The orange juice in Elliott’s stomach turned to acid. Already, he’d been having one hell of a shitty morning, and now this. His star receiver, Kyler Tate, sat across from him, saying the unimaginable. I can’t play in Saturday’s game.
Those words didn’t compute for Elliott. Once you’d been recruited and given a full-ride scholarship, the Rapture had better be taking place for your duties as a player to be shirked. In his entire coaching career, he’d never had one of his men say those six hellacious words to him. After a sleepless night spent nursing guilt—and a hard-on for one beautiful, long-legged, unattached blonde—a response was not forthcoming. Elliott stared across the desk in his office at Tate, a kid he’d recruited out of an Indiana farm town, and placed the blame squarely on Peggy for his world being thrown into chaos.
There was no other explanation. He’d been perfectly fine, adhering to a schedule. Wake up, eat, drive Alice to school, football, football, football, go home. Now this. Now the unknown. His daughter wasn’t talking to him for some mysterious reason. Not that their discussions ever went beyond surface items—schoolwork, mainly—but she hadn’t even spared him a good-bye before slamming the car door this morning.
Now this. The receiver he’d groomed from a timid freshman with promise into a contender for the Heisman was prepared to blow off Temple on Saturday. For what? Elliott hadn’t asked yet, because the answer flat out didn’t matter. It wasn’t good enough.
So he sat there still as a statue, not giving a shit about making Kyler sweat, and cursed alumni weekend to the devil. That’s why Peggy was in Cincinnati, and his universe had decided to disorganize itself.
“What the hell did you just say to me?”
Kyler started at Elliott’s booming question, raking a hand through the mop of sand-colored hair on his head. “I said, Coach, I won’t be joining the team for Saturday’s game. It truly is an unfortunate thing—”
“Unfortunate.” Elliott leaned forward, stabbing a finger down on the desk. “Are you really prepared to lose your scholarship over this, Tate?”
“Yes, sir.”
Elliott fell back in his chair, fully aware he regarded the other man the way one scrutinizes a bug beneath a microscope and not caring. Outside in the waiting room, he heard the door open and shut, but ignored the secretary’s buzz to inform him of the visitor’s identity.
“Ain’t you going to ask me why, Coach?”
“This is your job. Showing up is the first requirement. So no, I’m not going to ask. It won’t be a sufficient reason for letting down your team.”
Tate nodded, a rare display of temper making itself known on his face. “Well, you recruited me because I refuse to back down, isn’t that right? You brought me here because I had balls. Those were your words. So I’m going to tell you anyhow.”
Elliott experienced a flare of pride, but it didn’t dispel the irritation. Not one bit. If he needed to plan an offense around Tate’s absence, he’d rather get down to business instead of having a fucking tea party about it. But dammit, he liked this kid. He’d believed in him. “Fine.”
Tate seemed surprised by Elliott relenting, but was wise enough not to waste time questioning it. “It’s my family, you see. They got a notice just this morning that their farm is being repossessed.” His throat worked with emotion. “That land is all they got and—well, the plan was for me to go pro. Not trying to sound boastful, sir, but that was the idea. Then they wouldn’t have to worry for nothing.” He shrugged. “But time didn’t cooperate, so I have to get home and at least try to fix it somehow. Fast. I don’t want to let the team down but family is more important.”
Such a sentimental attachment to family was something Elliott never understood. His players were constantly going on about their mothers, it seemed, and on the occasions Elliott hadn’t managed to tune them out, he’d listened with the mystification of a man trying to decipher a foreign language. Elliott’s own mother was still alive and living in Massachusetts, although his father had passed several years back after a stroke. She’d raised Elliott, sent him off to college with no fanfare, and checked in once a year at Christmas, content to lead a separate life, far from the sport she’d never made an effort to understand. Never once had he missed the communication or reminisced about fond memories because the few that were good enough to remember were so paper thin, you could see through them. Not…substantial. Certainly nothing that would choke him up, the way talking about the past did to his players.
“Coach?” Tate prompted.
Elliott picked up the stress ball on his desk and stood, pulverizing the object in his fist as he went to stare out the window overlooking the field. When he realized he was scanning the expanse of green for Peggy, he turned away with an inward curse. “Have you talked to a guidance counselor?”
“I don’t much care to have some protocol recited to me.” Tate scratched behind his ear. “I was kind of hoping you could do some counseling, Coach.”
Elliott stared at the younger man, praying he was joking. There was a comfortable distance maintained by everyone else, and this kid seemed determined to cross it. A lot like someone else he knew. The reminder of Peggy made Elliott feel a definite pressure to help Kyler. Because she would expect it. At one time, she would have encouraged him to do good deeds, to try harder. Things had changed since then, though, hadn’t they? He’d stopped setting himself up to disappoint others. Stopped trying to be better in her eyes, because she was no longer there to celebrate those small victories with him.
He coughed to clear the discomfort in his throat and refocused on his player. You’re not qualified for this. What did he know of family and farms and land? He knew football. Church. That was all. “I send players to the draft, Tate. That’s what I do. All I do. I don’t hold your hand and tell you everything is going to look brighter and shinier tomorrow. I suggest you go listen to the protocol, because in my experience, it’s in place for a reason.”
Tate’s eyes filled with obvious disappointment and Elliott couldn’t deny the stabbing sensation in his chest at having let yet another person down. Finally, the young player stood, holding out his hand for a shake, refusing to let it drop until Elliott clasped it with his own. “Football isn’t all anyone does,” Tate said. “It’s mortar, but it ain’t the bricks.”
“It’s the mortar that keeps the whole damn thing standing,” Elliott said firmly, stepping back and ignoring the punch of regret. “Best of luck to you, Tate.” As he watched the player lope toward his office door, he felt the urge to call him back, but refrained. He knew one way to shape a future. To deviate from that method, to venture out of his depth, could mean failure. And God knew being some kind of father figure or mentor wasn’t part of how he operated. He could barely parent his own kid.
Elliott’s mental jumping jacks were brought to a screeching halt when Tate paused in the doorway, his exit blocked by Peggy. The younger man wasn’t facing Elliott’s direction, but his double take was obvious, even though he stepped back to maintain a polite distance.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Tate said quickly. “Or…Peggy, isn’t it?”
Surprised pleasure made her lips jump. “Sure is.”
Kyler scratched the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t remember me. I was a freshman the year you graduated. But you’re not so easy to forget.” The tips of his ears were red, but he just kept going. “I once tripped over our cornerback on the way out of the tunnel because you’d stopped him dead in his tracks with a smile.”
Peggy beamed. “Well. If you’re going to get run over by someone, it might as well be a handsome man who comes equipped with flattery.” With a groan, she bit her bottom lip and shook her curls. “Oh, wow. Sorry about that. I’ve been watching so much Golden Girls that I’ve begun to channel Blanche involuntarily.”
Tate chuckled, stowing both hands inside his pockets. “I’m a Rose man myself.”
“You only said a few words and somehow I already knew that.” Peggy cocked an eyebrow. “Favorite episode?”
“Oh, you’re going to make me pick, are you now?” Tate looked up at the ceiling. “I’d have to say when those jewel thieves move in next door and—”
“Hate to interrupt.” Elliott heard the note of danger in his voice and could do nothing to disguise it. He enjoyed the sight of Peggy flirting with another man about as much as watching live oral surgery. “Some of us have to prepare for a game.”
Tate glanced at Elliott, whatever he saw making him take a huge step back from Peggy. “Sorry, Coach. I didn’t, uh…I was just being friendly. I didn’t know—”
“Didn’t know what?”
The younger man tipped his chin at Peggy. “Didn’t know you had a girlfriend.” He split an amused look between Peggy and Elliott. “I reckon no one in this entire school knows, come to think of it.”
“I’m not his girlfriend,” Peggy breathed, laying a hand on Tate’s arm, causing the back of Elliott’s neck to tighten as if someone had turned a deadbolt. “We’re just old pals.”
Elliott’s stomach rebelled at Peggy’s smiling pronouncement that she was available. He still hadn’t wrapped his mind around that fact, so he sure as hell wasn’t ready for everyone else to be aware of it. “Don’t you have a train to catch, Tate?”
“I do, indeed.” He cleared his throat, giving Elliott what would have been a meaningful look, if he were receptive to such things. “Thank you for everything you tried to do for me, sir. I won’t forget it.”