“No more matchmaking.”
“Don’t you get lonely in that big house? With that ugly dog?”
“Football is why I came to Blue Belle. It’s why you hired me. I don’t want every woman in town throwing their hat in for me.”
“Noted, but here’s the problem: Melinda is smitten. She’s a teacher here, and dealing with her is a slippery slope. Her dad is our biggest booster. Plus, you want to maintain a decent working relationship with her.”
“No relationship.”
She sighs. “We don’t want you to leave.”
“I’m still here, Lois,” I say in an exasperated tone.
“But I want you to stay forever. For Milo.” She pulls out her inhaler and toys with it.
“He’s going to be fine next year if I don’t come back. Hell, we don’t even know if I’m leaving or not, but you’re trying to set me up. And it’s not just you. Everyone is. The checkout lady at the Piggly Wiggly put three different phone numbers in my bag. A woman at Ace Hardware followed me out to my car last week. I can’t go anywhere without someone suggesting I meet their daughter or niece or cousin.” I exhale. “I was clear with the board from the beginning. I signed a yearly contract for a reason.”
“How do you feel about Escalades? In black? Or we could give you a bonus?”
“No.”
She bites her lip. “Fine, but I can’t stop a moving train, Ronan.”
“What do you mean?”
“Melinda claims to be in love.”
Jesus! No! That’s just not true. She’s just caught up in the competitive nature of being the one to snag the coach . . .
The landline rings, and I curse, pick it up, and then hang it up.
Lois gives me a smile. “What did you think of Nova? You know, as a neighbor?”
I pause, remembering that first kiss in the elevator, the fact that I hadn’t touched a woman in a year—
For the past few days, I’ve been circling around that night, waffling from being pissed off that she was part of a plot to wanting to, shit, atone for how it ended? Fuck if I know. The best thing to do is pretend we don’t know each other.
“She’s beautiful . . .” Lois keeps talking, but I’ve zoned out as I think back over the past few years with women. I’ve shunned commitments, isolating part of myself for simple self-preservation. No serious entanglements means no anguish, no responsibility for someone else’s safety. Jenny once said my heart was made of stone, and I guess she’s right. I’m just a lurker, watching the world go by as I coach football. I can easily go on like this for the rest of my life.
“Not interested in her.” I stand, grab my clipboard, and put the whistle around my neck.
She follows me out the door. “Funny. I didn’t ask you if you were interested.”
Ignoring her, I walk down the hallway, past the locker room, and outside to the field. My eyes rake over it, scanning the perfectly trimmed grass, the bright-white lines, the Bobcat in the center. Calm washes over me.
I grew up in a poor neighborhood outside Chicago with a mom who waited tables and worked at a paper mill. My dad deserted us by the time I was six. I can’t even recall what he looks like. Tall, I guess.
He spun out of our driveway on a rainy March evening, my mom with one baby on each hip, me at her feet, crying. Too much too soon, she told me years later, which was a fuck of a lot nicer than how I’d put it. He was weak. A loser. My jaw clenches. A kid never forgets being abandoned, and if anything, it’s made me more determined, smarter, and very, very careful about my commitments.
When my middle school gym teacher saw I’d sprouted six inches over the summer, he took me to the coaches. I tried shooting hoops but couldn’t make anything from the three-point range, but when the football coach placed that pigskin in my hand, my body hummed. I threw a perfect spiral down the field—and my life goals were born.
I never looked back.
Whitney came along at a time when I longed for something permanent, tired of the revolving door of girlfriends. I loved her deeply and planned a life with her.
“Have you ever met her before?” Lois asks, making every step I do. “In New York?”
“Who?”
“Don’t pretend—”
I stop. “Lois. Get your ass off my field.”
She sucks on her inhaler. “Got it.”
The waitress at Randy’s Roadhouse stares at the long scar on my face, and I pull down my hat and look at the menu. I meant to sit in the seat across from me, the one that puts my scars to the window, but Skeeter took it first. “I’ll have the brisket with steamed broccoli, a plain salad, and water to drink.”