Beauty and the Baller (Strangers in Love)

A November breeze blows my hair, and I settle my Bobcats cap down on my head. Swallowing down unease, I approach the edge of the concrete ledge that leads down to the steps of the gym. I sweep my gaze over the myriad of reporters gathered at the bottom. At least five cameras are pointed at me, one of them ESPN.

The plan, months ago, had been to do an interview with local stations before we played Huddersfield, letting the guys get some camera time, maybe catch a few college scouts’ eyes. But this isn’t about my players; this is about me.

They rush forward, a local guy managing to push out ESPN. He shoves a microphone in my face, a gleam in his eyes. “Michael Collins here from WBBJ in Austin.”

I nod at him, my face flat. “Hmm.”

“Ronan, we received a tip you’re on the short list for Stanford. Can you confirm if this is true?”

My jaw grinds as all eyes focus in on me. I hear shuffling sounds and throw a glance behind me as Nova and several players spill outside and gather around me. My shoulders tense as I adjust my stance. Whatever I say, it’s going to be wrong. It’s going to ripple through my team, eroding their trust, messing with their heads, which need to be straight for the game.

Michael steps closer. “Coach Dunbar, the quarterback coach from Stanford, has resigned, and Coach Hite confirmed you were on the short list. Is it true?”

“Yes,” I mutter. So it was Hite who spilled . . . not a good way to start. Unless he wanted to force me to decide. Dick move.

A sharp inhale comes from a person next to me. Toby.

The reporter edges closer. “Are you aware that when the news was announced by Hite, the student body started a petition this morning to get you to the top of the list? So far, they have five thousand signatures.”

I shake my head. “While I appreciate the support, I’m focusing on my team here.”

Another reporter edges forward, a woman. “How will this affect the Bobcats? You have games coming up. Will you be here for those?”

“I plan on it. Next question,” I snap.

“How will this affect your team’s morale for tonight’s game?” She’s looking at Toby.

“My team is ready,” I say on a growl. “And you aren’t talking to my players. Not later either.”

She eases back as the guy from ESPN finally nudges forward. There’s a gloating expression on his face that gives me pause. His camera girl follows him as he points a mic in my face. “Hey, Ronan.” He gives me a thin-lipped smile.

I narrow my eyes. “Keith. You’re a long way from New York.”

“We follow the news, and you are news. Good to see you back in the spotlight. How do you like living in small-town Texas?”

“I love it. The people, the players, the school. Next?”

He chuckles. “You’re abrupt. Nothing new there.”

I exhale. “Do you have a question, Keith?”

“Yeah.” He leans in and looks at the camera. “Hello, from Keith Bridges. We’re here in Blue Belle, Texas, a hot spot for talented high school football. Ronan Smith, former quarterback for the Pythons, is here with us. He’s been coaching here for two seasons. Last year he took them to state, and this year they’re hopefully going to finish the season undefeated. Isn’t that right, Ronan?”

I nod.

Keith smiles at the camera. “Earlier today, Stanford announced him as being a contender as their quarterback coach, and this station also got another tip . . .”

I inhale, my eyes widening.

He looks at me. “Is it true you’re slated as the next quarterback coach for the New York Pythons? I bet those Stanford people are going to be devastated”—he glances at the people around me—“as well as Blue Belle.”

Breath whooshes out of me. How the fuck? My old coach called me this morning; then Tuck called before the pep rally.

My hands clench as I force a smile. “You’re on private property without an invitation. Disperse, or the police will be alerted. Thank you.”

“Ronan, just answer the question!” he calls, but I ignore him.

My players have walked off ahead of me, their shoulders stiff.

Skeeter eases in, his hands in his pockets. “That was a surprise.” He watches the reporters pack up their gear. “Is it true?”

“It’s true New York called me, yes.”

“Ah, I see.” He looks away from me, his jaw tense. “We’ve got practice. I’m gonna head out to the field house and get ’em started if you need a minute to figure out what you’re gonna say.”

“Skeeter, look, I’m sorry. I just found out about the New York offer. Stanford isn’t going to happen. I just—”

But he’s already striding away. My jaw flexes. Now I can add him to the list of people I’ve hurt.

I look at Nova.

She’s wearing her cream leather skirt with a navy blouse, a Bobcats button pinned to it. Her hair is up in a high ponytail, accentuating her face, which is currently blank.

She picks up the necklace I gave her and runs it through her fingers. Her words are soft. “You said you’d be honest with me.”

“It happened this morning. Reggie and Coach Hardy called me. Then Tuck. I didn’t think anyone else knew, but . . .”

“We had lunch together.”

I sigh. “Nova—”

She grimaces. “New York is the perfect place for you. It’s your home.”

It was my home. It’s where my team is. Friends. Memories.

After I don’t reply, she lets out a little sigh. “I bet your phones are ringing off the hook. What do you want me to say?”

“Tell them nothing.”

“Got it. Just like you told me. See you in the office.”

Then she’s gone, headed back inside the gym.

I want to chase after her, but my ghosts from the past, the ones that still have their claws in me, hold me back.

Later, it’s game time in the locker room, and I haven’t had a chance to talk to my team. By the time I came to practice after the reporters showed up, the guys were already running plays on the field, and I needed time to think, so I left it alone, but now, there’s no avoiding it.

Dread hits me as I take in their downcast faces.

Then Toby walks in.

“You’re twenty minutes late,” I say as he plops his duffel down on the bench. “The rest of the team is dressed out and ready to play.”

He tugs out his clothes, then puts his back to me as he puts on his pads.

“Toby?”

The other players dart their gazes from me to him.

“You’re the captain, Toby. Answer me.”

He turns and lifts hard eyes up to me. “I’m still captain. Are you still our coach?”

Bruno grumbles under his breath, “Yeah, that’s what I’m sayin’,” then dips his head.

I rock on my heels, searching for the right words. I don’t know if I have them.

Toby jostles around for his helmet and face mask, then shrugs. “My mom didn’t feel well. I stayed with her as long as I could. Sorry.”

Worry inches over me. “Do I need to send someone to check on her?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? I can send one of the assistants or Lois—”

“No!” he calls, then takes a deep breath, his chest rising. “She’s fine. It’s the usual. It’s nothing.”

Once he’s outfitted and sitting with the other players, I clear my throat and stand in the center of the room. My hands tap my leg. “All right. I know you have questions about what happened today after the pep rally.”

Bruno sits with his legs spread, his eyes not meeting mine. Milo slumps over, cupping his face. Toby stands, his jaw tight. Skeeter glares down at his clipboard. Lois wipes at her face with a tissue.

A long exhale comes from me at their silence. “As you know . . . from earlier . . . I’m on the short list for Stanford, but that isn’t going to happen, and I’m being considered for the Pythons. That’s no reflection on you. We’ve come far together and—”

“Are you going to leave?” comes from Bruno.

I take off my hat and rake a hand through my hair. “It’s a possibility.”

“You’ve had two offers!” Toby snaps out.

“Right now, you are my team, and I’m standing right here.” I sweep my gaze over them. “You’re the heart of this town, not me. We’ve won every single game in the toughest district in Texas. Together. This team is going to state, and there’s going to be a gold trophy in that case.” I point to the shelves behind me, already lined with previous championships.

They look at me with lackluster eyes.

I pinch my nose, anxiousness rising as everything from earlier crashes into me. The shock and hurt I saw on my team’s faces. How Nova walked away, her shoulders bent.

“It sucks, okay; it sucks! I can’t give you an answer!” I declare as I put my hands on my hips. “That bullshit today wasn’t meant to happen. You think I’m disloyal. You think I’m deserting you—go ahead; be angry!” I slam my fist into the palm of my other hand. “But remember the tape we’ve watched, the strategies we’ve worked on since summer camp. Think about each other. How close you’ve become. How the players on this team are family. We adjust. We pivot. We are Bobcats!”

A few heads lift and nod, murmuring under their breaths, “Yeah, yeah,” but several don’t. Bruno still looks sullen, and Toby won’t look at me, his eyes fixed somewhere above my head.

Skeeter pumps his fist in the air. “All right, Bobcats! Who’s with me? Huh? Huh? Win the heart, win everything!”

Their reply is half-hearted, and it cuts into my heart.

I heave out a breath and follow them out the door.

By the end of the third quarter, the score is twenty-eight to seventeen, and we’re losing. I pace the sideline and run a hand through my hair, my cap gone since I tossed it on the ground earlier. My offense jogs off the field, shoulders slumped. On our last play, Toby threw an interception, his second, letting the Rams score again.

He jogs over to Skeeter—not me—and I walk over to him.

“Look at me, Toby.”

He whips off his helmet and chews on his bottom lip so hard it looks painful.

“It’s my fault,” he grumbles as he rubs his face and stares at the ground. “They’re beating me on the routes . . .”

“They’ve been studying. They know your habits. Listen to me.”

It takes him a moment, but he finally looks at me.

“Okay, look, you’re angry with me, yes?”

He nods tightly.

I sigh. “The best quarterbacks learn to have amnesia. Pretend today never happened, okay? For the team’s sake.”

“Not sure I can. I don’t want you to leave.”

I hear the pain in his young voice, and my hand goes to his shoulder, like it has a hundred times. “That’s not the way I would have told you. You’re important to me, you hear?”

He starts the lip chewing again.

“You are. I see myself in you, Toby. You have a big future ahead of you, and tonight is just the beginning.”

He shrugs and looks away from me.

“Think about the day you saw those stuffed animals on our field. Remember your anger? Take that, and form it into determination. Huddersfield thinks they got one over on us. But we’re stronger, smarter, meaner. I already know you’re the most talented high school quarterback in Texas. Prove it to them.”

He nods, his gaze narrowing on the other team across the field. That’s it. Focus.

I pull the rest of the team in. “All right, we may be down, but we’re not out. Defense, tighten up your lines. Their center took a hit earlier. Press him. He’s not on his best game. Offense . . . we’re gonna focus on the running game and some screens. Bruno, be ready for the ball. After that, downfield will open up. Everybody good?”

They nod.

“I need more enthusiasm, boys!” I lean into their huddle. “Whatever you think, whatever opinions you might have about me, leave it on the sidelines. Think back . . . those players snuck into our school and trashed our field. They made a mockery of our mascot. Don’t you think it’s payback time?”

“Yeah!” they call.

I clap. “Make it happen!”

They huddle, their arms around each other, chanting.

I glance up to the stands, my gaze searching for Nova, not seeing her. With a long exhale, I turn back to the field.

With thirty seconds left in the game, we’re down by four points.

Our offense is on the Rams’ fifty-yard line, and it’s third down and ten. Toby catches the snap and drops back, looking for his receiver. Milo is covered; then Bruno misses a block. Toby scrambles, fake pumps the ball, and then tucks it under his arm and darts. I run down the field with him, waving my hands. Behind us, the crowd screams. He dodges a tackler, spins, and then hits the end zone. I bend over and clutch my stomach, then rear back up and pump my fists.

Bruno picks Toby up and twirls him around in the end zone. Milo and the rest of the offense join them. They do the lasso from the pep rally, and I wave them in before they get called for celebrating.

Our kicking team runs out and kicks the extra point, and we lead thirty-one to twenty-eight.

I gather the defense around me. “There’s fifteen seconds left, and all they need is a field goal to tie. We can’t let them score. Anything can happen. They can throw a Hail Mary, a hook and lateral, or just run for it.” I pull out the note the Huddersfield guys left on our field and wave it around. “I’ve been carrying this around, waiting for the right time to show it. It says they’re going to tear us apart piece by piece! It says we’re losers! Are we going to let that happen?!”

They pass it around, faces darkening. “No!”

I slap their helmets. “Go kick their asses.”

Their offense snaps the ball, and the quarterback throws a pass—which is intercepted by one of our linemen, a burly fellow who can’t run but tackles like a pro. I bellow out a “Heck yeah!” as he blunders and stumbles through their offense, hops over a player, uses an arm to hold one back, and then slowly runs to the end zone. It’s a dream come true.

Our sideline goes nuts, players and coaches jumping and screaming, faces red and sweaty as they cheer. After the field goal, the score flips to thirty-eight to twenty-eight.

The buzzer goes off, and fans, parents, and cheerleaders swarm the field. Milo picks up the Gatorade and dumps it over Skeeter. I laugh, standing back and taking it in. Sabine jumps into Toby’s arms and kisses him. Sonia dashes on the field and runs straight to Skeeter, hugging him, then drying him off with one of the team towels.

My eyes search the field, loneliness creeping in when I don’t see her.

“Great game, Coach,” the opposing coach says and shakes my hand.

I nod and say the same. People run past me, shouts going up: “Go Bobcats!” and “All the way to state!” I keep my head down, victory and a sense of loss mixing inside of me.

A booming voice pulls my gaze up.

“Look at you. Big shot. Beat the fuck out of that team. My best goddamn friend in the whole world! He’s a badass! That’s what I’m talking about!” Tuck throws his arm around me and gives me a bear hug, then slaps me on the shoulder. “Texas football is legit. Fans are rabid! Some old lady mowed me down to get on the field! That game was”—he kisses his fingers—“chef’s kiss, bro. Fucking fantastic!”

I grin. “It’s good to see you!”

He preens and flips his hair. “I know.”

“How was the flight?”

“Got here just before the game started. For real, Ronan, your players are a force.” He smirks. “’Course, it helps that you’re the best coach ever.”

I smile broadly. “Come on. I want you to meet them. Don’t be surprised if they ask for an autograph.”

“This old injured dog?”

I chuckle.

He tosses an arm around me like he used to on the field. “Me and you, man. We’re a team. Yo, I hope Dog remembers me. He tried to get in bed with me last time. I kinda want a pet, was thinking about something small, like a Chinese crested, sweet and cute, but if it pees my place up, I don’t know—maybe I need a pet and a dog walker . . .” He continues to talk, and my eyes wander to the stands. Still no Nova.