Josie picks up the mug and takes a drink and sets it down.
“Okay,” she says quietly.
She puts her glasses back on and goes back to whatever’s on her laptop. She’s done talking about this and listening to the excuses I’ve come up with.
FOUR
The field lights at Beaumont High burn white against a black October sky. I can see my breath. The bleachers are half full, which is less than the old days, when this town packed every seat and stood three deep along the fence. That was before soccer skyrocketed as a sport, and before the school added volleyball. Now, there are more options when before you either played football or you didn’t.
The metal bleacher is cold through my jeans, and I’ve got my hands in my jacket pockets, shoulders pulled up against the wind that’s been cutting across the field all night. Josie spreads a blanket across my lap and puts her arm through mine.
“I didn’t think it would be this cold,” she says as she clasps her gloved hands together.
“We should pay to have boxes put in.”
“We can’t fix everything, Liam.”
She’s right. We can’t. We can try but at some point, the town needs to figure their shit out and stop overspending on repairing the same stretch of road year after year. Maybe it’s time to fire the company they hire each time, who clearly can’t do the job correctly.
I watch the sideline. Nick paces. He has a headset on, but it sits too high on his ears. He’s not listening to his coach in the box. Noah is though. He stands next to my frenemy, with his hands on his knees, and then he stands tall, only to cross his arms.
Nick and my son—they coach together now—while I sit on the bleacher freezing my ass off. They move in sync. It’s their own formation and something they created long before I returned to Beaumont. Nick calls the play. Noah leans in, says something, and points at the defensive backfield. Nick nods.
In front of us are the cheerleaders. Paige is there, with her ponytail swinging and voice carrying. During a play, the squad faces the field, encouraging the offense or defense to do their job. When the ball’s dead, they turn and face us and do their job of getting the crowd into the game.
She waves at us and of course we wave back. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Josie about Paige working at Ralph’s yet. Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about her waiting tables. I know it’s a rite of passage for most teens, but Paige has a job, and she knows I’ll give her money. Hell, she already has her own credit card.
Still, I get that she wants her independence. Lord knows I did when I was her age. I couldn’t get far enough away from Sterling and my mother. I didn’t have to work when I was in high school, but that was so Sterling could control me.
The whistle pulls me from those thoughts.
Mack takes center and calls his cadence. The ball’s snapped.
He drops back five steps, quick and precise, his eyes already reading the secondary before his back foot plants. That was me back in the day, and then Noah. Nick will take credit for teaching Noah the five step drop, but I like to think it was in his genes. Mack’s a different story. He’s a beast at quarterback, and I like to think that’s because of my son.
Mack finds his receiver on the slant. The ball comes out fast, tight, a rope that hits the receiver in stride at the thirty . . .
. . .Mason.
Visions hit me of when I was this age. Along with Mason and Josie. Katelyn too. This was our life every Friday night in the fall. Me throwing to Mason. Josie & Katelyn cheering. The crowd erupting because we got another first down or Mason managed to beat everyone to the end zone for six.
I shake my head. This isn’t the time to relive the glory days. I did that when Noah was playing.
“It’s another Beaumont High first down,” the announcer says over the loudspeaker.
The chains move and the team shifts.
On the sideline, Nick pulls off his headset and yells an adjustment to the offensive line. His voice carries in the cold air. Noah claps. The cheer squad hit the next chant, and the crowd picks it up, and the stomping rolls through the bleachers. Excitement grows. We’re yards away from a touchdown.
I think about Nick on fields, football and baseball. In exam rooms. In my kitchen, making coffee because he knows where everything is. He raised my son while I was somewhere else being famous. I used to hate him for it. Now I owe him for it, and owing Nick Ashford sits in my gut worse than hating him ever did.
Despite returning the favor when Mack didn’t want to leave Beaumont. Nick swallowed his pride and asked me for the impossible. I never even hesitated when I said yes because I owed him. Besides, Mack’s a great kid and my son loves him. What kind of man would I be in the eyes of my son if I turned away someone he considered family?
Mack takes the next snap and rolls right. Nobody is open. He tucks the ball and runs, cuts up field, and a linebacker shoves him out of bounds past the first-down marker. Thecrowd stands. Mack jogs back to the huddle with his chin strap hanging, already calling the next play before he gets there.
The second quarter opens with Beaumont up by ten. Nick calls a screen pass that Mack dumps off to the running back for fifteen yards. Noah pumps his fist on the sideline, catches himself, goes back to his clipboard. He’s trying to be professional about it. He’s failing. I don’t blame him. I’d fail too.
I pull my collar up. The wind has shifted and it’s coming straight down the field now, carrying the smell of popcorn from the concession stand and the sound of the drumline warming up for halftime. My knees are stiff from the cold metal. The man two rows down has a thermos, and I can smell the coffee in it, and I want some.
