Old Fashioned Read online

  “NormaTecs,” she mused, crossing her arms as her eyebrows crept up. She eyed me with a smirk. “I didn’t realize I was working for a team of professional athletes.”

  I grabbed the back of my neck with a shrug. “What can I say? When you win two state championships, you get a lot of money thrown your way. We had all new pads, new jerseys, new staff gear, end zone cameras, new iPads and screens for reviewing tapes. I was running out of ways to spend it.”

  She chuckled. “You poor thing.”

  I wanted to smile, too, but I was still rubbing my neck, staring at what I knew would be the source of every headache I’d have in the next few months.

  “Sydney, listen,” I said on a sigh, letting my hand fall. “I don’t know how else to say this but to be frank with you.”

  Her smile fell, expression flattening as she straightened her spine.

  “I’m worried about you being our athletic trainer.”

  Her eyebrows dipped, lips pursing. “Let me guess — because I’m a woman?”

  “No,” I said quickly, but then I rolled my lips together. “Well, honestly? Kind of.” I held up my hands when she rolled her eyes. “But not because I don’t think you’re capable. It’s just that… we’re dealing with teenage boys here. They’re rowdy, and — God help us — dominated by hormones that they can’t control yet.”

  Sydney folded her arms over her chest, listening, her expression unreadable.

  “I’m just saying,” I continued. “There’s a lot riding on this season. We’ve won two state championships in a row, and we have a lot of eyes on us.”

  “Meaning, you have a lot of eyes on you.”

  I swallowed. “Yes.”

  “And you think I’ll be a distraction.”

  “Honestly? I know you will be.”

  Sydney smiled, shaking her head and looking around her new office before she took two purposeful steps toward me. “I understand your concern, but here’s my side of things.”

  She paused, and I realized I’d never been this close to Sydney — not in high school, not in any of the years since. And there was an energy pulsing off of her, one that hit me like a wave of electricity low in my gut.

  “If your players are distracted by a woman on the sideline, that is on them — not on me. If their parents didn’t teach them that, then I’d wager that’s your new job. I’m an athletic trainer, and a damn good one, which is why I got this job in the first place. I’m here to do that job, and the last thing I need is for my new boss to tell me that I might be too pretty to do it effectively.”

  “I didn’t say you were…”

  “Then what exactly are you saying?” she probed, taking another step. She didn’t raise her voice, but the intensity between us shot up three levels. Her chest was a few inches from mine now, her eyes cast up, chin held high, jaw set. Those dark lashes brushed her cheeks when she blinked, waiting.

  I catalogued every feature.

  “What I’m saying is that you are the first new member to our staff since I became head coach seven years ago, and I’m making sure you understand that we set the standards high on this team.”

  “Great. Your expectations have been made clear. Can I have a while alone to set up my office now?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Do you have a problem with authority, Ms. Clark?”

  “Only as much as you seem to have a problem with equality, Coach.”

  I blew out a frustrated breath, eyes rolling up to the ceiling as I debated whether it was worth fighting her over. I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to. But the truth was I knew I’d already put my foot in my mouth, that I hadn’t explained my concerns properly.

  I did sound like a sexist asshole, and no verbal argument could win me out of that perception in this moment.

  The only way for her to see that my concerns were valid was to witness them play out.

  And I had no doubt they would — in less than an hour when that locker room filled with boys.

  “Let me know if you have any questions as you get set up,” I said, forcing a calm breath. “After practice, I’ll get your sizes so we can order you staff polos and jackets for the games. The team should start showing up in about forty-five minutes.”

  I didn’t say another word, nor did I wait to see if she had a last one to get in, either. Instead, I moved swiftly back down the hall, resisting the urge to slam my office door. I swiped my clipboard off the desk, attempting to focus, but I read the same line over and over again, all the while stewing on what I’d said, how I’d said it, and what she’d thrown back at me, in return.

  It was less than an hour before the first practice of the year, and one thing was already abundantly clear.

  It was going to be a long season.

  Sydney

  Thirty boys and three grown men stared at the giant, square trophy in Jordan Becker’s hands as he carried it silently through the locker room. He sat it gently on the folding chair he’d propped in the middle of the room, placing his hand on the large, golden football that adorned the top of it. For a long while, he just stared at that trophy and didn’t say a word.

  The entire locker room was silent, too.

  As much as I wanted to hate him for his rather rude welcome to me on the team, I couldn’t deny that I respected him in that moment. He commanded attention — and he’d always been that way. I remembered him having the same presence in high school, though we weren’t in the same crowd. One thing I’d learned was that he didn’t speak often, so when he did, everyone knew it was important, and valuable, and necessary.

  So many people filled the world with hot air, speaking before thinking, talking about nothing at all.

  Jordan Becker was the exact opposite.

  He was purposeful, severe — like the flood God cast down to cleanse the earth.

  I stood straight in my little corner of the room, trying to blend while also knowing it was impossible. Until Jordan had waltzed that trophy into this room, I’d been about the only thing anyone could stare at. Eyes of each member of that staff widened when Jordan introduced me to them, and as the boys filed in one by one, their eyes stuck on me, too. They whispered to each other, smiling and elbowing each other in the ribs, and I could only imagine what they were saying.

  Thank God, because imagining was still better than hearing it for real.

  In retrospect, I knew Jordan wasn’t wrong about the way the boys would react to me. The fact that it was sexist and not my fault didn’t matter — boys would be boys, as they say. Still, this was my first day of work after years of being a stay-at-home mom — a job I didn’t choose, but rather, was selected for me. If it wasn’t for my sister’s friendship with Principal Hanley from when they were in school together, I wasn’t sure I would have been able to find a job as an athletic trainer after all the time I’d taken off. Before my daughter was born, I had been primed and ready to start my career, and I had offers waiting.

  But things changed.

  And no one in that locker room saw me as anything but someone new to the team. They had no idea that that day symbolized freedom for me. To them, and to most of that town, I was the bitch who divorced the sweet, amazing hero who kept this town safe. What they didn’t know is that I’d been anything but safe in my marriage with him.

  But in a small town, when the Police Chief is beating you with his words and his hands, you have no one to run to.

  And you believe him when he says you’re crazy, and that you deserve it.

  I swallowed, shaking those memories off before they could slide in to ruin the first day of my new chapter. It didn’t matter if no one else knew it, I knew it.

  It was a new beginning.

  A new era.

  A tiny smile curled my lips at the realization, but as soon as Jordan lifted his head, I straightened again.

  “Anyway.”

  It was the first word Jordan spoke, and I watched as confusion swept over the faces in the locker room — mine included. The boys glanced at each other, wondering if t
hey’d missed something, while the staff of coaches stood behind Jordan with similar gazes.

  “The past five years, this team has had a word of the season. Every day, we come back to that word. When we lose, when we win, when we practice, when we’re on this field, and when we’re off it — that word is our guide,” Jordan explained.

  His eyes were a storm in and of themselves, a swirl of gray-blue like an ominous sky with a burst of golden-brown around each iris. They locked on each of the boys looking up to him, as if he wanted to ensure they each felt seen. The way he stood next to that trophy, with his bicep muscles bulging out of his polo, his broad shoulders square and straight, his chin high, brows bent and determined, jaw square — he looked like he was about to take these boys into battle rather than onto a football field.

  And with the way they looked at him, I knew they wouldn’t hesitate to go to war for their sergeant.

  “Our first year, the word was work. Then, growth. We took growth to perseverance, and then to discipline, and last year, to determination.”

  That last word fired up the boys who I assumed had been on the team last year, and they chanted the word three times in different cadences before giving a deep-chested ooah! that echoed through the locker room.

  Jordan smirked, but the curl in his lips faded as fast as it had come. “This season’s word is different. It doesn’t look motivational if you slap it on a poster and it probably won’t make sense to anyone outside of this room. And that’s exactly why I picked it. Because the truth of the matter is this: we are the unit. We are the team. And we, alone, are responsible for what happens this season.”

  There were a few nods, an unspoken understanding, the locker room so quiet you could hear my sneaker squeak against the floor when I shifted my weight.

  “This season is going to be hard, but we’re going to persevere, anyway,” Jordan said after a while, glancing around the room. “Practices are going to be long and hot, but we’re going to show up, anyway. There’s a lot of pressure on us to perform, but we’re going to excel, anyway. There are going to be days we all want to grumble or scream or throw our helmets or quit, but we’re going to stay here and fight, anyway.”

  The more he used the word, the more fired up that locker room became. I watched the boys hold their heads higher, their brows furrowing deeper, their chests puffing out more and more with every word. I’d sat in the bleachers behind this team for years, every Friday night that we had a home game, watching Jordan lead them to win after win — but I’d never seen the inside of the machine, the one we watched work so effortlessly together on the field.

  This was the making of a team.

  This was magic.

  Jordan left his perch by the trophy, walking around the room now. “You’re going to mess up,” he said, nodding. “Oh, trust me — you are. You’re going to miss catches and tackles and run the wrong plays and look back on tapes wishing you’d done it all differently, but you know what?” He pressed his finger into one of the kid’s chests. “You’re going to get your ass back on that field on Monday, anyway.”

  There was a shuffling, a few kids rising to their feet with cries of yeah! and that’s right!

  “Your body is going to ache,” Jordan said, raising his voice. “Your muscles are going to scream and beg you to stop and you’re going to be pushed past your limits and everything inside you is going to tell you to quit. But you’re going to keep going, anyway.”

  More standing, more cheers.

  “Everyone out there,” Jordan said, all but screaming now as he pointed to the locker room doors. “Is going to expect you to fail — expect us to fail. They’re going to wait for us to crack under the pressure, to mess up, to fall short. But what are we going to do?” He looked around that room, and while I expected someone to answer, they all stood and waited, apparently well aware that it was a question Jordan would answer, himself.

  And he did.

  He smiled, shook his head, and thumbed his chest. “We are going to win, anyway. Can I hear you say it?” He held out his hands. “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to win, anyway,” the room echoed back to him, softer than he wanted.

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re going to win, anyway!”

  “When they tell you we lost our best players to graduation, what are you going to say?”

  “We’re going to win, anyway!”

  “When they tell you there’s no hope of us getting another state title, what are you going to say?”

  “We’re going to win, anyway!”

  “This is not going to be an easy season,” Jordan said to the humming room, all the boys on their feet now, shuffling, some of them clapping or stepping side to side. “We’re going to have to work, and work hard. We’re going to have to rise up against the odds. This town is supporting us, but the rest of this state can’t wait to watch us fail. So, when the doubts creep into your mind, when your body hurts, when the scores don’t look good or the fear strangles you, I want you to show up here, anyway. I want you to believe in yourself and in this team, anyway. And I want you to—”

  “Win, anyway!”

  Jordan smiled as the locker room erupted into cheers, and he clapped one of the boys on the shoulder. “Damn straight.”

  More cheers rang out, and I couldn’t help but smile from my little corner of the room. It was the first day of practice and he’d already fired them up for the entire season.

  That was a sign of a great coach.

  “He’s something out of this world to watch, isn’t he?”

  I followed the voice to my right, where the defensive coordinator had slid up beside me. Coach TK, as Jordan had introduced to me. He was a white man, with kind, hazel eyes and a smile that reminded me of my ex-husband’s father. Coach TK was just as tall as Jordan, his stocky figure hinting that he, too, had played football in his youth, and he wore a baseball cap to cover his balding head.

  “He’s something, alright,” I mused with a smile, eyeing Jordan with a mixture of annoyance and appreciation. I couldn’t deny that he deserved to be where he was, that there was no better man to lead our town’s team to victory.

  But I could still be upset with him for his presumptuous welcome.

  “Now, before we hand out equipment and get our first day of practice under way, we have a new member on our staff,” Jordan said, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, all eyes were on me.

  I smiled, pushing off the wall I was leaning against to stand straight.

  “Please help me welcome Sydney Clark, our new athletic trainer.”

  Someone whistled, someone else yelled out, “Oh, I’ll welcome her, alright,” and then the room filled with a mixture of laughter and cheers.

  I frowned.

  Jordan walked purposefully toward me, his eyes locked on mine, and that moment seemed to lengthen and stretch. There was something about that man’s eyes, about the way he held himself, the confidence he exuded and the respect he demanded.

  It left me breathless, awakening a part of me I thought had died forever, before he swiveled and faced the room of boys.

  “I’m going to say this one time and one time only, and if it doesn’t sink in, you will all run suicides for every time I have to repeat myself.”

  That shut them all up.

  “You will respect Ms. Clark just as you respected Mr. Perry when he was in the position. There will be no foul remarks, no whistling, no slanderous talk, and no other behavior that your mother would classify as disrespectful and skin your hide for. If any of you fake injuries to get time on her table, or pull any kind of crap that makes her uncomfortable, you will have me to answer to — and trust me when I say the punishment will not be pretty. Am I understood?”

  There were mumbles of yes, coach in response.

  Part of me wanted to be annoyed that this even had to be a conversation, but the other part of me was glad he was setting the standards for his team from the start. He didn’t allow
it to get past those first remarks made, and he was making it clear what was expected.

  More than anything, it was a sign of respect for me.

  One I appreciated.

  “Good,” Jordan said, nodding once. “Ms. Clark has studied sports medicine in depth and had past offers to play with college teams.”

  His eyes found mine then, and my brows folded. How did he know that?

  “We’re lucky to have her,” he finished, with his eyes still on mine. I could feel the sincerity in them, the belief he held for the words he’d just spoken.

  And something else.

  Something else I couldn’t quite place.

  But before I could dissect it further, he clapped his hands, barked out an order, and the team fled out of the locker room and onto the field.

  They don’t tell you anything about motherhood.

  When you’re pregnant, you think they’re telling you everything. You think the baby books and the unsolicited advice from family members and older mothers in town cover just about everything you’d need to know — and everything you never wanted to know, too.

  You think you’re prepared. You know that it will hurt, that the pain won’t matter once that child is in your arms, that your life will never be the same. You know not to expect sleep, and that your breasts will swell until you feed, and that your priorities will shift to completely center your world around this new, tiny human you’ve created.

  But what no one tells you is that from the moment that first cry rings out in the hospital, you will be terrified.

  They don’t tell you that you’ll worry if you’re breastfeeding long enough, or if you should breastfeed at all, or if you fed them the right food once they were able to eat solids. They don’t tell you that as much as that kid’s first steps will amaze you, they’ll also make your stomach drop in fear. They don’t tell you that for the rest of your life, you’ll wonder how your actions affect that little human you made — are you screwing them up? Are you giving them a complex? Are you going to be the subject of their future therapy appointments?