Page 7 of The One I Left Behind

And as if it couldn’t get worse, my dad disappeared about five minutes ago. He could talk to some of these people or at least say the names I’ve forgotten.

“Get out of my way,” a gruff voice says, and all I see is people parting to make room.

I laugh, handing over a picture of me with a signature on it to the little boy in front of me because I know who that voice belongs to.

“Benny boy.” Coach Marks puts out his arms, and I stand, hugging him over the table.

“Coach.”

“Just came by to remind you why you’re a pro player.” He laughs, pointing at himself, and a few people around him do too.

Coach Marks should’ve been on that float with me. Although his beard is almost completely gray now, and his stomach a little more stretched over his pants, he still has the same gregarious smile.

“You’re already getting soft.” He pokes my stomach with his finger. “Better hit the gym to keep that shape.” His stomach bounces with laughter.

“Can’t say it’s not something I’ve been worried about.”

I’ve seen other players who retired, and the muscle mass gets lost when you’re not training the way you were while in the league. But whatever my dad has planned for me on the ranch should help.

“Ah, as long as I’m around, I’m not gonna let you get too soft.” Coach steps aside, and there’s a group of boys behind him, all wearing their Willowbrook High School football jerseys. “The boys want to meet you. Boys, this is Ben Noughton.”

They file in line, each one shaking my hand. So many of them remind me of myself at that age. Naïve as to how tough football is once you’re out of high school. But most won’t see college play. I hate that fact, but it’s the truth. Sometimes I wonder how I even got to the pro level.

“I’m Drew. Running back. Freshman.” The kid’s so excited, his palm is a little clammy. “I’m your biggest fan. Never missed a game. Any advice?”

Coach Marks slaps Drew on the back. “Relax there, kid. Move along.” He looks at me. “He’s a little hyper, you know?”

“Thanks, Drew,” I say, nodding before he gets away.

“Clayton, what’re you scared of?” Coach Marks says to the kid, sauntering toward me as if he’s on death row walking toward the execution room.

“Sorry, Coach.” His voice is low. He must be the shy type. He puts his hand out between us. “Clayton.”

Coach Marks glances at me. As I slide my hand into the kid’s, I realize a lot of eyes are on me, and all the sounds of people talking turn into hushed whispers.

Oh shit.

Clayton.

“Clayton Adams?” I ask.

His eyes lock with mine, and it’s all I can do not to react. How did I not notice when he first approached? He’s got Gillian’s eyes. The same cornflower blue I stared into so many nights under the stars in the back of my truck.

“Yes, sir.” His tone is cold and distant. A vast difference from the kid before him.

“Call me Ben.”

He slides his hand out of mine and shoves it in his pocket, walking away toward the group of boys. Obviously the boy hates me, but it’s no surprise that Gillian raised him to be polite. I’d expect nothing else.

My vision shifts to Coach, and he’s got a look on his face that says, “Yep, that’s your high school sweetheart’s boy. You really fucked that up.” But instead of saying it, he crosses his arms on top of his belly. “How about you assist me this year?”

Fuck, I don’t want to coach football. “Um… I’m not sure what my dad has planned for me at the ranch.”

His eyes narrow, but he laughs and shakes his head. “You can at least come down and run a few camps. You owe me that much.”

“Deal.”

“That’s what I thought. Now, I’ll let these other people get in here to meet the man I developed.” He smirks and ambles off, yelling at the boys to go pick up some trash leftover from the parade.

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