My Foolish Heart (36 page)

“Was that his leg that came off?”

She wanted to slug the guy behind her, but she could hardly deck everyone who murmured the questions as they watched one of Caleb's players carry his leg to the sideline.

“What a shame, too, because he would have made a great coach.” This from, of all people, Jerry. Traitor. “Good thing Seb's still around.”

“Nope, he doesn't want it either.”

She tracked the voice to Mitch. “What are you talking about?”

He searched, found her frown. “He turned it down.”

“Why on earth would he do that?” She didn't exactly mean for her question to emerge with such force, such passion, but the man had been born to play football. He lived and breathed and dreamed football.

Mitch gave her an enigmatic look. “You tell me. He said he was getting into the donut business.”

She glanced at Seb, standing on the sideline, hands in his pockets like he might be a father to the kids, watching, yes, but not armed with a strategy or a game plan.

This was not the posture of Coach Presley.

“Excuse me,” she said, pushing through the crowd.

She picked up her pace as she cleared the last of the gawkers, ran down the field toward Seb, catching a few frowns from players huddled near Bam.

She narrowed her eyes as she stalked by him, not bothering to answer when he called her name.

But at the sound of it, Seb turned. The surprise—even delight—on his face did a little something to her heart. Oh, but he knew how to make a girl turn to batter.

“Lucy, what are you doing here?”

“What do you mean, you're not taking the job?”

His mouth opened a moment. “I'm not cut out to be the coach. I . . .” Then he grabbed her arm as if he'd said the wrong thing and kissed her.

Right as his quarterback fumbled.

The crowd on the opposite bench went crazy, but it couldn't match her heart, the way it exploded inside her as his lips moved over hers and he pulled her into his embrace. She let herself mold into his.

He let her go. And smiled. “I always wanted to do that. Had dreams of doing it after I threw a touchdown pass—run to the sidelines, find you, and kiss you in front of the town.”

She stared at him. “Did you get hit in the head?”

He grinned. “Something like that.” He glanced at Bam, who was pushing the defensive line onto the field. “I don't want to be a coach. Not really. I longed to come back and take the reins of this team because I thought it would make my life mean something again. But . . .” He pressed his hand, his huge hand that nearly eclipsed her face, against her cheek. “All I really want to do is . . . be with you. Make donuts.”

“You want to make donuts?”

“Okay, maybe not make donuts. But help you make donuts. Be—” he rolled his eyes—“the donut guy. If you'll let me.”

“Are you ill?”

“‘I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs—'”

“Seb!”

“‘—tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame.'”

Oh, Seb. She put her hands over his mouth. “Your team is watching.”

“
Caleb's
team is watching. My team is sitting in the stands.” He pulled her hands away, hooked his fingers into hers. “I have this great idea, Lucy. See, I think we can still save your shop, if you'll let me and my team help.”

“Who are you? What happened to the Sebanator?”

“He retired.”

And when she searched his eyes, nothing in them disagreed.

“Seb, I don't want you to do this for me. I—I'm not going to be responsible for you giving up your dreams—”

“It's not my dream.”

“You aren't a quitter.”

He flinched, but she didn't take her eyes from his.

Finally he said, “No. No, I'm not. But it's not my dream anymore.” He ran his thumb down her cheek. “You are. And you always have been. I didn't come back to Deep Haven to coach. I came for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes. You brought me home.”

She pressed her cheek into his hand. She'd brought the golden boy home. “Then do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

“I want you to win me one last game.”

He looked at her, then glanced at the field. Raised his hand to the ref. “Time-out!”

* * *

Caleb just wanted to walk—or in his case, limp—off the field and head for home. Or perhaps the state border. He pasted a smile on his face whenever he glanced at Issy, of course, but . . .

The entire town had seen him fall. And now they'd watch Brewster's team walk all over him.

He could only imagine what the school board might be saying.

“It's a fake! They're taking it around the end—watch your containment!” He refrained from slamming his clipboard to the ground, but Seb's team had advanced up the field like they might be the marching band. The Knights held them at the twenty-eight-yard line on the second down, but with less than two minutes left on the clock, Seb could score a field goal and wrap up the game.

And then Caleb could pack his bags.

He could just about grind his molars into dust thinking about landing on that turf, seeing it in slow motion as the world rose up to slam into him, as the cool air separated the suction from his leg.

He should have worn his athletic prosthesis, but of course his pride had throttled his common sense. Why had he ever thought that keeping secrets . . . ?

Although he had to give himself credit for standing on the sideline for two entire quarters when all he wanted to do was dematerialize into the dark night that had descended on the field.

Except for Issy, he might have. Issy, standing beside him like some sort of cheerleader, cheering, screaming, believing in him, in his team.

And Ryan, running every play he threw at him with everything he had in him. Oh, give him two more weeks with these boys and they wouldn't miss tackles, wouldn't drop the ball. A month, and they'd be able to read each other's thoughts. By next season, he might even have them winning division titles. Okay, that might be ambitious, but—

“Reverse! Reverse!”

Thank you, Merritt. The defense shoveled the ball handler down on the line of scrimmage.

And Seb was sending out his field goal team.

“Wow, that Riley kid can kick. He's going to be great on special teams.” Issy looked at Caleb as the ball sailed through the uprights for three points.

And the way she looked at him . . . Truly, he'd imagined this moment, her standing on the sideline—although, frankly, he'd prefer her in the stands because she made him nervous, the way the wind reaped her scent, driving him a little crazy. And he had to stick his free hand in his pocket to keep from pushing her hair from her face, maybe curling one of those dark locks around his finger.

Caleb nodded at her assessment of the kicker and glanced across the field at the Brewsters. Seb stood in the middle, the other coaches on the side. Lucy stood on a bench behind them.

Six-nine, Brewsters, with 1:49 left on the clock.

The Knights returned the kickoff to their own forty-eight.

“What should we do, Coach?” Ryan snapped the chin strap on his helmet.

“Twenty-two dive, up the gut.” A standard run play through the middle of the line. McCormick might get two yards.

“Why are you doing that?” Issy looked at him. “You have less than two minutes on the clock. Do a flea-flicker or a reverse. We need to trick them. It's getting desperate.”

Desperate, yes. And he was fresh out of game-changing plays.

“How about a draw?”

“They don't know those yet.”

“What do they know?”

“Basic power plays, a few running routes.”

“How about a sweep play?”

“How about you let me call the game?”

She gave him an I'm-sorry face as the Knights gained two yards.

He called a sweep play because she was right. McCormick put up five more yards.

Less than a minute, with the Knights stuck on the Brewsters' forty-five, still out of range of the field goal.

He had nothing. They needed a deep pass or some sort of flashy play that might spin Seb's team in a circle, but he had nothing he could show his team during a one-minute time-out and have them successfully execute.

“We're going to lose this game, Issy.” He kept his voice quiet. “I'm sorry.”

She stared at him, and the expression on her face, her soft words, drove the roar of the crowd from his thoughts. “Use my dad's play.”

No. The minute her father's crazy play had left her mouth, he knew. He couldn't use it. Not and be taken seriously. The Quarterback Chaos? Only one coach could pull that off and not be laughed out of the high school football league. That was Presley's play, not his.

“No, Issy. I can't use that.”

“Why not?

“For one, it's your dad's play—”

“He gave it to you to use.”

“And two, it's crazy. It barely feels legal.”

“Oh, it's legal. I promise it's legal because when he won with it, the state high school football league analyzed it from every angle. It's legal. And you'll win.”

He looked out at Ryan, who watched him for the signal.

“Don't you want to win?”

He drew a breath. “Not like this.”

“Why not?”

He shook his head. “It feels—”

“Like you need help. This is my father's signature play, and you feel like you're weak, like you're asking for my dad's help, and the entire town will see it.”

He looked away from her.

“Listen, my dad gave you this play because he believes in you and wants you to win, Caleb. Receive his gift. Let him help you.”

Receive. Unless I wash you, you won't belong to me.

He looked up again at Ryan, now nearly desperate as he glanced at the game clock, and signaled a time-out.

* * *

Seb had to admit that he'd never had so much fun at a football game. Back when he played, he had a sort of coiled steel in his gut, the kind that wound tighter as the quarters ticked by. Even when he won, the coil only slowly worked its way free until he could breathe sometime around Sunday.

Not tonight. Tonight he watched football like a fan, feeling the thrill of the game in his bones. Yes, he could enjoy the sideline, especially with his boys fighting for their win. They'd actually earned those three points.

This just might be his favorite game ever. Especially with Lucy standing on the bench behind him, screaming for his team in a wildest-dreams-come-true kind of moment.

Knight called a time-out and Seb reeled his boys in.

They grabbed water bottles from Lucy, and Seb crouched in front of them. “We're going to take Johnson off the line and move him into a defensive back position. They only need three yards for the first down, but they're running out of time, so they'll probably go for a passing play. With five defenders in the backfield, that should stop them.”

Lucy stuck her head into the middle. “Free donuts for the whole team if you stop them, boys.”

See, this was why he couldn't be Coach. This kind of incentive and his players would roll down the field. “Stop 'em, boys,” he echoed and sent them back out to the field.

“Since when did you become such a football fanatic?”

“I was always a football fanatic.” She grinned at him. “Go Brewsters!”

Yes, he might have enjoyed coaching, with Lucy in the stands cheering. But even better would be sitting beside her, her tiny hand tucked in his. That was enough glory for him.

The Knights came out and lined up with three wide receivers on one side. His defensive backs adjusted. Ryan lined up, called the first hut.

Then Ryan stood and yelled toward Caleb, “Coach! McCormick doesn't know this play! Coach!”

Seb saw it happening before his eyes, and the familiarity registered, niggled something inside, but he couldn't find the words fast enough.

Ryan, in motion, began to jog toward the outside of the line, as if running to talk to the coach.

Bewildered, his defense eased their stance.

No—no—wait!

Seb opened his mouth just as the running back called the hike and the center passed the ball to him, putting it into play. Ryan jerked into motion, cutting downfield toward the end zone, arms pumping.

Seb found the words then, nearly ran out onto the field as he—and Bam and DJ, who also recognized the play—screamed, “It's a trick play! Pass! Pass!”

And pass McCormick did—a deep, end-over-end albatross that found a home in the unprotected arms of Jared Ryan. He clutched the pigskin to his body as he ran it the easy ten yards into the end zone.

Quarterback Chaos. Coach Presley's championship play.

And just like ten years ago, the crowd went crazy. A wild frenzy as they—like Bam and Deej and even Seb—realized that Coach Presley had bequeathed his winning play to Caleb Knight.

The rightful new coach of the Huskies.

The game clock hit zero and Knight's team descended on their coach. For the second time that day, they carried him across the field.

Seb reached for Lucy's hand, and they sat together on the bench, watching his team trot in to meet Caleb, watching the stands empty, watching the lights flicker on the chewed-up field.

“Great game, Seb,” Lucy said, raising her sweet smile, those eyes he could find himself inside.

Yes, yes it was.

21

It made perfect sense, of course. Caleb in no way blamed Mitch for showing up on his doorstep, his hands shoved all the way into his pockets as he said, “Sorry, Caleb. It's just not going to work out—the coaching position or the teaching gig.”

He didn't offer any more than that, but Caleb did the math himself.