It was times like this Vince wished he played basketball or tennis. It was difficult to throw a football around by yourself. But here Vince was on this overcast day, in the middle of an empty field in an empty stadium, wishing he could vent his frustration in a more productive manner.

Instead he was lying on his back, throwing a football into the air and catching it by his chest again.

That was the idea, at least. It had smacked him in the face a couple of times now.

“Don’t give yourself brain damage,” he told himself ruefully as the damn thing smashed into his mouth again. He rubbed his lip and hugged the ball to his chest for a minute, watching the clouds sail past. A storm was brewing.

Not anything bad. He’d come back to help his family out during Harvey and that had been just awful. But this looked like a bit of plain old rain.

Vince had the fleeting thought that he should head inside soon so he didn’t get soaked and catch his death, as his nonna would say. But a part of him didn’t care. He was all booked in to see the doctor tomorrow. If he got the flu, he assumed they would know what to do about it.

He punched the ball and threw it up again. It wasn’t that he wanted to still have swelling or whatever fuckery it was they would be looking for in his skull. But if he did…it would make the decision for him. He’d stay in Hidden Creek for a while longer and ask Koby if he wanted to talk, now they were both calmer.

He stopped himself from daydreaming too far. Most of the time. But when he’d been in a really dark place, just after he’d left the vandalized art studio yesterday evening, he’d imagined – just for a second or two – what it might be like if the doctors told him the risk was just too great and he couldn’t play again.

What would his life look like then?

He grunted and kept throwing the ball. Sure, he could picture staying with his family and if he was really fucking lucky, he could picture Koby in his life, too. But what would he do? How would he earn a living and keep from being idle if he didn’t play football anymore?

“Well, ain’t this a sorry sight,” an affectionate old voice drawled.

Despite his sour mood, Vince managed a grin and sat up, the ball clutched between his hands. Dizziness threatened to wash over him, as was usual these days when he wasn’t super slow getting up. But he managed to shake it off.

“Hey, Hoff.” He sighed. “Come sit with me?”

“With these knees?” Coach Hoffman scoffed. “You young whippersnapper. You can mosey right along. Come sit with me in the proper seats. Give an old man a chance.”

Vince chuckled and pushed himself off the grass. It was late afternoon, but thanks to the clouds, the day already felt dark and gloomy. Perfect for his self-pitying mood.

“So,” Hoff said as he lowered himself into one of the bleacher chairs with a grimace. “That guy Hernandez is pretty intense, huh?”

Vince groaned, twisting the ball between his palms. “Shit – I mean shoot – sorry, Hoff.”

“For the cussin’ or the asshole blowing up my phone, demanding I kick you out of the state?” Hoffman teased. He slapped Vince’s thigh. “Don’t worry about it, kid. He just knows he’s got a real important member of his team out in the wind and he wants to bring him home.”

Vince chewed his lip and looked out over the stadium they were going to name after him. He never felt less worthy.

“You’re right. I should go back.”

Hoffman scoffed. “That ain’t what I said at all, kid.”

Vince frowned and glanced over at his former coach, but Hoffman was looking over the field with a wistful look in his eyes. “Everyone thinks I should go back.” Everyone except Koby. “What else can I do?”

Hoffman rubbed the white whiskers on his chin, his eyes bright and glassy. “You always were such a good kid, Vinny. You worked your ass off. Even when you didn’t quite get your grades, you came here, played ball, handed in every paper on time and made it to the big leagues.” Hoffman turned and gave him a piercing glare. “But I’m not sure you ever did a damn thing just cuz you wanted to. You’re one of the best ballplayers I’ve ever seen, I ain’t gonna lie. So you followed that star. But I’ve had a thousand kids in my time whose eyes lit up brighter than yours ever did under those floodlights. The roar of the crowd, the thrill of the touchdown…it doesn’t make you spark.”

Vince blinked, hurt welling up inside him. “No…I…”

Hoffman held up a finger, half a smile twitching the side of his mouth. “But the way you look when you call a play and see it land. The way you cheer when a guy gets the ball and the team is working as one. That’s the shine in you. You love your team, be it here or Oklahoma. You don’t want to let them down, because you know what people can accomplish when they work together.”

Vince swallowed, the flare of hurt replaced by warm pride. He knew that was true. “Yeah.” He nodded and flipped the ball in his hands. “That’s why I gotta go, even if I’m benched. I can’t let them down.”

“You get that spark when you talk about that artist fella of yours, too,” Hoffman said.

Vince’s blood ran cold and he looked up at Hoffman.

But Hoffman was looking out over the field again. His elbows were on his knees, his hands clasped with his chin resting on them. “You know I was in the war, kid?”

“Vietnam?” Vince said without missing a beat. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t you ‘sir’ me,” Hoffman said with an irritable chuckle. “I didn’t have no choice. My number came up, so I did my duty. Got my ass shipped out to a jungle halfway around the world to point a gun where I was told.”

He shook his head, pausing so long Vince wondered if he was waiting for Vince to speak. But then Hoffman continued.

“I made a buddy out there. His name was Quincy Perkins. Always seemed to have Hershey Kisses on him did Quincy, no matter how fucked things got.” Hoffman smiled, but his eyes were definitely shining now as he stared out over the field. He swallowed and nodded. “We talked football nonstop and played cards. I managed a few chords on the guitar – badly – and he sang. We made up stories about the stars in the sky. He was a Kansas boy, but we both said we’d come back to Texas. After a few months, I couldn’t imagine a life without Quincy Perkins.”

Hoffman sniffed and Vince realized he’d gone cold all over. Was Hoffman saying what he thought he was?

“Quincy never did come home,” Hoffman said steadily, his smile getting inexplicably broader as a tear fell down his lined cheek. “I was there. A sniper got him, so it was quick. He was confused, but…I held his hand. Told him he’d be just fine.”

Vince didn’t know what he could possibly say, so he reached over and placed one of his large hands gently on his old coach’s knee. Hoffman nodded again and rubbed his nose, still smiling.

“Now, don’t you get me wrong,” he said firmly. “I’ve loved my Ruby Jane for forty years and I ain’t gonna stop anytime soon. But…I do believe I loved Quincy Perkins before her. And I ain’t never told a soul that until now. So I hope you’ll really listen to an old fool when he tells you that life is too damn short and precious, Vincent Russo.”

For a moment Vince just stared, too many thoughts whirling around his head. “Thank you,” he said eventually.

Hoffman shook himself and cleared his throat, arching an eyebrow as he looked at Vince again. “Don’t thank me yet, kid,” he said wryly. “You gotta make some decisions, tough ones.”

But Vince took a shaky breath and sat up straighter. “I’m not sure they are that tough, actually.” He was turning over several things at once, wondering how much trouble he might get in. But a plan was starting to form in his head. He threw Hoffman a look and bit his lip. “I might need your help, though?”

Hoffman laughed and slapped Vince’s knee. “Kid, if you’re thinking what I’m thinking, then I’m already three steps ahead of you. But first things first. Do you need to go find this artist? I get the distinct impression you done fucked up a little?”

Vince barked out a laugh and rubbed the back of his head, shocked at hearing Hoffman swear. “Yeah, maybe,” he said ruefully. “But I think I can still fix it. I think there’s time.”

Hoffman used the railing to stand, beaming at Vince as he joined him. “Well, what are you standing around here for, shooting the shit with an old man? Get!”

Vince laughed and gave Hoffman a salute. “Yes, sir,” he said. This time, Hoffman didn’t correct him. Vince just felt him watching him as he took off in a run, inhaling the cool air and letting it invigorate him as the first few drops of rain fell on his skin.

Life was too damn short. A bump to the head had almost cost Vince his.

But it was a pair of blue eyes and a kind heart that had truly made him realize it. Vince just hoped he wasn’t too late as he sprinted to the art room, hoping that was where Koby would be.

In the place Vince had fallen in love.