My Foolish Heart (37 page)

The school board had added up the limitations of a disabled football coach, the extra staff he might require to get the job done; then they'd simply subtracted from his job application the word
character
.

He could fight them, probably even win on grounds of discrimination. But this wasn't about his leg. He shouldn't have lied to them. No, he hadn't exactly denied his situation, but he hadn't revealed it either.

Still, no one could steal the victory of watching Ryan run the ball into the end zone, knocking those last six points on the board. And he'd never forget the image of Seb going berserk across the field as he recognized Presley's play.

Seb would land the coaching job, but Caleb would take with him the admiration he saw in his players' eyes.

Next time—if he ever got a next time—he'd lay his cards on the table and still prove himself. He rubbed Roger's ears, letting the dog slurp his chin. “You take care of her for me, okay, dude? Until I can figure this out.”

He bit back the grimy ball lodged in his throat at the memory of Issy's hand laced in his, her smile for him as he'd called the last play.

In that moment, when he'd stood in the moist grass, listened to the roar of the crowd, watched the team victory-tackle Ryan, he'd . . . belonged. The team charged at him, scooping him up. As he slapped their helmets and drank in their joy, he knew he could belong to this town. These people.

This life.

And to Issy.

By the time he exited the school, she'd left. He returned home to the light in her window. He caught only the last five minutes of her show and just about called in.
“Hey, Miss Foolish Heart, can I come over, watch the stars with you?”

Instead he'd watched the game tape, conjuring up drills and feedback for the next practice. Foolishly believing that the school board would choose him.

Caleb rubbed the dog around his jowls one last time. He'd rented the house through Labor Day weekend, and then maybe he'd take his brother up on the extra couch where he could crash. He'd find a tide-over job until next spring, when he could start searching for another coaching job.

The lump in his throat had the power to choke him.

With a job, he might have stayed, just been the local psychology teacher. Maybe.

Roger got up and whined at the door for freedom, so Caleb pushed himself off the sofa, his knee so swollen from yesterday's wrenching that today he'd opted for crutches.

He hopped over to the door and opened it to let Roger out. “Say hi to her for me.”

“Say hi to whom?”

Seb stood at the door, looking whole and undefeated in a black T-shirt, a pair of cargo shorts, and running shoes. He moved out of the way as Roger barreled through. “Hey, I had a pal who had a dog that big. He used to come and sleep on my porch when he was a pup.”

“It's not my dog. He just showed up.”

“Funny. Looks a lot like Weatherby. But he was killed my senior year in high school. Tore up the entire town. Everybody knew Weatherby. He'd turn up on your doorstep, lick you until you cried mercy. We used to say he was the Deep Haven welcoming committee.”

“I don't know who Roger belongs to. He just shows up and I feed him. Then he goes to Issy's house.” Indeed, the dog disappeared around the end of Issy's fence, probably having made his own private entrance again.

“Great game last night.” Caleb held back the rest, the part that bit at him, the voice that wanted to ask,
“Did you come here to gloat?”

But he understood, really. Who wouldn't want a coach who'd been a part of the glory days, a coach who could inspire—even help heal this town?

Seb was the perfect choice. Caleb nearly held out his hand to offer his congratulations when Seb propped his foot in the screen door, folded his arms over his chest. “We barely hung on by our teeth. You did a good job whipping your boys into shape.”

“They're hard workers, but you have some real talent on your team. The hands on that Samson kid? Wow.”

Seb nodded. “He'll do a good job for you.” He delivered the words so easily, so believably that Caleb could only stare at him.

“What? I didn't get the job. Didn't they give it to you?”

“I didn't want it. I . . . well, I'm not a coach. I love the game, and I'd love to help with drills, maybe eventually work up to an offensive coordinator.” He shrugged. “But I'm not the coach of the Huskies.”

So if they hadn't given it to Seb . . .

They simply didn't want him.

Caleb exhaled, a long breath that razored through him. They didn't want him.

Oh, he'd like to blame it on his scars, his disability, but clearly . . .

They didn't want
him
.

A muscle pulled in Seb's jaw. “They didn't give it to you?” He shook his head, his eyes hard. “You're a great coach, Knight. I'm really sorry to hear that. I don't know why—”

“I do.” He lifted his shoulder. “I shouldn't have tried to dodge the truth. I should have told them.” He glanced at his missing leg, the fabric dangling below his amputation.

“Why? I don't see anything wrong with wanting to prove yourself. I should have tried harder to prove myself rather than ride in on number 10. You gave it everything you had, and frankly, we could all use a little Caleb Knight in us.”

He would have enjoyed playing for the Sebanator.

“So what's next?”

“I have a brother in the Cities. He's got an empty sofa.”

Seb's eyes narrowed for a moment. “I don't think so.”

It took a beat for Caleb to respond. “I don't have a job, Seb.”

“Yeah, me neither. But I got a girl.” He grinned. “And unless I'm wrong, you do too. Or wasn't that Issy standing with you on the sidelines yesterday?”

He noted that Seb tactfully omitted the wipeout in the end zone.

“You know, she had a rule not to date football players.” Seb winked at him. “Don't quit at fourth and goal.”

I'm not going to let you go, Issy.

Oh, he wanted to stay, but not in a town that didn't want him, a town that didn't need him.

Seb glanced past him. “Where's your leg?”

“Why?”

“You're going to need it. I need help on a project.”

Seb's tone had changed, and for a moment, Caleb imagined himself back in the huddle, receiving a play.

“What kind of project?”

“My team and I are putting a hole in the donut shop. A little something for Lucy.”

“Your team?”

“Some of the guys from town. We were wondering if you'd help.”

“I don't know how helpful I'll be, since, well, I've got this bum leg.”

Seb rolled his eyes. “Excuses, excuses.”

Caleb backed up, gesturing Seb inside. “Are there donuts involved?”

“Could be.”

Caleb looked out past him, to the glorious blue sky, his white truck in the driveway, Issy's house, quiet and dark.

“I guess I could do what I can.”

“That'll be just fine, Coach. Welcome to the team.”

* * *

Issy could smell victory in the Saturday morning air, in the bright sunshine heating the front porch, in the scent of fresh-cut grass across the street. It all screamed football.

And today, she'd see her father. Yesterday's game had stirred to life something inside her she'd thought dead. The image of herself, confident, strong, the woman she'd started out as.

The woman she would still be.

She had debated asking Caleb to join her, but perhaps this trip she needed to make alone.

Besides, if she could make it to the school for Caleb, she could make it to the care center to see her father, right?

Perhaps they'd all have new victories after last night's game.

Including Lucy. “I didn't mean to take the playbook,” Lucy had said as she stopped by after the show, way past her bedtime, bearing an apology. “Or to lie to you.”

“You could have told me that you and Seb slept together. I would have understood.”

“I was ashamed. Especially after Bree. I couldn't tell anyone.”

Lucy sat on the porch swing, and Issy listened as Lucy told her about how she and Seb had started sleeping together that summer, the first time on the beach after Fisherman's Picnic. No wonder Lucy hated the celebration. No wonder she'd seemed like a grieving woman after she and Seb broke up.

“I tried to act like it was nothing,” Lucy said, her knees drawn to herself, “but I couldn't. I felt dirty. And stupid. And like I'd given myself to someone who didn't care.”

Issy sat beside her, one arm around her. “We all could be trapped by our past if it weren't for the perfect love of God.”

They sat there, counting the stars until Lucy left for work.

Issy had gone to bed then and tossed the night away.

Lucy. Seb.

Caleb.

She liked Seb. She did. And if Lucy could forgive him, she could. But how could the school board give the job to Seb?

Especially since Seb didn't want it. Which meant the board simply couldn't get past the fact that Caleb had made them look foolish. They'd trusted him, and he'd lied to them.

But he'd won the game.

He'd won the game and the hearts of his players.

The heart of the girl next door.

But if she truly believed in God's perfect love, then she'd have to trust Him for Caleb's job. His future. Just like she trusted God for hers.

She drew in a breath as she stood in the garage, keys in hand. She'd found a new verse for today. Isaiah 41:13.
“For I hold you by your right hand—I, the Lord your God. And I say to you, ‘Don't be afraid. I am here to help you.'”

She sat in her car, prayed, turned the key, and drove all the way to the care center without one moment of real panic.

Issy hadn't imagined that the building would be so cheery, with overflowing planters of geraniums flanking the door, a flag waving as if in welcome.

She took a breath. A full one, without the webbing in her chest. She walked in and stopped at the front desk.

Jacqueline looked at her. Smiled. “Room 212.” Then she went back to her work as if Issy had been here yesterday.

She turned down the hall and could have found the room without direction. Laughter, voices, and behind that, cheers and whistles, the sounds of a taped football game.

She took a breath.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Coach.” Pastor Dan emerged from the room and nearly ran right into her. He jerked back. “Issy. Hey.”

Behind him, Bam exited. He glanced at her, gave her a small smile, then continued down the hallway.

“What's going on?”

A couple more men filed out, along with Diann, from the school library. She patted Issy on the arm as she might have done a few years ago, when Issy was a student.

“Impromptu school board meeting.”

“Really? Why?”

Dan smiled. “Your dad called a time-out, pulled us in for some coaching.”

Mitch exited the room. “Hey, Issy. Good game yesterday. I don't suppose we could rope you in to help with the cheerleaders? As long as you're going to be on the field anyway.” He winked at her as he walked by.

“What's going on?”

“Your dad asked us to reconsider Coach Knight. Told us he was the one.”

The one. Yes.

“Hope to see you at church on Sunday.” Dan squeezed her shoulder as he walked away.

One public event at a time, thank you.

One private event at a time too. She blew out a long breath, then knocked on the doorframe. “Daddy?”

Oh . . . oh . . . The sight of her father hit her like a fist. He lay in the bed, the man he'd once been flushed away, leaving only the bones of a memory. Those big hands that could palm a football and scoop her up after a game lay at his sides. That barrel chest that bellowed out plays, fought the refs for bad calls, now shrank into itself. He'd lost most of his hair, and a breathing tube was affixed to his neck, tunneling air in and out of his chest.

She knew of his condition, of course, but she hadn't expected time and his injury to strip so much of him from her.

Oh, she should have been here years ago. The absence grabbed her, forced the breath from her lungs, started the dark swirl inside.

“Don't be afraid. I am here to help you.”

His eyes darted over to her. “Isadora.” Her name wheezed out of him, sounding almost like relief or perhaps simply longing. It caught her up. Drew her back.

“For I hold you by your right hand.”

“Daddy.” She rushed at him, pressed her face into his chest. Despite the hospital smells, she recognized him, the natural scent of his skin, strength, calm. “Oh, Daddy.”

“Issy.” He breathed her name again, and she looked up. She cradled his face in her hands and found his eyes.

There he was. And inside those gray-blue eyes, she recognized herself—strong and beautiful and resilient.

So that's where she'd gone.

“You made it,” he said, his voice hoarse.

A tear leaked out of his eye, and she scrubbed it off with her thumb.

“I made it.” She sank into his smile, and it pulled her away from the dark edges of fear. Of grief. “I'm sorry it took me so long to get here.”

“I knew you'd make it . . . someday.”

She ran her hand down his face, the familiarity of it sinking into all her broken places. “Daddy, I've missed you so much.”

“I know. Me too.”

She looked up at the television. “Just in time for the two-minute warning. Wait until you see the winning play.”

He winked at her.

She nestled her head into his shoulder, slid her fingers into his lifeless hand. Listened to his heartbeat. Strong. Constant.

Daddy.

Behind her, she heard the cheers—probably herself—as Ryan ran toward the sideline yelling, “Coach! McCormick doesn't know this play! Coach!”