Old Fashioned - Becker Brothers

My little brother didn’t respond for a long time. It was just me, breathing heavily, waiting for him to argue with me so I could fight him some more on the topic. But instead, after a long pause, he made a noise of understanding.

“Well,” he said. “It sounds like you have your answer.”

My chest was still rising and falling at a rapid rate, but when the urge to fight him left me, I was left in a hollow sadness wishing he would keep going, keep telling me reasons I was wrong.

“Just pretend like it never happened and things are back to work as usual,” he continued. “She forgets about you, you forget about her. No harm, no foul. It was just a kiss, right?”

A long, slow exhale left my chest. “Right,” I agreed, though my voice was soft and unsure.

Mikey didn’t say anything, letting the silence sit between us, and I chewed on everything he’d said and every point I’d thrown back at him for the rest of our phone call. When we were all caught up and promised to talk again soon, I hung up the phone and stared at the blank screen of my television.

“It was just a kiss,” I repeated out loud, to no one and to whoever might be listening — myself, included.

Then, I picked up my playbook, and got back to distracting myself from all the lies.SydneyFall began to make its descent on our little Tennessee town over the next two weeks. The days cooled to a beautifully perfect seventy to seventy-five degrees, and the evenings welcomed us with a crisp wind that brought chilly nights. It wasn’t quite cold enough to get the fireplace going yet, but it was getting there, and I reveled in the fact that I could wear leggings and a long-sleeve shirt without sweating.

Margaret’s Bakery boasted the arrival of pumpkin bread and apple cider, Charlie Warren was already setting up his pumpkin patch on the edge of town, and I knew the corn maze wouldn’t be far behind.

And most of all, football season was in full swing.

It was our first home game since the one we’d opened the season with, and the Stratford stands were packed. We’d won all three of our away games since then, and our fans were anxious to see if we’d deliver a W at home tonight. Winning in any capacity was great, but winning in your own house was another level of high — and I could feel the pressure our players were putting on themselves to deliver.

“Alright,” I said after wrapping our quarterback’s left ankle. I tapped the toe of his cleat. “Try not to get sacked, and I’ll re-wrap at halftime, if necessary.”

Rodgers smiled, thanking me as he hopped up from the bench and jogged out to join his team warming up on the field. I packed away the tape in my training bag, looking over my notes on all the players to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anyone. My pre-game responsibilities felt natural to me now, and I loved that I had a routine.

“Coach!”

I followed the sound of someone calling out to Jordan, smiling curiously when I found an older man I recognized from when he’d helped Randy work on our busted pipe in our kitchen one afternoon years ago. He had dark brown skin and soft, kind eyes — and a crooked yellow grin that widened the longer he stood there. He wore a fedora on his head, one that matched the suspenders he wore, and he tipped it at Jordan as he made his way over to the sideline, leaning over the railing that separated us from the fans in the bleachers.

“What say you, Eli?” Jordan asked, pressing his back to the gate next to where Eli stood. It made it where they could stand next to each other and talk, but he could still keep an eye on his team, too.

“I say I’m looking forward to you bringing all those W’s you’ve gotten on the road home tonight.”

Jordan raised his eyebrows, gaze following the throw Rodgers had just made to Smith on the field. “If all goes according to my plan, that’s exactly what you’ll see.” He glanced up at Eli before his eyes were on the field again. “Missed you at last week’s game.”

Eli grumbled. “Yeah, well, they had a plumbing emergency down at the nursing home Friday evening. I couldn’t very well leave Ms. Betty Collins without a properly working toilet, as I’m sure you well know.”

Jordan chuckled at that, and I found myself wondering who Betty Collins was, and my curiosity climbed the more I watched them together. That was, until the Mom Parade made their way to the fan side of the fence.

I rolled my eyes at the way they leaned over it, giving glimpses of their cleavage, their eyes light and playful as they talked to Jordan. They asked if they could get him anything, if he needed a shoulder massage before the game, if he wanted to hang out after the game — and any time Jordan gave them an incredulous look, the women hid their intentions under a flurry of laughter, as if they were joking when we all knew they’d jump at the chance to have Jordan in their bed.