Beauty and the Baller

I take in the sullen faces before me. “You three walk with me back to the school. I want you to keep this between us and the team. There’s no need to go half-cocked into the school and start spouting off. It will only make things worse and make fans angry. Got it?”

“But those poor stuffed animals—” Bruno starts.

“No buts,” I say.

He lets out a gust of air. “Yes, sir. My lips are sealed. Can I tell my girlfriend? She and I share everything. She’s a cheerleader, super hot—”

I inhale. “We all know your girlfriend, Bruno. This is just for the team. We can use this as an opportunity. If you see a Huddersfield person out somewhere, be nice, pretend like it never happened, that it didn’t make a blip on your radar. That’s the ultimate revenge.”

They give me doubtful looks.

Bruno’s shoulders dip. “Are you going to give us one of your Art of War quotes?”

“No, Toby is. He’s your captain. Toby?”

I turn my gaze to him, waiting for the leadership I know he has inside him. I’ve heard him repeating our mantras at practice and on the field. He’s my best player, the most dedicated, the one who has a lot to lose if he doesn’t get a scholarship. That thought makes me pause, the idea of leaving him next season; then I push it away. Whether I’m here or not, I’ll make sure Toby gets his education.

Toby straightens his shoulders and paraphrases one of the quotes. “Ponder before you make a move. Think about your enemy and where he’ll be waiting. If you think they’re laying a trap, they are.”

I nod. “Tell them what we should do.”

“Ignore it. They did this to piss us off, hoping we’d have a knee-jerk reaction, maybe get caught and have to sit out a few games and ruin our winning streak,” he says.

Pride soars inside me, and I slap him on the back. “All right. Now, do you mean it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want a promise from each of you that you’ll let this go,” I say.

“We promise,” they say.

We exit, and by the time we get back to the building, we’re talking game strategy and workout routines. Crisis averted. No goats stolen on my watch . . .

“Thank you for my birthday at the Roadhouse. The cake was so good. Chocolate’s my favorite,” Bonnie, Toby’s mom, says as we walk into their small house. It’s on the south side of town, a more run-down area, the houses built in the fifties, the yards small. Toby holds the door open as we head to the den.

Toby settles her gifts and balloons on the counter. Lois picked her out a bedazzled jersey with the number fifteen on it, Toby’s, and a gift card to a ladies’ store in town.

Bonnie and I end up in the den, and I turn on the TV so she can watch a previous game where Toby threw three touchdown passes. She couldn’t go because she was sick.

“What are you having trouble with?” I ask Toby as I come in the kitchen for water. He’s at the table, scowling over his notebook.

He pushes his hair back and groans. “Algebra two. I’ve kinda hit a wall. It’s solving quadratic equations . . .”

I settle down next to him. “Let me see it.”

We huddle over the textbook and go through the problems, step by step. Bonnie comes in and puts the cake and gifts away, asking if we need anything, but we say no and keep at it.

When I was in high school, I focused on my studies, terrified my athletic talent wasn’t enough or would be snatched away from me. Between school and work and taking care of my sisters, I barely had time to do anything else.

“I think I have it,” Toby says a few minutes later. “You can go.”

“You sure? I’m not in a hurry. Trust me. No plans.”

He chews on his lip.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. I think Mom’s ready for bed, and I haven’t talked to her much,” he says hurriedly, standing up and taking my glass to the sink.

I frown. “Is this about the field today?”

“No, sir. It’s nothing. I swear.”

I study him for a few seconds. I hear him. He wants some alone time with her. Or perhaps something is eating at him, and he isn’t ready to talk.

I clap him on the back. “You’ve got my cell if you need me, ’kay?” I point at the books. “If you get stuck, give me a ring, and we can work it through FaceTime, yeah?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“See you Monday.” I leave for home.

After changing into joggers and an old practice shirt, I head to my office. Dog trots behind me as I grab my guitar and sit in one of the leather recliners. I learned to play from Tuck. I’m not as good as he is, but the more time I spend alone, the more I pick it up.