“Smooth. Much looser. He’s been the kicker for two years, yeah?” I asked, still learning a lot about the players and their pasts.
“This is his second year. He’s talented but gets in his head. He thinks he’s injured, and sometimes you need to placate him.” He frowned, squinting his eyes at the field. “Do you see Zach? See how he is favoring his left side more than right? He might have cracked a rib, that dumbass. Go prepare some ice, please. He’ll need it when he comes off. I want you to work with him.”
“Got it.” I went to grab the ice and soon enough, Zach came off the field with his hand on his rib. I ran up to him, handing him the ice. “Put this on it. Stand up straight. Can you make it through the rest of the game, or do we need to look at it now?”
“Shit. I’m not leaving this fucking game right now. I’ll tough it out. Give me that ice,” he demanded, sweat pouring off his face and hitting the ground like rain. I nodded, unsure of my place. He walked like he was in pain, and I had to obey what Brock told me to do.
My palms sweat and heart raced. It was a ballsy move, but I said, “Zach, if your rib is cracked, it’s not worth it.” We had no way of knowing unless we did a scan, but I knew he wouldn’t do it. “You need to sit out the rest of the game.”
“Are you fucking with me right now? You don’t know shit,” he yelled, the exact moment the game became silent, and the people around us all looked our way. With shaking hands, I fisted them at my sides and stood firm.
“I’m not Anderson, but I know my shit, Zach. First off, if you have a cracked rib, then you won’t be playing in any of the next three to four games. And guess what? That freshmen who matches you in size but not experience? He’s going to start all those games. But, the last three minutes of a game that is going to come down to a field goal? Let him play. You need to rest and prevent anything worse from happening because three to four games can turn into the rest of the season,” I yelled, my voice growing more confident as I went on. My hands were no longer clenched on the side, but instead, waving around as I kept talking. “You being pissed at me has no affect. My job is to make sure you are good for the entire season. So, go pout if you want, but until Anderson clears you, you’re out.”
I stopped. I waited. I took two breaths, waiting to see how he would respond. If he wanted to cause a scene, then I would deal with it. His eyes narrowed briefly at me before he nodded. Then, he turned around to slam himself onto the bench. I sighed and turned to see Brock standing next to me with a big ass smile on his face. I raised an eyebrow and shrugged, “What?”
“Nice work, new girl.” The smile, that beautiful smile, met his eyes and danced off his face. He patted my shoulder, like a good dog, and laughed. “Way to stick it to him. You handled that perfectly.”
“Phew. I wasn’t sure,” I said, shaking my head and looking over in Zach’s direction. “I mentally prepared myself for push back, but I get defensive when people question my intelligence.”
“You handled it well. And, if any of the players disrespect you again in any way, you need to tell me. They know it is unacceptable, and he has one day to apologize. One day, and that’s it. If he doesn’t, hah, it won’t be good for him.” He met my eyes, holding my gaze. Little did he know I wouldn’t look anywhere else when all his attention was on me. “That was awesome.”
I smiled, holding out my hand for a high five. He slapped it, squeezing my hand. I felt like a million bucks. “Thanks, I guess.”
He nodded one more time at me with a smile and walked over to talk to Zach, and I was flipping glad I couldn’t hear their conversation. I was okay with backtalk. I got it all the time waitressing. But, don’t insult what I know because mamawillgrow some claws.
* * *
The differencebetween the bus ride to the game was huge compared to returning home. The players wanted to sleep, so there was no rap music blaring to the point my teeth shook. It was quiet, peaceful, and it even smelled better since they’d all showered. I put my headphones in, put on a calming playlist, and snuggled into my pillow all before Brock got on the bus.
It was lights out within minutes—exhaustion didn’t cover how tired I was, and dreams arrived instantly. My mind floated from football fields to visions of my mom and her wonderful crooked smile. The dream showed me as a young girl sitting in our small living room together. She was braiding my hair—something she did often, and in the memory, I smiled up at her as she tied two bows into each braid. She tugged on the ends and told me I was the light of her life. She pulled me into a soft hug, and a wave of sadness so deep and powerful hit me. It wasn’t fair I’d lost her. I jerked up from the dream, confused and sad at how she wasn’t there.
My eyes stung, and I sniffed at the harsh reality slap. The salty taste of tears touched my lips, and I used the sleeve of my sweatshirt to wipe them away.
“Grace, what’s wrong?” Brock’s concerned face frowned down at me.
“Hmm?”
“You’re crying,” he stated, handing me a napkin. “Why?”
I sucked in a trembling breath, fighting the emotions I always tried to keep buried. “I dreamed of my mom. It felt so real. I haven’t had a dream like that in months.”
He nodded and a look of understanding crossed his face. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes. It was the act of him trying to comfort me and give me strength, and that made my heart pitter-patter. “Do you miss her? Shit, that’s a terrible question. Of course, you do. What do you think brought this on?”
“Today. It was all kinds of wonderful. I had a moment where I swore I felt her presence, and I wished more than anything I could call her and tell her about the entire experience.” I chose to look out the window instead of at him. “I miss her every day. Some more than others.”
“I’m so sorry. How old were you when she passed away?” he asked, his voice softer than I had ever heard. He spoke like I would break into pieces. Normally, I’d hate the pity. But, it fit the mood. We were in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, and he was offering comfort.
“I had been eighteen for about three months.” I remembered the day, so vividly and so clearly that it was the one day I took off work every single year. It was too powerful, and I needed the entire day to grieve my brutal way into being an orphan.
“What about your dad?” he asked with a hopeful tone. “Are you two close?”
“My dad left my mom and I when I was seven. Haven’t seen him since.”
His body tensed, his grip on my hand tightening. “Jesus.”
“I’m over it. My mom was all I needed.” I stopped hating him or being bitter that he left us. However, no one knew that he was the reason I went through years of physical therapy. That was one family secret I refused to share.
My dad hit me with his car, shattering my leg and our family. Sure, it was an accident, but he couldn’t deal with the guilt, so he left. He broke my mom’s heart. Mine, too. It was a shitty seventh birthday.
