My Foolish Heart (13 page)

While Caleb did a few gluteal sets, he considered his players.

The sophomore McCormick had running back written all over him, the way he cut and with his quick reaction off the line. He might be unstoppable if he had a few extra pounds on his bones.

The junior Merritt, Caleb would put on the line, at center. The guy had a good head on his shoulders. Caleb would teach him when to call the blitz, and the kid would learn fast.

He pulled his leg up to his chest as tight as he could, flexing his knee, held it, then straightened it. Repeated.

That sophomore Bryant would make a great wide receiver, with those sticky fingers. He and the senior quarterback, Ryan, could have great chemistry someday. And Ryan, he could be a star. The kid not only knew how to scramble, but he had a deep ball.

If only Ryan would ditch the cocky, solo act attitude. Caleb had watched one of the games from last year he'd found in the library today, and every time the option came, Ryan held the ball, refused to pass it off, and got tackled for a loss.

The kid had a college scholarship in his future, but only if he learned to play as part of a team.

Caleb bent his good leg, put his foot flat on the floor, and raised his residual leg straight to the ceiling. Lowered it. Again.

He'd spotted the other coach, too, during the early hours of practice. The guy came right up to the fence, stretching out on his run. Or at least pretending to. Caleb had watched him run off as he called his players in for a pep talk.

“If you want to be good, you'll have to give it your all, no matter how much it hurts.” He'd stared at the red faces, most of them drenched in sweat and displaying tired eyes. “I want you to go home, ice your legs, go to sleep early, and don't eat a big breakfast tomorrow because you'll lose it if you do.”

He'd wanted to tell them to stay the course, that there was nothing sweeter than tasting your limits and going beyond. That they could become heroes in their own eyes.

And that was worth any pain he would dish out.

More than that, standing at the end of a season, knowing they'd left it all on the field, would enable them to look back without regrets.

Caleb put a rolled towel under the knee of his amputated leg, practiced lowering and straightening his leg.

Tomorrow he'd run them again, then put them in more position drills. He'd make the backs carry the ball over the bags. Then he'd like to have them practice hits and spins, but he really needed another coach, because he had to spend time with his receivers, helping them run routes.

And, well, he couldn't really do that, either.

Caleb blew out a breath.

He'd hoped for a staff, not this crazy competition. Not being pitted against the legacy of the Huskies.

The guy had even worn his jersey onto the field for his first practice today. He ran in to the high fives of his players.

Yes, Caleb had been watching from his truck. When he couldn't take it any longer, he drove away, down to the library, and checked out every tape he could find on the Huskies.

He even lucked out and found the state championship eight years ago. He'd downloaded it onto his iPod.

Now he rolled over to his stomach, lay prone, clicked Play, and listened to the game against the Lakeville Ravens—just the last quarter with the Huskies down by five, their best wide receiver on the sideline nursing a broken thumb, and the quarterback Seb Brewster marching the ball down the field with less than a minute to play.

Not unlike Caleb's own senior championship.

“It's first down on the twenty-five, and the Huskies are at the line. Brewster takes the snap, pitches it out to Teague, who takes it for a quick two-yard gain. Huskies forgo the huddle and Brewster drops back, is looking, looking, and here comes the blitz from the left side! Brewster scrambles out of the pocket, tucks the ball, and scoots over the line of scrimmage, a gain of one.”

Caleb found himself holding his breath as he listened to Seb execute one more perfect play for the first down.

“On the sideline, Coach Presley is remarkably calm as he sends out fresh receivers on the field. Brewster takes the snap, drops back—and he connects with Kline at the fourteen-yard line for a first down! The Huskies are in field goal range, but with thirty-seven seconds on the clock, they're running out of time and a field goal won't win the game.”

Caleb sat up, grabbed a towel, began to rub his leg, desensitize it.

Outside, he heard a roll of thunder. He listened as Brewster was sacked for a loss on the next play and heard the cheers of the hometown fans as he completed a pass on the next play.

Finally, with twelve seconds left on the clock, Presley called a time-out.

Caleb got up and opened the door, peering into the night. “Roger?” Rain plinked on the roof of his truck, contributing to the jungle of his front lawn. He would mow. Tomorrow. Or soon.

“Don't forget, people, this game is brought to you today by Duke's Hardware, your one-stop shop for all your household needs.”

Caleb smiled. How he loved a town that stopped their high-action play-by-play to deliver a commercial about the local wrench shop.

“The Deep Haven Huskies come back to the line. Brewster's in shotgun position. He calls the first hike and—wait, there seems to be some confusion on the field. Brewster is headed to the sideline, yelling something at the coach. The defense seems confused, is there a time—no, there's the snap to the fullback! Brewster is in motion down the sideline. The wide receivers are going deep and the fullback drops back to pass. He pumps once, looking for a receiver, and finds—no way, Brewster's in the end zone! And there's not a defender this side of Canada! Touchdown Huskies!”

Caleb listened to the cheers erupting, could imagine the town rushing the field, boosting Brewster onto their shoulders, carrying him off.

How Caleb had loved being carried off the field.

But even more, what was that play? Some sort of sneak—he'd heard of a similar play called “wrong ball”—the offense acting as if they had the wrong ball on the field. But this—Brewster was clearly yelling something that threw off the defense. Wrong play, wrong ball . . . it didn't matter. Presley had tricked them all.

He clicked off the iPod.

If Seb Brewster remembered half the plays Presley taught him, if he turned out to be half the coach Presley had been, Caleb hadn't a chance of netting the coaching position.

He worked his way to his foot, grabbed his crutches, then leaned down to wind up his mat.

Next door, light glowed from his neighbor's upstairs window.

Interesting. He'd seen her today, at the library, hunkered down in the fiction section, that long brown hair curly upon her face, her tanned nose buried in a book.

She looked up as he passed, and he'd tried, just for a second, to hide his limp. He wasn't ready for her—or anyone—to know all his secrets. Although the loneliness of keeping them had begun to creep up on him. Wouldn't it be nice to talk to someone, tell them the truth?

Hobbling to the sofa, Caleb plopped himself down, put his leg up. On his side table lay a stack of tapes and DVDs, the recordings of the Huskies over the years. He'd also checked out a copy of the Deep Haven High School yearbook for Brewster's graduating year. It might help him understand his competition.

He opened to the table of contents, found the football pages, and spotted Seb, surrounded by thirty players in blue. And behind them, Coach Presley and his coaching staff. Yes, Coach looked like a man who could train boys into men. He flipped to the senior section, found Brewster as a fresh-faced jock, then paged through the other faces. He would like to see these faces today, if they found what they looked toward as they faced the camera.

He stopped on a face that looked familiar. Brown hair blowing in the wind, sitting on a rock in the harbor, smiling into the sunshine.

He knew that look.

The caption identified the girl as Isadora Presley.

Presley. As in Coach Presley's daughter?

No, it couldn't be.

Coach Presley's daughter was his
neighbor
?

Coach Presley, whose accident raked deep wounds into the community, who still held their hearts in his winning grip?

Coach Presley, whose daughter had run from him not once, but twice?

Coach Presley's daughter, the one with PTSD?

He glanced at her house. No wonder the woman had freaked out when she'd seen him. What had Dan said—her mother died in her arms?

So, yes, he'd forgive her. Again.

He knew what it felt like have wounds that no one could see. That no one except God could heal.

What if God had sent him here, not just for the Huskies . . . but for Isadora Presley? What if she needed a friend?

He closed the book. So many dreams, so many ambitions.

Leaning against the sofa, he reached for his laptop to pull up
The Bean
's online station.

The page listed the show before it, still in progress.

My Foolish Heart.

He didn't exactly need help with romance, thank you, but he would like to figure out how to talk to his neighbor.

Perhaps a little coaching wouldn't hurt.

And perhaps she might have some insights on how to beat Seb at his own game.

* * *

Men rarely possessed the courage to call the hotline, so immediately Issy lowered her voice, kept it warm and patient, hoping not to spook him.

“Go ahead, BoyNextDoor.” What a cute username. Creative. She ran her bare foot over Duncan's fur as he lay at her feet, or rather, sprawled under her table, a boulder that occasionally shook with the rumble of thunder. Still, his huge body radiated warmth and he almost seemed like another adult in the house, one who simply couldn't speak.

When the animal appeared on her doorstep this afternoon, looking forgotten, with the neighbor's truck absent from the driveway and the sky overcast, she'd found some luncheon ham in her fridge, then invited him in for a nap. Better than having him destroy her parents' quilt again. She'd closed the door to their room, despite his heartbroken look.

“I, uh . . . I'm not sure what to say.”

BoyNextDoor had a low, resonant voice, a little on the roughened side, as if overused. Or perhaps not used enough. She pictured him in his midthirties, maybe slightly overweight with thinning hair, sitting alone in his two-bedroom apartment in Chicago, overlooking some parking lot.

“Is there something I can help you with tonight?”

“I hope so. I made someone angry.”

“What did you do?”

“I'm not sure. I think she just doesn't like me.”

“You're not sure? She didn't give you a reason?” She'd learned, with men, not to settle for the confused
I don't know what I did.
Most men knew when their words stung; they just didn't understand why.

“She did. A sort of list of reasons, I guess. But even if I fix all those things, I'm not sure if that will make her like me. We got off to a rough start.”

“You don't know this girl?”

“No, but I think I'd like to. She's . . . intriguing. And I think she needs a friend.”

“So you feel sorry for her?”

“No! I . . . I just think we could be friends if I had another chance.”

Oh. He'd done something to blow it with her, and now he wanted another shot. How men hated to fail.

“Besides, I have this . . .
project
I'm working on, and I was hoping she could . . .”

“You want her help.”

“Well, not help . . .”

Of course not help. Men didn't need
help
.

“Input?”

“Endorsement.”

Huh. “You want her to like you.”

“Exactly.” His voice rose, and she could see him rising from his chair, maybe running a hand over his hair, striding to the window to peer out on the darkened, rain-slicked street.

Or not. But the rain pattering on her window only fed her imagination.

“So start with the basics.”

“Do I send her flowers? Or maybe chocolate?”

Issy smiled. This one needed a lot of work. “Have you ever had a girlfriend, BoyNextDoor?”

“Yes. In college. We dated. But she pursued me, not . . . Well, let's just say that I didn't have to work too hard.”

Hmm. On the forum, someone had opened up a discussion.
What about the BoyNextDoor?
The Lovelorn had already plugged in their assessment of him.

DorothyP: All he has to do is apologize.

GotMyHeart07: What for? I get so tired of men having to say they're sorry when they don't know what they did.

Proverbs31: It doesn't matter. Saying you're sorry breaks the ice. Remember, a soft word turns away anger.

Cupid87: He sounds like a jock. Didn't have to work too hard? Arrogant, too.

Issy found a smile even as Boy added, “That didn't come out right. It's just that we were both in college, and we weren't serious, and admittedly, I didn't put too much into the relationship. Then life sort of blew up for me, and she didn't stick around.”

Issy wanted to ask about life blowing up, but something about the way his voice grew cold felt like a giant Keep Out sign.

And with the way the discussion board had lit up, selfish her wanted him to call again. What if she did help him with his—how did he put it?—
project
? Could that boost her ratings enough to save
My Foolish Heart
?

Just like that, it hit her, and the words came out of her mouth almost instinctively. “Tell you what, BoyNextDoor. I'll help you woo this girl. You do everything I say, and within a month, she'll be in love with you.” She said it without pride, more sweetness and encouragement in her voice than confidence. But, well, she did know what women hoped for in a man.

Or knew what
she
hoped for in a man.