“What?” Nora asked, all innocence.
Sure, it was easy for Nora to ignore the rich jerks. She worked from home, remotely. Becca relied on a steady stream of local business to keep her afloat. And of course, there was the fact that she leased her storefront from Linda’s ex-husband.
“Nora, behave,” she said under her breath.
Linda turned to scowl at them, then turned back around and waved at her son again, bumping into Nora on purpose.
“Whoa. Be careful Linda.” Nora’s scary voice. When she turned super polite, Becca knew to be wary.
Her head started to throb, and she’d lost all feeling in her butt and thighs.
In a sing-song voice, Nora added, “I wouldn’t want to spill thisscaldinghot chocolate all over your pretty coat and hair. Think of the stains.” Not so under her breath she added, “And the third-degree burns.”
Linda stopped moving around so much. As did her friends. They turned to sneer at Nora, and they did it in unison, as if they’d rehearsed. Nora pretended to bobble her cup.
The witchy trio left their seats in a hurry and angled toward the low ground, closer to the football team. As crowded as the stands were, others quickly took their spots.
Nora harrumphed and in a loud voice said, “Now let’s watch some football.”
Others near them hooted with appreciation.
Becca laughed, cold, tired, and now amused. “You’re such a pain.” They clinked cups. “But here’s to a victory.”
“Let’s hope.”
They lost 20-17.
Mitch “Flash” Flashman glared at the team in the locker room. How generous of his stupid brother and the assistant coaches to leave the postgame talk to him. “You call that football?”
No one spoke.
“That was a travesty. A goddamn train wreck! We’re better than that, guys. What the fu—” he censored himself at a warning look from his older brother “—hell?”
The kids looked dejected. Good. They shouldn’t be happy about losing. You could teach a kid skills, but you couldn’t instill that drive to win. Aggression and size only counted for so much. The desire to win had to be there.
He gave them a few more truths, about dedication, desire, victory, then tapered off with, “We’ll fix these mistakes at practice on Monday. You guys are so much better than what you showed tonight.”
The offensive coach subtly stepped in and went over a few problem areas that hadn’t cost them as much as the sucky defense had. Christ. He’d seen better blocking by his mother protecting her Nutter Butters from his grabby father.
A loud snort caught his attention.
“You. What’s your problem?” he snarled, still upset over the loss.
The boy, Simon Bragg, had real talent. If only he’d let go of that attitude and listen once in a while.
Everyone grew quiet and stared at Simon. The boy was an inch shorter than Mitch, a good six-two and only a freshman. He’d be huge when he filled out. And he was fast, could catch a ball and instinctively knew how to move on the field. But that mouth was getting him nowhere fast.
“Well?” Mitch growled.
Simon’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not our fault. We should have used a different defense. 41 and 62 were beating us down the field every time.” He turned to Coach Dorset, the defensive coordinator. “You should have shifted our coverage. Their quarterback knew exactly where to throw.”
“What are you saying, Bragg?” one of the cornerbacks responsible for so many missed tackles asked.
“You’re full of crap,” said another, who just happened to have been tasked with watching 62.
The rest of the team remained silent. Like Simon, hell, like Mitch, they knew the truth.
As did Deacon, his brother, who simply stared at Dorset with a knowing look. Deacon had mentioned the same concern last night, when they’d been going over strategies. The opposing team’s star players, numbers 41 and 62, had scholarships waiting on them. Both running backs with wheels and the know-how to run the team ragged. Which they’d done with brutal efficiency. But Deacon had left the defense up to Dorset, mostly because he’d been working his ass off lately to handle his real job—managing his brewpub.
