“Mustang!” Debbie greeted him.
Swamped him with a bear hug. Her pillowy breasts brushed his abdomen. Her teased-and-pouffed ‘80’s-style hair tickled his nose. On any other woman in her late 30’s, such hair would seem like a desperate grasp to hang onto her fading youth. Not so with Debbie. There was nothing faded about her.
“Hi mom!” Matt gushed. He hugged her back.
Debbie jerked with surprise, disentangled from the hug, and looked up at him. “What did you say?”
Matt grinned, told her to stand straight. “Debbie,” he began in an officious tone, then had to ask her last name. “Debbie Ford, in recognition of your outstanding efforts as Den Mother to our team, I hereby dub thee…’Mom Debbie!’”
Debbie’s eyes watered. “Stop that!” she tutted. “You’re going to make my mascara run. Then I’ll look ridiculous! Like Phylis Diller onHollywood Squares!”
They were standing in her Barbie-pink living room when she said this.
“Shame you didn’t get to play none today,” Debbie said. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue she’d retrieved from her iron lung of a brassiere.
Matt shrugged. “I was benched.” He had played at Thursday’s away game, but Coach had decided he could safely burn one of his two suspensions for that morning’s game. Coach had been right.
A white shag area rug in front of the seen-better-days couch looked like a splat of wet paint against the hardwood floor. Three cats assessed Matt from their perches on the couch. The smell of freshly baked desserts permeated the air.
Debbie patted Matt’s still-bruised hand. “Benched because of this? I heard about that fight you had. Sounds like that other feller deserved it. If he messes with you again, I’ll scratch his eyes out!” She held up one hand. Its painted nails curved menacingly.
Matt laughed self-consciously. His scabbed knuckles were nothing more than a cautionary tale against punching walls. That—and a reminder that Idabel was no longer his friend.
“There was no fight,” he said, which was true. What was also true was that he needed to change the subject. This talk of fighting just reignited thoughts that had troubled him all week, namely that Colton Langley deserved an ass-kicking and Matt wanted the honors. Not a locker room one-and-done dustup that was five minutes of posturing, thirty seconds of punching. What Colton needed—what he deserved—was a vigilante beat-down like Matt’s dad had delivered to the youth pastor who had molested his son. Missing teeth, broken ribs courtesy of a baseball bat.
Aversion therapy writ large, painted in blood.
Colton’s atonement for Adam’s expulsion and near suicide; for Gay Chapel, which had resulted in the dismissal of two gay freshmen naïve enough to believe that going forward for prayer was a safe thing; and for dragging William to MCU, then breaking his heart.
Yeah, Matt was in a dark place. Had been for the five days since Paul had shown him the letter, told him about Colton’s little extortion plot.
In roughly six hours, at 8:00 p.m., there was a scheduled showdown with Colton. William’s plan might work—might—but it was wrong-headed, weak. Matt’s superior plan had been soundly voted down by his peers in the GM.
He itched to go rogue.
Debbie wanted to talk about the fight that hadn’t happened. “Not the way I heard it. You’re a hero with all the girls. You know, my social ranking soared when word got out that I’m friends with ‘Mustang,’ the tall, handsome, soccer jock! They come to my office and pepper me with questions about you.”
Matt blushed.
One of Debbie’s cats had jumped off the couch and was rubbing against his leg. He bent down and gently petted its calico fur. It sniffed his hand.
Matt noticed that one of its eyes was clouded over.
“That’s Cleopatra,” Debbie said. “I named her that to boost her self-esteem. Don’t talk about the e-y-e,” she whispered. “She’s self-conscious. The e-y-e was like that when I adopted her. Poor thing. Has depth perception issues.”
The doorbell rang.
It was Idabel and two other teammates. They spilled into the house, still high on that morning’s victory.
Idabel gave Matt a curt nod, then followed Debbie to the kitchen.
Matt heard Debbie explaining to Idabel that she’d made him his own cherry pie—with real cherries, not some jellied glop from a can. It was stashed on top of the icebox away from the other food. The crust was her grandmother’s recipe. Very flaky. She hoped he liked it.
The doorbell rang again. And again later. Eventually most of the team was there, eating, talking excitedly, reliving the game.
Idabel stayed in the kitchen—whether for the food or to avoid Matt, not easily discernable. Maybe both.
Matt stuck to the couch.
