For the Children

She knew where Chandler was every second, though. Could hear his voice. Could almost feel his presence. And she knew exactly when, finished with the other parents, he headed her way.

Wearing jeans, he’d rolled the sleeves of his red plaid flannel shirt up to his elbows. His hair was short and professional-looking as always. He walked as though he’d just stepped out of a corporate board-room. Or was about to enter one.

“I’m glad you could make it.”

Her gaze briefly skimmed his. “I would’ve been here sooner, but I had a case that ran longer than we expected,” she said, hands under her elbows as she looked over at the locker-room door.

“Brian didn’t play.”

“I noticed.”

“He isn’t ready.”

She could have asked him ready by what standards, but she wasn’t going to debate that again. Not as long as Brian was maintaining his weight. She wasn’t after special favors for her boys. Her concern was and always had been Brian’s health.

And she knew the standards they were abiding by, anyway. The only ones that appeared to matter. His.

“It looks like you’ve done a great job with the kids,” she said. She glanced at him briefly and then back at the locker-room door.

Where were her boys? She wanted to get away from their coach. He was disturbing her equilibrium with messages that didn’t add up.

The man was a complete enigma. Charismatic, iron-willed, intelligent, obstinate, compassionate, coldhearted, confident. And a crossing guard making little more than minimum wage. Even with what the school paid him to work as a lunchroom supervisor and playground monitor, his wages had to be pretty low.

“There’s no longer an empty spot on the team.”

Her gaze flew to his. He’d said Brian wasn’t ready.

“Did you notice the kid playing center?”

Abraham. Valerie nodded.

“He took the final slot today.”

Valerie wondered how that was going to work with the community service hours she’d ordered as a condition of Abraham’s probation. And made a mental note to have Leah file the paper to allow basketball practice to substitute for the boy’s time at the nursing home.

And then her heart started to pound with a mixture of anger, indignation, sadness and fear.

“So now Brian’s told that even his best effort wasn’t good enough.”

How the hell was she going to counter that?

“He’s still welcome to practice with the team.”

“Why would he want to do that?”

“Why don’t you ask him,” Chandler said, motioning with one shoulder t

oward the locker room. Her sons had just walked through the door. “He asked if he could.”

“So he already knows.”

“The rest of the boys got their uniforms today.”

“What’s the point of torturing him, Mr. Chandler? You’re telling me there’s no longer a possibility of his making the team.”

“If he practices, and someone drops out or gets hurt, he could move up. Assuming he’s ready.”

Valerie’s heart sank. Such a nebulous promise was worse than no promise at all because it would be enough to keep Brian coming back—slowly killing himself for something he had little chance of obtaining.