Page 15 of Kiss Me Tonight

I hold way too much respect for the sport to put its players at a disadvantage, and my old teammate knows it. As for the teaching physical education part of the gig, it’s not like the job can’t be filled ASAP if I do dip out. It’s all temporary at best.

Taking the assistant position is smarter—and better—for everyone involved.

Bitterness tightens my grip as I put ballpoint tip to paper, the black ink curdling on the page in a heavy drop. From NFL player to TV host to high school assistant football coach. I’m on a downward trajectory that burns like cheap vodka going down the wrong pipe.

Contract signed, I cap the pen.

Brien grins at me. “Congrats, man. You’re officially a London Wildcat now.” He spins on his chair and nabs a cardboard box from the ground. Out comes a T-shirt, which he tosses over to me. It’s a XXXL, big enough to fit over my shoulders and arms, and not risk turning into a belly-revealing crop top. Red fabric, white font.

My surname is printed on the back, and then, right below, it reads:Assistant Coach.

My gaze leaps up to meet Brien’s. “You knew I’d agree?”

He shrugs. “I hoped your pride would let you.”

Pride is a fickle mistress, though, and as I fold the T-shirt over my shoulder, all I can hope is that this Levi dude doesn’t make me regret my decision to stick around.

4

Aspen

Three days after the Golden Fleece Incident, I’m strangling the non-existent life out of my seat belt. Car wheels squeal as Topher bangs a hard uey to head the opposite way down Main Street toward the high school. His brown hair, so much like his father’s, is longer up front, and he blows upward out of the corner of his mouth to get the strands out of the way.

The tactic fails him as he rolls right past a stop sign.

“Stop!” My back jerks against the cushioned seat as my baby boy slams on the brakes like his life depends on it.

But instead of looking remorseful for almost driving us into a busy intersection, he slips a hand from the steering wheel and tries to pat the top of my head. He misses and catches the slope of my nose instead.

“You’re fine, Ma. Deep breaths.”

I swat his hand away. “Ten and two, Toph. Ten andtwo. What in the world are they teaching you kids at Driver’s Ed nowadays?”

He hesitates, the pause more than a little obvious since the radio is off and there’s nothing but the sound of myI’m-going-to-diebreathing to keep us entertained. He digs his tongue into the inner flesh of his right cheek, a nervous tick that’s stayed with him since childhood.

Immediately on the alert, my eyes narrow. “Nuh-uh, bud. Pull the car over and spill.”

“We’re gonna be late for workouts,” is his only excuse as he pumps the gas and clears the intersection. “Which means we’llbe late on our very first day. We can’t let that happen,Coach.”

The little speed demon accelerates, and my stomach does this topsy-turvy thing that has nothing to do with it being my first day coaching the Wildcats and everything to do with Topher’s shoddy driving skills.

A car honks to my right, daring me to glance in that direction and see all the reasons I made the wrong callthis morning by letting Topher get some driving practice in on the way to the football field.

Hello there, Bad Decisions, it’s awful to see you again.

As delicately as possible, I sip coffee from my Dunkin’ Donuts traveler mug. Once caffeinated, I breathe a little easier. “I know you’re worried about the other kids, baby.”

His narrow shoulders twitch as he circles the steering wheel, heading north to the school. “Don’t . . . you aren’t gonna call me that around my teammates, right?”

“Baby?” I ask, keeping my tone light and unassuming. This is new territory for us, me coaching where he attends school. In Pittsburgh, I always worked in a different district, preferring instead to give him space to live without his mother hanging around at all times. But the enclave of Frenchman Bay is tiny, Mount Desert Island being even smaller. I’ve counted my lucky stars ten times over that London was even hiring and gave us a chance to leave Pittsburgh.

And Rick.

Ten and two-ing the wheel, Topher gives the most imperceptible nod.

“What would you rather I call you?” I settle into my seat, legs crossed at my ankles. Quickly, I think of crazy nicknames off the top of my head. “Gangster Toph? Hey, You? Giraffe Legs?”

The sound of Topher’s laughter fuels my own happiness. There’s been so, so little of it over the last year, ever since he caught Rick in bed with a woman who was decidedly notme. Scratch that—two women. Instead of waiting for the embarrassment to reemerge, as it always does, I drink more coffee.

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