The playbook, p.15
The Playbook, page 15
“I agree,” says Chelsea. “That’s why we learn the plays in here.” She lifts her binder. “But also keep pounding on this.” She raises the Playbook.
A bad thought enters Palmer’s head. “What if I can’t learn the twelve?” he asks, recalling his math class embarrassment.
“I have confidence that you can,” says Chelsea.
Palmer stares hard at Chelsea. “Look,” he says, fear in his voice, “what happened in math this morning? This feels the same to me. Another humiliation waiting to happen. Only it’ll happen in front of thousands of people instead of a classroom. I can’t… can’t do it.” He lays the binder on the desk.
“What happened in math?” asks Ty.
Palmer drops his head. “I’m a bad bet, Coach,” he says to Chelsea.
“We can change that,” she counters. “You, me, and Ty. Together, we can make you a good one.”
“I’ll quit for good this time if you try to force me,” says Palmer, his mind made up.
Chelsea leans towards him. “Give it this week, Palmer,” she says, her voice gentle. “If you still don’t feel like you can handle it, I’ll shift back to Johnson. Will let you completely off the hook.”
Palmer looks at Ty, still unsure.
“I’ll protect you, Palmer,” Chelsea offers quietly. “I won’t let what happened in math happen to you on the field. I promise you.”
“I got you, Palmer,” adds Ty.
“You got cancer, Ty,” Palmer lashes out. “How you got anybody?”
“A week, Palmer,” coaxes Chelsea, ignoring the harsh words.
Regretting his outburst at Ty, Palmer relents a little, picks up the binder, and flips through the pages once more. “Just twelve plays?” he asks.
“I promised Mr. Towe I’d punish you,” says Chelsea. “But if you learn these plays, you won’t run a step.”
Palmer smiles slightly and looks at Ty. “Sorry, man,” he apologizes. “Thanks for having my back.”
“Keep your apologies,” says Ty. “But learn the plays.” Ty offers a fist bump and Palmer pounds back and looks at Chelsea, who holds out her fist and he bumps it too.
“Practice,” says Chelsea, standing quickly. “We’re already fifteen minutes late.”
Ty laughs and Palmer shrugs and both follow her as she hurries out the door.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next few days pass in a blur. Palmer practices hard every day, running sprints with the team, quarterbacking the scrimmages, again making some great plays but screwing up many others. He studies the binder and the Playbook, sometimes with Ty and Chelsea, other times just him and Ty, and every now and again, all on his own at home.
Because of his break-up with Molly, he works alone at the motel too, changing beds, cleaning bathrooms, vacuuming floors. He pops a school book open more regularly now, especially his math book, but quickly becomes frustrated and slams it shut. As always, his music remains the only thing he truly enjoys. He’s adding more vocals to his instruments now, testing how he sounds as he plays his guitar or banjo. He wonders how he’ll feel if he ever plays for an audience with Dirk, but the dread of visiting Lacy squashes that idea, and the excitement that comes with it, in a hurry.
Chelsea stays busy too, her whistle blowing at practices, her eyes turning red from watching hours of video, her fingers jotting down ideas in her notebook as she tries to figure how to beat the Knights’ next opponent. At home at night, she relaxes, at least a little, at her workbench, picking gemstones, threading a necklace, hooking stones to a bracelet. Periodically, she checks her phone, searching for a call or text from Bo but finding nothing. Occasionally, she considers calling him, but always shuts the phone off before she does. To keep her stress at bay, she jogs a few miles almost every day, even as the weather turns colder.
Ty spends a lot of time in the cancer center, his chemo bag dripping poison into his body in hopes it’ll kill the even-more-dangerous tumors feasting on his bones. He researches bone cancer and becomes an expert on the causes, the treatments, and the chances of living or dying. He keeps up with his studies too, unwilling to let a deadly disease shove him to second place in his quest to become valedictorian of his class.
When not studying or receiving chemo, Ty teaches Palmer the Playbook, sometimes encouraging, sometimes pushing, but always pressing on. Palmer confuses him, not because he struggles so much to learn the plays but because he tends to give up so easily, to let his frustrations defeat him. At times, Ty wants to quit on Palmer too, but he figures if he can fight cancer and not bend the knee, he can certainly keep faith with Palmer. Fortunately, in the days before the quarterfinal, Tanya shines as Ty’s primary highlight. Though Palmer and the chemo grind him down, Tanya lifts him up, her laughter a tonic when he hurts the most.
Finally, the bye week passes and Friday afternoon arrives. The clock over the bar at Georgio’s reads 4:17. Without a football game that night, there’s no pre-game traffic to fill the place, and the few people who have gathered talk quietly, without stress or hurry. Right at 4:18, a thin man in his sixties, with tan skin and eyes the color of rain, enters the front door, ambles to the bar, plops on a seat, and swivels his chair, his back to the bar. A brown, designer work-out suit fits nicely on his trim torso and a red, Atlanta United soccer cap covers most of his salt and pepper hair.
The brunette bartender, her hair pulled back in a red bandana, approaches the man from behind.
“What’s up?” she asks.
The man swivels around and checks her out. “Is it always this quiet here?” he asks.
“It’s not even six,” the bartender counters. “And no football game tonight. What’d you expect?”
The man removes his cap and rubs his hands through his hair. “Let’s do an Old-Fashioned.”
“You want the cherry on top?”
“Surprise me.” He swivels around again and studies the room. The bartender brings him a glass of water and places it on a coaster. Adds a bowl of trail mix beside the water. “Quaint village you have here,” the man says, facing the bartender once more.
“We like it,” says the bartender.
“Got a bit of a Mayberry vibe to it.”
“Mayberry?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You too young for the reference?”
“I’ll google it.”
She mixes his drink. Sits it on another coaster. He lifts it and sips. “I hear you have a good football team.”
“Had a good football team. Past tense. Got our butt kicked last week.”
“Still going to the playoffs though.”
“I’m not getting my hopes up about the playoffs.”
The man sips his drink. “What you think about the woman coach? What’s her name?”
“Coach Dumb? Coach Dull? No, it’s Coach Chelsea Deal.”
“You’re not a fan?”
The bartender places both palms on the bar and leans forward. “We were undefeated till she took over.”
“What’s the word on her? Outside of football? You know, what kind of person is she? Girl Scout? Party girl? Betty Crocker?”
“Betty who?”
“Oh, come on,” the man wails. “You’re killing me. You got to know that one. Betty Crocker. Cake mixes? Recipes?”
“Oh yeah, Betty Crocker,” remembers the bartender. “Was she a real person?”
The man raises his eyebrows. “Hell if I know.”
“You should google that.”
“Maybe I will.” He sips his cocktail again as the bartender wipes the counter.
“Coach Deal eats here every now and again,” she says. “But I’ve never served her a drink. Well, water, but that’s all.”
“No tips for serving water.”
“Not from her at least. But that’s all I know.”
The man finishes his drink, pulls a card from his pocket and hands it over. “Sky Investigations. Sam Sky, CPI (Certified Professional Investigator). B.A. Criminal Justice.” The bartender raises her eyebrows.
“Give me a call if you hear anything of note about the lovely Ms. Deal,” says Sam.
The bartender stares at Sam as he slips a hundred-dollar bill under his empty glass and walks out.
His phone to his ear, Principal Roberts is perched at the head of a conference room table as Chelsea enters. Les Holt sits on one side of the table. Across from him is Eva, a white ribbon in her hair. Vanessa waits by Eva, and Phil occupies the seat opposite Roberts.
Roberts shuts off his phone, pulls out a chair for Chelsea, and hands her a bottle of water. She opens it and turns to Phil. “I’ve never officially met you,” she says, shaking his hand.
“Phil Potter,” says Roberts. “Owns fifty plumbing franchises in north Georgia. Paid for our football fieldhouse and scoreboard. We couldn’t do it without Phil.”
Chelsea smiles and takes her seat.
“Let’s move on with it, George,” says Holt. “I got places to go and people to do.”
Roberts laughs. “That’s funny, Les. Probably true too.” He clears his throat. “All right. It’s been a week since last Friday’s loss, enough time for our emotions to settle some. So now, unofficially, we’re here this afternoon to discuss a couple of concerns before the next game.”
Everybody looks at Chelsea. “What kind of concerns?” she asks, completely blindsided by the called meeting.
“We lost last week for the first time in two years,” laments Holt, instantly on the attack. “Isn’t that enough of a concern for us to meet?”
“To be fair,” says Vanessa, “our starting quarterback was out.”
“Yes, unfortunately,” says Holt. “Is Ty doing okay?”
“So far, so good,” says Vanessa.
Roberts pulls a pencil from behind his ear and focuses on Chelsea again. “Are we to understand you’re starting Palmer Norman in the quarterfinal next week?” he asks her.
“I believe he has the most upside, so ‘yes.’” Chelsea remains on guard, even as she fights to stay calm.
“But Johnson is the steadiest,” counters Holt.
“That’s true,” says Chelsea. “He’s the most experienced.”
“I hear Palmer’s struggling to learn the plays,” interjects Phil, his tone even.
“He is,” agrees Chelsea. “But I’m scaling things back until he can get up to speed.”
“Ty’s working with him almost every day,” interjects Vanessa.
“Is it smart to pare the Playbook down?” Holt presses Chelsea.
Chelsea pauses before she answers and tries, for the first time really, to decipher Holt. What’s his angle? He obviously wanted Buck as the interim head coach. But what connects the two of them? Is it just that she’s female, and both dislike that? Or is something else going on? Something she doesn’t know about yet?
“I think dialing back the Playbook is the best option for now,” she finally answers Holt. “I want Palmer to know enough plays to feel confident but not so many that it confuses him, sabotages our chance to win.”
“I’ve heard he’s rough around the edges,” Holt notes. “Had some kind of blow up in math class?”
Chelsea balls her fists in her lap. “Yes, he had a meltdown on Monday. He and I met with Mr. Towe and ironed some things out.”
Holt grunts. “You think it’s wise for a kid that unstable to be leading the team into the playoffs?”
Chelsea’s face reddens and, slowly opening her energy drink, she takes a sip. She can handle Holt when he comes after her, but taking pot-shots at Palmer steps beyond the pale. She speaks slowly but strongly when she responds, her eyes never leaving Holt. “Palmer isn’t Ty,” she concedes. “We all understand that. But to call him unstable … that’s out of bounds.”
Holt lifts an eyebrow as he places both hands on the table. “Maybe it was a bad choice of words. But you’re awfully intense about it. Did I hit a nerve?”
“Back away, Les,” Eva interjects, verbally slapping Holt’s hand. “Nobody here wants to make this personal.”
Holt eyes Eva a moment but then leans back as Roberts speaks to Chelsea. “So, you’re pushing your chips to the middle of the table, betting everything on Palmer Norman?”
“I am,” says Chelsea, still angry at Holt but no less decisive about Palmer. “His athleticism makes us more competitive than Johnson ever could.”
“What does Dub think?” asks Holt, a bit chastised but still focused.
“He won’t say,” answers Chelsea. “I asked him point-blank, and he said it’s my decision.”
“What about Buck?” asks Roberts, rolling his pencil.
“Buck disagrees with my plan.”
“You believe you know, better than Buck, what’s best for the team?” presses Holt, back on the attack.
Chelsea grits her teeth. “I’m not saying I know better than anybody.”
“Let me get this straight,” Holt pushes again. “We’re laying the whole season on the line and you, with one game under your belt as head coach, are ignoring the advice of a man with over two decades of coaching experience?”
Chelsea’s face turns beet-red now, but her voice stays steady as she answers. “Not ignoring it. Just not accepting it.”
“You think Buck’s dumb?” asks Holt, like a prosecutor interrogating a hostile witness. “That we’re dumb? Because we’re mountain people?”
Chelsea stares dead straight at Holt, her eyes blazing. She’s had enough and her voice growls as she responds. “I’m not sure how you reach that conclusion, Les. Just because I disagree with Buck. But no, I don’t think anyone here is dumb.”
She glances around the table and her voice softens as she looks at Eva. “Especially not because they’re mountain people,” she continues. “I love it up here. This town, the beauty, the pace. I love my players—how hard they work.”
The room falls quiet for a moment and Chelsea again sips her drink.
“Please forgive Les.” Eva finally speaks, her tone soothing as she faces Chelsa. “He tends to get testy when we lose.”
Her composure regained, Chelsea looks deliberately at each person in the room and speaks quietly but with steel in her voice. “Here’s the deal,” she says. “You called me into this meeting with no prior notice. And no warning of its purpose.”
She eyes Holt and her anger flares again. “You interrogate me like I’ve committed a crime.” She looks back at the others. “So, I’ll give it to you straight. The Board hired me for this job. And I’m doing what I think is best for the team. Your choices are clear—either choose another coach or stand down and let me do what you hired me to do.”
Everybody falls dead still. Holt glances at Roberts like a drowning man hoping for a life jacket. But Roberts stays silent. After a few seconds, Eva clears her throat. “Anybody else have something in their craw they want to spit out?” she asks. “Anything else they want to ask Coach Deal? Say to her?”
Nobody speaks.
“All right,” says Eva. “I suggest we end this meeting and let Coach Deal return to her duties.”
Nobody objects, so Eva stands and everyone else follows, the room still silent.
Chelsea rushes out without a word and Eva quickly follows. When Chelsea reaches the hallway, Eva calls to her. “Slow down, Coach,” she says. “Anger won’t fix anything.”
Chelsea turns, her eyes hot. “I’m way past anger, Eva. I’m…” She slaps the wall with both hands.
“Meet me in the park in fifteen minutes,” says Eva. “The bench by the pond. We’ll feed the ducks and watch the sun go down.”
Chelsea slaps the wall again. “I’m in no mood to feed ducks!”
“I’ll bring the bread. You’ll enjoy it … I promise.”
Chelsea slaps the wall a third time, turns, and hurries away.
Back in the conference room, Vanessa, Phil, and Roberts stand around the table. “That went south in a hurry,” says Phil.
“She is feisty,” says Roberts. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”
Holt glances at his watch. “One more thing, before I forget: I didn’t mention it in the meeting because I don’t know the details, but I’ve heard that a fight broke out after the game last week.”
“A fight breaks out after almost every game,” says Phil.
Everybody chuckles for a second, but Holt quickly shuts them down. “A fight involving Palmer.” Holt stares at Vanessa. “And Ty.”
“Ty?” asks Vanessa.
“I’m gathering more information, but yes. Palmer’s girlfriend got mixed up in something. Palmer jumped in to protect her, and Ty backed him up.”
Vanessa wags a finger at no one in particular. “I knew from the jump that Palmer was trouble.”
“Trailer-park trash,” says Holt.
“That’s a little harsh, Les,” says Phil.
Holt shrugs.
“Nobody filed a report on a fight,” says Roberts.
“I don’t expect anybody will,” says Holt. “Chelsea swore everybody to secrecy.”
“Chelsea was there?” asks Vanessa.
“She broke it up,” says Holt. “Told everybody to keep their mouths shut.”
“That’s a serious charge, Les,” says Phil, his face dark.
“We have protocols on fighting,” says Roberts, his tone somber. “If Chelsea knew about this and didn’t report it, that’s a serious breach of policy.”
“Who told you about this, Les?” asks Phil.
Holt shakes his head. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“This stays here for now,” Roberts instructs everyone. “Until I can dig around some, find out what actually happened.”
“I agree,” Vanessa jumps in. “Something like this could spin in a lot of directions if the rumor mill cranks up.”
Roberts turns to Les. “Like I said, leave this with me. You clear on that, Les? No shenanigans from you.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“That’s it,” concludes Roberts. “I’ll find out what happened, and we’ll meet again if needed.”
Less than an hour later, Vanessa hauls a load of groceries to the counter in her kitchen and starts putting them away. Ty limps in, crutches under his arms.
