I nod, my gaze steady on his. “Lois will plan something. I’ll be there.”
Toby gives me a broad smile, a relieved look on his face as he walks to the locker room.
“He’s a good kid,” Lois murmurs.
“Yes.” His situation—and his talent—reminds me of my own childhood.
Skeeter pops his head in. “Cheerleaders have lice. I’m shook. It’s gonna be everywhere by the end of the week.” He whips his hat off and scratches his head.
“And?”
He gives me a glare. “You ever have lice, Coach?”
“Not that I recall.”
“It’s awful! My mama used to put mayonnaise on my head to kill ’em. Then she’d comb out my hair with this tiny little pick. She gave up one time and shaved my head in fifth grade. Worst school picture I ever took.” He takes a breath. “We need to disinfect the helmets, uniforms—hell, maybe Lysol the whole field house. I’ve got a pressure washer at home. We can mix up some chemicals and let it rip.” He motions spraying the walls.
“No pressure washer or man-made chemicals, please,” I say as I pinch my nose. “Get someone on it—”
“Who? We’ve got practice. Our flunky left us.”
Frustration flares. Hayden, our all-around helper and my PA, was a local college kid who ran errands and did whatever we didn’t have time for. He got married last year, and his wife delivered a new baby a couple of weeks ago. He quit for another job, and no one has thought to hire anyone else.
I lift my arms at him. “We’ve got five assistant coaches on staff. Figure it out. If you’re that worried, do it yourself.”
He ambles away, muttering.
The lights on both landlines start up again, and I groan and snatch one up. It’s a news station asking for an interview before the Huddersfield game two months from now. “Fine,” I growl and pencil in a date on my calendar. I grab the other phone. It’s Randy’s Roadhouse offering to host a celebratory party after we beat Huddersfield. “We may not win,” I mutter, then get off.
“You’re going to get a reputation as rude,” Lois murmurs as she files her nails. “You should try some peppermint oil for your stress. Just rub a little on your temples, and voilà. It smells nice.” She points her file at me. “I’ll bring you some.”
“Not rude. I don’t have time for this . . .” I wave my hands around at the office. “Extra stuff.” When I played professionally, I never had to worry about answering phones, arranging fundraisers, getting interviews. My agent did it. I just kept my body in top physical form, listened to my coaches, and performed.
Bruno juts his head back in. “Coach, the cheerleaders want to know if we’re doing a big pep rally before the Huddersfield game. Their sponsor wants to do this dance routine to ‘Another One Bites the Dust,’ and I was thinking, you know, we need to be lit too—like jazz it up a bit. Usually, we just walk around the gym in our uniforms and wave. Miss Tyler is nice, but she has certain ideas . . .”
Melinda planned pep rallies last year, but I asked Principal Lancaster at the beginning of the year to find someone else. It just created more time when she was around me.
I point at him. “Bruno. Where are those plays? Sit your butt down, and study. Worry about Wayne Prep, son. Cheerleaders and pep rallies can wait.”
“My girlfriend—”
“Has lice. I don’t care. Locker room. Now.”
He leaves, and I plop down with an exhale, then give Lois a long look. “My birthday party was over the top.”
“It was a small thing.” She tucks her file away in her big purse. “But I understand. I can’t always plan the perfect gig. Apologies. It won’t happen again. Also, I’ve been making sure we send meals over to Bonnie and Toby a couple of times a week. I heard you bought her house, then gave it to her.”
I narrow my eyes. Bonnie’s disability checks weren’t enough to cover her bills. I stepped in this summer to help. Toby needs to know his food and shelter are taken care of. A kid can’t perform if he’s worried about basic needs. “Who told you that?”
“Someone at the bank.”
“That’s confidential information.”
She gives me a half smile. “Nothing is secret in Blue Belle.”
Fine. I’m not surprised. I wave it off . . . “Lois. The women you invited to my house—”
“Were so sweet! Don’t you love how Texas girls can cook? Those coconut-battered shrimp . . . delicious! I saw you chowing down. It was unfortunate that Jenny showed up. I mean, y’all broke it off in New York—that’s what you told me—but she never got the message. It’s good she saw you with Melinda. Jenny really isn’t your type. You need—”