause, and then a long exhale. “Clara June?”
It’s a voice I never thought I’d hear again, and one I’d prayed I wouldn’t.
“Troy?”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
DEAN
I’m vibrating,reeling, my hands practically shaking as I clap my palm into the other coach’s hand.
“Good looking team you got this season, McAllister,” Coach Mayoral says, squinting against the glare of bright stadium lights. “When your guy wentdown a few months back, I wasn’t sure y’all would recover but your shoo-in rocked it. He’s back, seemingly stronger than ever.”
I don’t gloat, but it’s hard not to beam pridefully. When Tanner was out, Damon stepped up, and we didn’t lose. He did great, and while he wasn’t as tight with his footwork, and he wasn’t ready to make a lot of tough calls on his own, he stepped up and showed his team what he could do.
Damon went back to the bench tonight, as Tanner walked onto the field, and supported our team from there. A truly good all around team player. Tanner, the leader that he is, thanked him for stepping up.
Then… we eviscerated the other team. Three touchdowns in the first quarter. Tanner had my stomach in goddamn knots. If his collarbone or shoulder ever got sore, if his head felt funny or if he ever got nervous, he hid it well. Hell, I asked him if he was okay no less than ten times in that game. Every time I asked him he’d say, “All good, Coach, seriously. I’m all good.”
After the game, before the local reporters and cable access cameraman can get down on the field, I pull a panting and sweaty Tanner aside, and talk to him. Since that article came out today, everyone’s been talking about him and his future, celebrating everything that is possible with a golden arm like he has.
