Page 48 of Final Down

“Mmm, we’ll see. Kinda depends how this thing goes.” I step up on my toes to give him a quick kiss before he heads inside.

I run through my note cards two more times before tucking them in my jacket pocket and everyone heads inside. I make a stop in the ladies’ room to shake out my nerves and touch up my lip gloss. When I push through the door, it flings open as someone pulls the handle from the other side, and I stumble out.

“Sorry, Coach . . .oh . . .”

I pull myself together quickly at the sound of Alissa Sommers’ voice. It’s not her fault that her mom is pushy. Honestly, I like Alissa. She’s a terrible tumbler, and she can’t project worth a damn, but she works hard and is a huge help at practice. I’ve dubbed her team manager for a reason. Her mom thinks her daughter is someone else, though. She thinks Alissa is the same loud, athletic cheerleader she was when she was in highschool. And the fact Alissa isn’t going to perform with the squad in competition baffles her. What Alissa needs is to be valued for exactly who she is.

Not your place, Peyton. Keep your mouth shut. Especially now.

“It’s okay, Alissa. I’m a bit of a mess. I’m sure I would have tripped all on my own.” I force a pleasant smile on my lips, but it breaks down when Alissa’s mouth quivers and her eyes tear up.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, her hands flying to her mouth, cupping it.

I shake my head and glance around the foyer of the meeting room. It’s clear, so I shake my head and pull down my emotional mask for a moment.

“It’s not your fault, Alissa. And no matter what, you will continue to have a place on the squad. You’re a natural leader. And not all leaders have to be loud.”

She nods as her hands slowly drop to her sides.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice a whisper.

“No. Thankyoufor everything you’ve done to help the team.” I stop myself from apologizing for her mom acting the way she is, because as ugly as her attack on me is, I know the root of it is because she believes she’s defending her daughter.

Alissa attempts a smile, however tepid, then heads into the restroom. I make my way into the full meeting room, taking a seat in the very back, next to the other speakers who have been called on for tonight. Granted, the guy right next to me is presenting on the quotes the district received for replacement concrete for one of the elementary schools, and the woman next to him is asking for a budget for an eighth-grade winter dance. I wish I could trade places with her.

To spare the other guests from a late night, the board president, a retired teacher named Chuck Darwin of all things, shuffles the agenda and lets the two other presenters go first.The wait has me sweating, but it’s too late to dip into the bathroom and swap the suit for a dress, though the thought of dashing out after a superhero-esque change is tempting.

“Now to the matter of the indecent photo?—”

I get to my feet the second Chuck utters that word.Indecent.

“Excuse me. I would like to speak and correct what I suspect may be some dangerous misrepresentations of, well, me.”

“Hmm,” he grumbles into his mic.

The applause from the audience buoys me as I step up to the podium in front of the dais. There is one section of the room that’s quiet, the one where Alissa’s mom is sitting with her cohorts. Strange how those are the parents of the girls I either cut from tryouts or offered non-performing roles.

Football doesn’t have to put up with this shit.

I clear my throat and adjust the mic, the snickers from my haters catching my ears. They must catch my mom’s too, because she levels an audibleshhthat carries across the room. I breathe in slowly through my nose rather than cringe. Mom is defending me. And that’s what Alissa’s mom thinks she’s doing. Maintain composure. Stick to the message.

“I didn’t come here tonight to defend a photo. I came to defend my name. My family’s name. A name that means something because of the things we’ve all done for this community. My grandfather put this place on the map. Leading the high school to its first state football championship. Opening the first auto dealership in town. Serving as the president of this very board when my dad was a baby.”

I glance to my right to find my father leaning against the wall alongside his coaching staff and several of his players.

“My dad carried that torch, and he didn’t need to come back. I won’t lie, there were times when I was sixteen and . . . well . . . acting my age, and I thought ‘Man, it would be nice to live inMalibu instead of a desert that tops out at a hundred and twenty-three degrees in July.’”

The crowd chuckles. Heat jokes always play well in this place.

“But nah. Not Reed Johnson. He wanted to come back to his roots. He wanted to help guide the inevitable growth. To pour money into the sport here, to the place that gave him a career in the first place. The man spends more time on that high school field than any of you ever have. My mom, too. And the ranch she’s built, the way she’s helping people, families, to find joy and to feel a connection through animal therapy. Yeah, the Johnsons are good for Coolidge.”

I’m feeling my rhythm, which is probably why Chuck feels the need to clear his throat in his mic right now. My eyes flit up from my note cards to meet his. I haven’t had to look at them much, but so far, I’ve stayed on message. But the way he’s looking at me, boredom drooping his face, means my words aren’t really sinking in.

I set my cards down on the podium and take a step back for a moment, dropping my head and shaking it. I’m going to have to go off script. I approach the mic again, this time gripping the edges of the podium and taking my time to meet the gazes of all five board members.

“You know, we wouldn’t be having this meeting if I were the football coach. If this was a football parent filing a complaint. If this, what did you call it . . .indecent?Yeah, if this indecent photo was of my dad, one of his staff, one of our beloved players or alumni who wore the jersey, we wouldn’t be having a meeting at all. Hell, I bet at least one of you on that board would turn it into a meme or a Christmas card.”

Travis, who played for Coolidge with my Uncle Jason years ago snaps his gaze to me. I smirk, and he cracks a little under the guilt, smiling back on one side of his mouth.

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