My Foolish Heart (33 page)

Issy. I have feelings for you, too.

She broke away, took a breath. “Wow, I break my rules fast with you, BoyNextDoor.”

“What rules?”

“No kissing on the first date.”

“Well, we already kissed. Besides, this isn't actually a date. It's more of a rescue mission.”

She held a finger against his lips. “Then there's ‘No dreaming up a future on the second date.'”

“Are you dreaming up a future with me, Miss Foolish Heart?”

“Then there's most definitely ‘No saying the
love
word until you're absolutely, positively sure—'”

“Are you in love with me, Isadora?”

“Well, you are pretty easy to love, Caleb. Online . . . and off.”

His eyes filled. He looked away, and she kissed him on his neck. His devastated skin.

They sat there in quiet, listening to the thunder begin to rumble outside, the faintest tapping on the house.

“Are you ready to leave the piano yet?”

“Why, don't you like it under the piano?”

“Actually, I think I've found exactly where I belong.”

19

The seagulls called from the shore as Seb chased his shadow into town after running out to Kadunce River. The cool breath off the lake dried the sweat from his brow, his back, and the sweet scent of pine called him home.

Oh, God, let me win.

He didn't know how else to say it. Could he live in Deep Haven if he wasn't coaching?

He climbed the deck and opened the door to the mobile home. It squealed, and at the noise, his father turned away from the stove.

Seb stood on the small patch of linoleum that served as an entryway and stared at him. “What are you doing?”

The man wore a pair of jeans so saggy on him he might not have bones beneath them, and a blue T-shirt with
Deep Haven Fire Department
embroidered by the pocket. He had shaved, his eyes clearer than Seb remembered. He'd even . . . showered?

“Making eggs.”

“Making eggs?”

His father turned again, this time with the pan in hand. “I always make you eggs before your games.”

Did he? But even as his father walked over to the tiny Formica table, the memory rose, vivid and sharp and burning his eyes. Yes, he had. Even when they went uneaten.

His father slid a couple eggs, over easy, onto a plate. “You still like yours with the runny yolk?”

Seb nodded.

“Well, sit down, kid. You need your energy.” He plated two more eggs for himself, then set the pan back on the stove.

“Dad, I—”

“Sit down, please.”

He didn't really need a shower, not yet. “Okay.” Seb pulled out a chair. His father poured him a glass of—milk? “Did you go shopping?”

“Got paid.”

“You have a job?”

His father didn't look at him as he cut his eggs. “Cleaning the fire station.”

Seb looked away, blinking.

“I'm coming to the game, if that's okay.”

He picked up his fork. “You're coming?”

“Of course. I love watching my boy play ball.” His father gave a sort of half smile. “Out there you were bigger than what I gave you. Not a quitter like your old man.”

“Dad . . .”

“No. Listen to me.” He put his fork down. “You got something special in you, Son. A magic that can make people listen to you, make them want to play for you. The Sebanator.”

“You knew about that?”

“I chanted it with the crowd.” His smile fell. “I went to every game, Seb. You probably didn't know that. And that last couple years when everything fell apart, you probably didn't want to know it. I know I hurt you and especially your mother. Even when I couldn't tell you, I was so proud of you.”

Seb stared at the runny eggs, the yolk now bleeding into the plate. “I did quit, though, Dad. I quit the Cyclones.”

His father shoveled a bit of egg into his mouth. “But you got back up. And you kept going. And you came back to Deep Haven.”

“What if . . . ?” Seb's throat tightened. “What if I'm not cut out to coach?”

His father considered him a moment. “Then you find something you're good at, kid. You just keep trying. It doesn't matter what you do, just that you do it with heart—isn't that what Coach Presley always said?” He looked down, away from Seb. “At least, that's what he kept saying to me all those years ago. I just wish I'd believed it sooner.”

Coach had talked to his father? He shouldn't be surprised, perhaps.

His father drew in a breath, looked up, smiled. “Be a better man than I was.”

Seb had no words. Instead, he reached for his milk. Smelled it. Yes, his old man had gone shopping. “You promise to keep making me eggs?”

A chuckle, something deep and fresh. “Deal.”

The conversation clung to Seb all day, even as he went to the school, stood in the field, played the game in his head. Overhead the clouds hung low, bleaching color from the sky, and over the piney hills, thunderheads gathered. The wind carried the smell of rain.

Seb finally climbed into the bleachers, sat on the fifty-yard line.

He heard the verse from last night again.
“I will give you a new heart, and I will put a new spirit in you. I will take out your stony, stubborn heart and give you a tender, responsive heart.”

He contemplated that stony heart, the miracle of a new one in his chest. Once upon a time, on this field, he'd lived for the cheers of others instead of the cheers of God.

Seb drew in a breath. Not anymore. He didn't want to worship at the altar of the Sebanator any longer. He wanted a new heart, a heart free of the filth—the mistakes, the failures, the selfishness of his past. A heart that understood and drank in grace.

“God, this game is Yours, whatever You have planned. Make me a man built for others. A man built . . . for You.”

He lifted his face skyward, closing his eyes as the first drops of rain began to fall, splashing like tears over his face.

* * *

It felt like a game day. Issy woke with a soft hum under her skin, and when she turned on her radio, Ernie had already started taking callers at the local station, waging war on the airwaves over who would walk away with the win.

The Brewsters against the Knights, and the town picked Brewster on top by two touchdowns. But they didn't know Caleb like she did.

Didn't know that they had a coach who'd forgotten how to quit.

“Can I touch your leg?” she'd asked when they finally climbed out of the shadow of the piano and he let her see his wounds.

Amazing how the skin on his stump so neatly folded over itself, the reconstructive surgeons bending his flesh over, almost like an envelope. Four inches remained of his tibia, enough to create a solid residual for his prosthesis. The extra length gave him more motor control and balance, “and when I wear my athletic prosthesis, I'm still fast. I probably could beat you around the block.”

And yes, he'd let her touch his leg and met her eyes when she looked at him. Clear and solid, they reached inside and told her the truth.

She could beat this fear. She could beat it because he was right—God did not give her a spirit of fear, but of power and love. And He'd reminded her of it by having the last person she thought she could ever love move in next door and invade her life.

Her perfect world . . . with the perfect romance.

“I'd love for you to go to the game,” Caleb had said as he left last night, a new moon hidden behind storm clouds, a turbid breath in the air.

Her father would have loved it. Something about playing in the rain stirred his competitive edge, although Issy never understood it. Rain made her want to shut herself in her room.

But maybe that was starting to change. “I would love to go,” she'd said last night. “But . . .”

Caleb had cupped his hand to her cheek and run his thumb across her lips. “I know.” Then he'd kissed her again, and with everything inside her, she'd longed to see him on the field.

Even now, as she turned up the radio for the kickoff, she could see him, wearing the blue Huskies jacket he'd purchased at the Ben Franklin, his red cap. For the occasion, she'd dug out her mother's foam finger, the Huskies stadium blanket, the bleacher cushion, and even her father's old megaphone. She'd set up camp in the family room, with Duncan wearing a Huskies bandanna.

She could see the game in her mind. The three sections of bleachers crammed with familiar faces—Jerry and the staff of the paper, of course, with Brian down on the field, taking shots. And Nancy from the diner, Anthony from the hotel, probably having dragged along a few guests for the hometown showdown. Nothing like small-town football to attract tourists. Nelda and the booster club on the top rows, their own foam fingers affixed, wrapped in blankets.

The blue and white scrimmage had always rounded up the town for the start of the season. Issy guessed, from the buzz she'd heard on the local radio station and from Lucy, that the stands might even be full.

In the announcers' box, Ernie and Wade would be waving to the crowd, cracking jokes, reading off advertisements from the hardware store, Pierre's Pizza, the bait shop.

If it were a real game, not a scrimmage, the pep band would be warming up with something cheerful—“Go Big Blue!”—the band wannabes with their horns and cowbells manning the rail.

If the pom-pom girls had shown up, they would be rousing the crowd with a few rallies, warming up for the game with some antics on the field.

And the players—they'd be in the locker room, listening to her father—no, listening to Caleb.

She closed her eyes, imagining them as they ran onto the field, even as Ernie announced the starting lineup, then asked everyone to stand for the national anthem.

Issy rose, put her hand on her heart. Sang along.

Kickoff, with the Brewsters receiving. They fielded the ball, brought it back twenty yards, and as the crowd cheered, a swipe of pain went through her.

She should be with her father. Listening to the game with him. Wouldn't that be a triumph?

But the thought still took her breath, still clamped a fist over her throat, her chest.

I'm sorry, Daddy. I'll visit. Soon. Tomorrow, perhaps.

The Brewsters inched the ball forward with a couple running plays, then fumbled on a handoff, and Knight's nose guard jumped on the ball.

“C'mon, Knights!”

They executed a sweep, moved the ball a few yards.

Next time at the line, Ryan kept the ball, moved it forward again. If they could keep this up, they would inch it all the way to the goal line.

A screen pass out, and Bryant dropped it. She could almost see the kid, hard on himself as he lined up on defense after the punt.

The Brewsters gained a few yards up the middle on a quarterback keeper but nearly fumbled on an option play. On the next play, the defense caught the quarterback in the backfield and the Brewsters had to punt.

Back and forth, the Knights would inch the ball forward on solid but predictable running plays, then try a pass without reception. The Brewsters would gain a yard on something basic but lose it on a play straight from the Presley playbook.

The first quarter ended scoreless, the crowd restless.

Issy dialed the care center. “Hey, Jacqueline. Can I talk to my dad?”

“Hi, Issy. Sure. He's listening to the game right now.”

“Me too.” Her attention caught as Caleb's team pushed the ball to a first down.

“Hello.” His voice came across the line wheezy and soft. She turned down the volume.

“Hey, Daddy. What do you think of the game?”

“He needs to change it up.”

“You're talking about Caleb?” He had to be, because Seb had been running flashy but limp plays all night.

She waited for his words.

“Quarterback Chaos.”

“The trick play from the state championship? But I can't tell him how to call his game.”

“It'll work.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Quarterback Chaos.”

“Okay. I'll tell him. I miss you, Daddy.”

She hung up, picked up her cell. The Quarterback Chaos. Caleb had his own plays, of course, but he might take this one, a sort of gift from her father. And she remembered it well enough to pass it along.

Her phone call flipped to voice mail. “Caleb—call me. My dad had an idea.”

At eight minutes left in the half, she left another message.

When the Brewsters fumbled and the Knights picked up the ball, ran it back to the forty, only to miss the field goal, she called again.

She listened with the phone in hand as the Knights drove it all the way to the red zone only to be held at the five-yard line. She dialed again when the kicker for the Knights set up for his field goal. The ball squirreled through the slippery grasp of the holder, and a Brewster picked it up and ran down the field untouched for a six-point lead.

Issy pounced to her feet, yelling at the phone. “Pick up!”

But he probably hadn't even brought his phone to the field.

The rain teared down the window, the sky pellet gray. She stared outside, her hand on Duncan's head, rubbing.

If she wanted Caleb to win, she'd have to go to the school.

* * *

The basics. Just teach them the basics.
Caleb heard his own strategy echoing back to him and wanted to put his fist into the wall. With the basics, they'd moved the ball forward every time.

But not enough for first down yardage. Not enough to score.

And now the Brewsters, despite their sloppy ball handling, had points on the board.

Dan had followed him into the gym, where they'd been relegated for their halftime pep talk and now stood against the door, arms folded, the rain shiny on his blue slicker.

Caleb's gaze slid off Dan, onto his team, their stained jerseys, their soaked breeches, the way they didn't meet his eyes, and he realized . . .