Ugh. The father. Dean of the mystery last name, a guy who had no idea whatmylast name was or where I lived or who I really was or that I was currently housing an ever-expanding clump of cells made up of half of his DNA.
I didn’t have even the beginning of a clue about how to find him. I knew I could call Vi or Cindy and ask them to poke around, see who brought the tall guy with the dreamy blue eyes and the made-for-melting body. But he’d said that he wasn’t from that area anymore, that he didn’t live there. So the chances were pretty high that unless someone remembered who the hottie had come with to the party, I wouldn’t be able to find him.
I had mixed feelings about this aspect of my current dilemma. On one hand, it might be nice to have someone to share my fears with, someone who could help me make the decisions that I was facing. On the other hand, what if Dean’s opinions on the matter were different than mine? Maybe it would just be easier to handle it all on my own.
Still, as I sat alone in the unfamiliar hotel room,all on my ownfelt very scary indeed.
ChapterFour
Dean
Fall had finally come to West Point.
This year, it had seemed that summer didn’t want to leave the Hudson River Valley. The heat during the days had continued to be intense, which made football practice even more hellacious.
But on this sunny October afternoon, I felt a familiar chill in the breeze that swept across the practice field. The trees on the hills across the river were changing colors, and the forecast predicted that our game this weekend would require the fans at Michie Stadium to wear their coats.
I was happy about this change. While I liked summer, I didn’t appreciate it hanging around this late in the year, particularly when I was trying to win football games. I played better when the highs were in the forties or fifties. My body worked better. It was almost as though the crisper air made my brain sharper, my eyes clearer.
The same could not be said for Connor Hayward, the wide receiver who was supposed to catch the pass I’d just sent sailing down the field. For some reason, he’d only managed to nick the end of the ball with his fingers, and I groaned as I watched the pigskin hit the grass.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Hayward! Do you need a freaking engraved invite to hold onto the damn ball?”
I couldn’t see the expression on the man’s face as he jogged back into position, but I could tell from the set of his shoulders that he was pissed. Was it with me, or with himself? I didn’t know, but he had good reason for either one. He’d missed the last three pass attempts, and each time he did, I’d gotten more belligerent, yelled louder, and generally had been an asshole.
I knew good and well that abusing my teammates didn’t help anyone, but I was frustrated. We had the fifth game of the season breathing down our necks, and although we had a winning record—we were 3-1, with the single loss to a much larger college in a different conference—we’d made some stupid mistakes during the last game and come dang close to losing.
With that on my mind, when we lined up again, I called a different play this time, one that involved me faking a handoff and then carrying the ball down the field myself. I managed to elude our defense and make the first, but as I trotted back, I heard Hayward grumbling behind me.
“What’s your problem now?” I wheeled around to face him, tugging off my helmet and glaring at the third classman. “Are your precious little feelings hurt because I didn’t choose you? Pull yourself the fuck together. We’re a team, and if I see that there’s a better way to get something done, I’m gonna do it. Suck it up, buttercup.”
Hayward’s face went a deep shade of red, and he opened his mouth, drawing in a deep breath as he got ready to give me hell. At least, I figured that was his plan. But before he could, a whistle blew and a loud voice boomed over all of us.
“Take five! Grab water and sit down.” He paused only a fraction of a moment before adding, “Lassiter, over here. Now.”
I was well-trained not only as a cadet but also as a football player. I’d been obeying my coaches instantly since I started playing pee-wee football at age six; West Point had only added a layer of that obedience. So it never occurred to menotto immediately jog over to the sidelines where Coach Casey was waiting for me, his hands on his hips, his eyes hidden by the dark mirrored sunglasses.
“Get some water,” he barked as I neared him. “And then step over here with me.”
I filled a cup from the team’s huge thermos, drained it, and then filled it again. Yeah, there was a chill in the air, but the sun was still beating down on us, and even in my practice pads and uniform, I was hot. After taking a big gulp of my second helping of water, I followed Coach down the line, away from the other coaches and players.
Did I feel a twinge of apprehension at being called aside for a private chat with my coach? Hell, yeah. I didn’t like to get my ass handed to me anymore than the next guy. But I also trusted all of the team’s staff, our head coach most of all. This was Coach Casey’s second year with the Black Knights. It had taken a few months for all of us to get used to each other after he’d taken over, but I’d learned pretty quickly that the man was a straight shooter. I knew that if I gave the team my best, if I showed up every day and worked my ass off, Coach was going to respect that. He didn’t pull any punches—when I screwed up, he let me know—but he didn’t hold a grudge. Once he’d said his piece and was sure I’d heard him, we moved on.
So even though I noted the stern set line of his mouth and the way his arms were crossed over his chest, I wasn’t unduly worried.
“Lassiter.” He barked out my name. “What’s going on with you?”
Instantly, automatically, I snapped to attention. “Sir?”
“What do you think you’re doing out there?” His chin jerked toward the field. “What was that just now?”
“Sir, with Hayward?” I asked, and when Coach nodded, I went on. “Sir, he’s not paying attention. Not learning. He dropped the da—the ball three times. I can’t pass to a receiver who isn’t going to hold onto the ball.”
“Can’t you?” Coach cocked his head. “I could be wrong, Lassiter, but I’m pretty sure you keep passing when your coaches tell you to do it.”
My jaw tensed. “Yes, sir.”
The older man let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping. “Lassiter, listen to me. I get it. Hayward should’ve had at least two of those passes.” He paused, and I saw one corner of his mouth twitch. “The second one? It wobbled, pal. That one, I can excuse him missing.”
