Old Fashioned - Becker Brothers

This time, it was with a smile.

“Congratulations, Coach,” I said, nudging him with my elbow. “Looks like our year isn’t hopeless yet.”

“It’s just one game,” he said, falling back into the seat like he was wiped. “But damn, does it feel good to win.”

He turned to look at me as the bus pulled out of the lot, and the stadium lights played with the shadows on his face until we slipped into darkness on the country road. I expected him to turn away, to give me a high five and lean over the aisle to talk to the other coaches about the game, but instead, he just stayed that way.

Watching me — like he was waiting for something, or like he was on the cusp of discovering something he’d missed all along.

“You’re damn good at your job, did you know that?”

His words surprised me, and I couldn’t fight off the blush that shaded my cheeks. I shrugged. “Just doing what needs to be done.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t downplay what you did out there like anyone could do it. This is only your second game, and already, the boys on this bus feel more comfortable with you than they ever did with any other trainer we’ve had. Do you understand what that means?”

“Maybe it’s because I’m a woman,” I offered as a joke. “I give off those motherly, nurturing vibes.”

“You do,” he agreed. “But, that’s not why they trust you. They trust you because you know what you’re doing, and you prove it time and time again when you take them back for treatment. They know that if you say it’s not safe to play, it’s not. And if you say they’re going to be okay, they will be. And if you say to rest or to ice or to do therapy, they know it’s not just bullshit talk to fill the space. It’s necessary.” Jordan paused, frowning a bit. “You are a very impressive trainer, Sydney.”

Emotion swelled in the middle of my chest like a lotus flower, sprouting up from the sticky mud that had stifled my self-pride for years. I hated how hot my ears were in that moment, but I loved the way it felt to have my hard work and talent acknowledged.

“Thank you, Jordan,” I said — softly, almost a whisper. My eyes found his. “Really.”

One corner of his mouth tugged up a centimeter, but otherwise, his expression remained the same. He nodded, still watching me, his eyes flicking back and forth between mine.

Those eyes that were too mesmerizing not to watch in return.

The air on that bus liquified, as if I could reach out and touch it and send a ripple flowing between where I sat and where Jordan was next to me. I felt it weighing in on me, warm and heavy, my breaths labored under the pressure.

I cleared my throat, ripping my gaze from his. I picked at my chipped nail polish a moment — polish Paige had painted on the night before I took her to her dad’s. I’d found it funny and endearing that my football-obsessed little girl wanted to paint our nails together, and I smiled at the memory.

“You know,” I said, picking a fleck of the red off before I looked at Jordan again. “Paige insinuated that you have her to thank for tonight’s win.”

“Did she now?” Jordan barked out a laugh, crossing his ankle over his knee. “Well, she was definitely part of it. You know, it was her idea to try Ingram at running back. She saw his speed and protection of the ball when he was warming up for last week’s game.” Jordan shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe he’d missed it. “He’s so young, you know. Freshman. I just didn’t think he could handle that kind of pressure yet.”

“And then he gets two touchdowns in his first game as a starter,” I mused with a whistle. “Damn, my girl is smart.”

Jordan chuckled. “That she is.”

Darkness fell over both of us as we slipped past the last little part of North Valley, and I knew even though I couldn’t see it, that same country I’d stared at on the way over was outside our windows now.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said, biting my lip just in case I wanted to change my mind before I continued. “About what you said. About Paige.”

“Yeah?”

I nodded. “I was wondering… would you possibly like to come by for lunch tomorrow? I hoped maybe you could sit her down, really explain what it would mean for her to play football. And I mean really explain it — the good, the bad, the ugly. I want her to understand everything she’s getting herself into.” I swallowed, the instinct I’d gained as soon as I became a mother flaring in my gut. “And if she’s still serious after that… well… will you help her?”