The playbook, p.12
The Playbook, page 12
Stepping around a corner, Palmer spots Molly close to forty yards away, her back to the fence, with Don and Strick on either side of her. “Hey!” Palmer yells, not sure what’s happening as he leaves Ty and runs at them.
Don and Strick drop their hands off Molly and back up as he arrives. “Maybe Palmer is her kid!” says Don, his tone relaxed, like nothing is amiss.
“Nah,” says Strick, a hand covering the burned spot on his cheek. “He’s a couple years too old to be her offspring.”
“What’s going on?” Palmer asks Molly, gently raising her chin to look into her eyes. “You all right? Did they hurt you?”
Molly bites her lip and brushes back tears. Palmer turns on Don and Strick. “What did you do to her?”
Ty hobbles up behind Palmer, Tanya next to him.
“Molly wants to hang with us, Palmer,” Don says as he turns towards Molly. “Ain’t that right, Little Mama? You want to spend some time with a couple grown-up men.”
Molly grabs Palmer’s hand and starts to walk away but Don and Strick block them.
“Come on, guys,” growls Palmer, his jaw tight. “Back off.”
Don laughs again. “Does Palmer know about your rug-rat, Molly?” he asks. “You share that news with him?”
Strick reaches for Molly, but she pushes him away and runs, Palmer beside her. Don lunges at her from behind and knocks her down. Her elbows bang into the asphalt.
Palmer punches Don as Molly rises and attacks Strick, her fingernails digging into his face.
“Stop it!” Ty yells, but nobody listens.
Strick throws Molly off and jumps on Palmer. Reaching the melee, Ty flings his crutch at Strick, and it bangs into his back. Don smacks Palmer in the head and Palmer grabs him and they fall, wrestling on the asphalt. Tanya screams.
Back in the coach’s parking lot, Chelsea strides to her pickup with Coach Paul and Buck beside her, each of them breaking away as they reach their vehicles. She starts to unlock the truck but pauses as she hears a scream. She turns around, not sure of the scream’s location. Another scream rings out.
Fixed on the sound, she sprints toward the gate, Coach Paul, and Buck behind her. Rounding the corner, she spots Palmer and Ty in the middle of a fight.
“Hey!” she yells, running hard. “Break it up!”
Strick rips Molly’s sweatshirt. Ty picks up his crutch and punches Strick with it. Don shoves Palmer’s face into the asphalt.
“Stop it!” yells Chelsea.
Palmer and Don roll over and over. Strick jerks Ty’s crutch away, swings it, and knocks Ty down. Molly jumps on Don’s back and pulls him off Palmer. Ty grabs his knee and moans as he rolls away.
Reaching the brawl, Chelsea yanks at Palmer as Buck rushes Don and Paul grabs Strick. Together, they pull the boys apart and hold them in place. Tanya helps Ty up and hands him his crutch. Still holding onto Palmer, Chelsea asks Molly. “Are you okay?”
Molly checks her elbows and knees but sees no blood. She nods. “I’m not hurt,” she says.
Chelsea releases Palmer and eases closer to Molly. “Did they hurt you?” she whispers. “You know, any other way?”
Molly shakes her head, but tears start to fall on her cheeks.
Chelsea hugs her. “Come on, I’ll drive you to the hospital.”
Molly quickly backs up and wipes her eyes. “No hospital,” she says firmly. “I’m all right.”
“You sure?
“I’m fine, really,” insists Molly.
Chelsea faces Don and Strick.
“It was a misunderstanding, Coach,” says Don. “That’s all. Sorry things got out of hand.”
“He’s lying!” says Palmer with a snarl. “He and Strick were all over Molly!”
Realizing things are more serious than she first thought, Chelsea faces Molly again. “I’m sorry, Molly, but a doctor needs to check you out. And I’ll have to report this to the school. And the police. Let them figure out who did what.”
“No!” sobs Molly, her voice frantic. “Palmer showed up before anything happened!”
“I’m obligated to report something like this, Molly.”
“You can’t! People will talk! Tell lies! Spread rumors! My parents … I don’t want them to know about this!” She cries again, glaring at Don and Strick.
Palmer eases towards her. “But you didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. “People will know that.”
“People believe what they want to believe!” sobs Molly.
Chelsea glances at Buck and Paul.
“Whatever you think, Coach,” says Paul. Buck stays silent.
“Please,” begs Molly. “Just drop it. I’m fine.”
Chelsea faces Don and Strick again and her anger rises at their smug faces. “You two. I swear. If I ever hear of you anywhere near Molly again, I’ll make you regret the day you were born. You clear on that?”
“As a bell,” agrees Don.
“Now get out of my sight!” orders Chelsea.
Don and Strick hurry off and Chelsea turns to Palmer. “You can’t be fighting, Palmer!” she pleads. “You’re already on thin ice! Something like this—no matter how it started—will go south on you in a hurry!”
Palmer stares at the ground and Chelsea shifts to Ty. “And Ty, I can’t believe you’re involved in this.”
“Palmer is my teammate, Coach. And Molly is his girl.”
Chelsea glances from person to person. Finally nods at Molly.
“Listen up,” she says to the group. “Here’s what we’ll do. Palmer, you and Ty will drive these young women”—she points at Tanya and Molly—“straight home. No stops, no parties. And we’ll keep what happened to ourselves.”
“We won’t report it?” asks Buck.
Chelsea looks again at Molly. Molly shakes her head.
“Molly is the victim,” asserts Chelsea. “If she changes her mind, we’ll report it. But otherwise, what she says carries the most weight. We clear on that?”
Everybody nods.
“Good,” concludes Chelsea, waving everyone away. “That’s enough excitement for one night.”
The group breaks up and Chelsea heads back to her truck. Climbing in, she lays her head on the steering wheel. She’s just taken a huge gamble. But what choice did she have? She raises her head, starts her truck, and hopes to heaven that what just happened never again sees the light of day.
CHAPTER TEN
Georgio’s restaurant faces the town courthouse, a classic, red-brick, colonial-style building with statues of World War I and II soldiers guarding the front lawn. A fountain, with a two-foot high stone wall around it, gurgles between the two statues. A plaque attached to the stone wall reads, “Rabon Springs.”
A light rain starts to fall and water drips from the helmets of the two soldiers. A sign in front of Georgio’s boasts: “Quality Italian since 1924.”
Chelsea, dressed now in a long brown skirt, ankle black boots, chic tan sweater, and looped gold earrings, parks about two blocks from the sign, hurries to Georgio’s, and eases inside. A long, mahogany bar lines the left side of the room. People stand two deep at the bar, most of them drinking. Diners fill the rest of the place. Red-checkered cloths cover the tables, each of them full of patrons. Candles burn.
Chelsea scans the restaurant for Bo but doesn’t see him. The hostess greets her. “I’m expecting someone,” says Chelsea. “May I wait at the bar?”
The hostess guides her to a bar stool by the wall. A few people speak to her as she passes while others say nothing. Hearing music, she spots Dirk performing on a small stage, his music country but not twangy, soulful but not sappy. She leans closer to listen. He sees her and nods slightly as he finishes the song. The bartender, a tall young woman with brunette hair, multiple tattoos, and her hair pulled back under a green bandana, hands her a drink menu.
“What’s your pleasure?” asks the bartender.
“What are your non-alcoholic options?” asks Chelsea, scanning the menu.
“Soft drink, non-alcoholic beer, and I can make most anything virgin.”
“Maybe a water.”
The bartender sniffs. “Will do.” She grabs the menu and turns away.
Chelsea faces Dirk again as he places his guitar in a stand. “I need a short break,” he tells the crowd “Back in fifteen.” He brushes back his hair and strolls toward Chelsea. She checks the room for Bo again but doesn’t see him.
“Tough loss tonight,” Dirk says as he reaches her.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
The bartender brings her water, lays a napkin down, places the water glass on it, and twists away.
“I didn’t know you played here,” Chelsea says to Dirk. “You’re good.”
“You didn’t hear enough to reach that conclusion.”
“You’re saying you’re not good?” She sips her water and checks him out. Notes his rugged looks and the dimples in his cheeks.
“I like your earrings,” he says, changing the subject.
“I made them myself.”
“They’re dangly.” When he grins, his dimples make her want to smile too, but she won’t let herself.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks.
She thinks of Bo. “I’m waiting on another man,” she says.
“What kind of man makes a woman like you wait?”
“You haven’t known me long enough to know what kind of woman I am.”
Dirk chuckles. “You like football. Make your own earrings. Care about kids. Look good in khakis AND a skirt. What else I need to know?”
“Are you flirting with me, country singer?”
“It breaks my heart you even have to ask.”
The bartender shows up and Dirk orders a beer.
“I appreciate your help with Palmer,” Chelsea says, deliberately moving away from the flirtations. “You know, when he almost quit a few days ago.”
Dirk shrugs. “I do what I can.” His beer arrives and he tips the bottle to his lips.
“Tell me more about Palmer,” says Chelsea. “I need to know everything.”
The door opens and Bo walks in, his hair wet with rain. “That’s my guy,” she says, nodding toward Bo.
“Looks pretty corporate,” says Dirk as Bo scans the crowd, obviously searching for her.
“A button-down shirt doesn’t necessarily make a guy corporate,” counters Chelsea.
“Wing tips do.” Dirk grins again.
“How do you know he’s wearing wing tips? You can’t see his feet.”
“I got a twenty that says he is.”
“We’ll continue this conversation later,” she says, waving to Bo and catching his attention. “The Palmer part, I mean. Not the wing tips.”
Dirk laughs. “Palmer is a good kid, Coach.”
“With a cannon for an arm.”
She stands to leave.
“Is it acceptable if I watch you walk away?” asks Dirk.
“It breaks my heart you even have to ask.”
She turns and passes through the crowd toward Bo, just a little bit pleased to know that Dirk is watching her.
A red and black eighteen-wheel truck sits in front of a small white house on a two-lane country road. A tan car, clean but old, sits under two oak trees by a narrow front porch. Lights burn inside.
As Molly parks her car in front of the house, Palmer follows on his motorcycle. Eager to help her, he hops off his bike, opens her door, and reaches for her hand as she climbs out.
“I’m not an invalid,” she says, her face dark.
“I know that. Just, you know, I want to take care of you.”
They walk slowly toward the porch. “My pa is scary,” she warns. “So be aware.”
She opens the front door and leads Palmer into the den, where a hulking man wearing a Falcons cap, a pair of black sweatpants, and a red flannel shirt reclines in a lounge chair watching TV. A snake tattoo covers the top of his right hand. The man raises his eyes and examines Palmer head to toe. “You found one brave enough to come home with you?” he asks Molly.
“His name is Palmer,” says Molly. “Palmer, this is my pa.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cole,” Palmer says.
“Call me Rob.” Rob picks up a glass from beside his chair and swigs from what looks like a green smoothie. “You the football player?”
“I’m on the team, yes, sir,” says Palmer.
Rob extends the snake-covered hand and Palmer shakes it. “How’s Ty doing?” asks Rob.
“He’s taking chemo. That’s about all I know.”
Rob swigs again from his smoothie. “You a mite young for Molly, aren’t ya?”
“Palmer is wise beyond his years, Pa,” offers Molly.
“Best not be too wise,” says Rob, a warning riding in the words.
A woman with a glowing smile and thick dark hair sprigging out from a yellow scarf walks in from another room. She’s slender and attractive but plainly dressed—a pullover blue top and black jeans. No jewelry, no makeup. Molly hugs her and Palmer notices a brief watering of Molly’s eyes as she holds on for a couple of seconds.
“Well,” says Mrs. Cole as Molly steps back, “that was nice.”
“This is my mom,” says Molly, as if Palmer doesn’t already know.
“You must be Palmer,” says Mrs. Cole, opening her arms for a hug.
Palmer glances at Molly. She nods, and he steps into the hug. “Yes, ma’am,” he says as she embraces him. “Glad to meet you.”
Mrs. Cole eases back. “Ya’ll hungry?” she asks. “Be glad to fix you a sandwich or something.”
“You want a smoothie?” Rob holds up his glass.
“He likes his with kale,” says Mrs. Cole. “Happy to make you one.”
“No, Mama,” says Molly “We’re good. Just going to my room. It’s been a long day.”
Rob points his glass at Palmer. “Don’t think you spending the night here, Boy. None of that going on in my house.”
“Back off, Pa,” orders Molly.
“Just keep both your feet on the floor, the two of you. At all times.”
Molly grabs Palmer’s hand and hurriedly leads him out.
Bo and Chelsea sit at a corner table at Georgio’s. A waiter pours wine for Bo, puts bread down, and scoots away.
“How was the Booster Club?” Bo asks, swirling his wine glass.
“I escaped as soon as I could.”
“That much fun, huh?” He sips the wine.
“It was thoughtful of you to drive up tonight,” says Chelsea, picking up a piece of bread. “Even if it was a surprise.”
“I just wanted a little time with you.” Bo sips his wine again and leans closer. “Where you see us headed, Chelsea?” he asks.
“That’s too big a question for tonight.” She butters a piece of bread, hoping he won’t push her like he seems to do every time they see each other these days.
“I know,” he agrees. “And I realize I shouldn’t press. But I see our future and I want you to know that. I’ll perform an outlandish proposal. Buy you a diamond the size of a blueberry. We’ll enjoy an exotic honeymoon, then settle down, a house, green lawn, at least two little ones someday.”
Chelsea sighs, her anxiety ratcheting higher, but keeps her voice calm while she speaks. “It sounds wonderful, Bo. A true fantasy.”
She bites her bread to keep from saying anything else because she knows if she does, it’ll come out harsh and wrong. She needs relaxation tonight, a touch of humor, something to break the tension she’s faced all week, especially tonight. But Bo wants heavy, serious talk.
“It’s our fantasy,” Bo continues, not sensing her mood at all. “We can make it happen.”
“Let me finish the playoffs,” says Chelsea. “I can get a handle on things after that.”
“Ah, the playoffs.” Bo leans back. “Which brings me to a simple request.”
She waits while he sips his wine again.
“You finish the playoffs,” he says, putting down his glass, “and I do hope you win, by the way.”
“You’re a prince. Thank you.”
He leans forward. “You’re done when the playoffs end. The coaching thing, I mean. Then our fairy tale begins!”
Chelsea puts down her bread, her patience finally worn to its end. “Read the room, Bo,” she says, her tone sharper than she wants. “This isn’t the time for that kind of commitment. I have too many other things on my plate.”
“Be reasonable, Chelsea,” pleads Bo, his voice edging up a little. “You know coaching isn’t your future. Tonight’s game, beyond any question, should have proven that to you.”
“One game?” she asks, fully angry now. “I lose one game and that proves I have no future as a coach?”
Silence falls. Bo stares at her, confusion written on his brow, as he finishes his wine. Finally, he sighs. “I put my foot in it, didn’t I?” He reaches for her hand, but she pulls away. “I’m sorry, Chelsea,” he apologizes. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”
The waiter suddenly returns and they both lean back as he fills Bo’s wine glass and walks away.
“I don’t know what my future holds, Bo,” says Chelsea, working to settle herself down. “But I’m not promising to quit coaching.”
“You have to let your brother go,” he says gently.
“Please don’t bring Mitchell into this.”
“You know I’m right,” he says, leaning close again, his voice soft but insistent. “This football gig? It’s an offering of your life to …I don’t know … give you a reason to wake up every day.”
Anger flares in Chelsea again and this time she lights into him. “What’s your reason to wake up, Bo? To bill a few more hours per day? To lower your golf handicap? How’s that a better use of life than me coaching? How’s it more noble?”
Bo places his elbows on the table and rests his chin on his hands. “I know you’re afraid, Chelsea,” he suggests, going amateur therapist on her. “And I understand that, given your background. But our family doesn’t have to end up like yours. Broken, divorced, scattered.”
“My family isn’t the issue!”
Bo studies her face another few moments but then leans back and disengages. “Arguing isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“I keep repeating this,” pleads Chelsea. “And you need to listen. I need more time. I’m not saying ‘no’ to you, but I’m not saying ‘no’ to anything else either.”
