The playbook, p.20
The Playbook, page 20
Chelsea rolls to the side of the bed. “I’ll buy some new heels,” she announces, her mood suddenly lighter.
“Now you’re just teasing me.”
“You treat me right, I might slip them off for you before the night is over.”
“I won’t be able to sleep tonight thinking about that.”
“Down boy. Talk to you soon.” Chelsea hangs up, walks back to her work table, and picks up the chain, a light smile on her face.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A bright sun shines on Holt as he watches Chief line up a putt on the eighteenth green. Chief, a bald, thick-chested man dressed in bright red pants and a shirt that looks like some kid fingerpainted it with multiple colors, puffs on a cigar as he steps to the ball.
“Double the bet!” shouts Holt, hoping to break Chief’s concentration.
Chief grins, blows out a plume of smoke, and knocks the ball smack into the center of the hole.
“Damn,” says Holt.
Chief chuckles and turns to Holt to shake hands. “You played well today,” he says as he blows smoke into Holt’s face.
“Don’t patronize me,” grouses Holt as they amble towards the golf cart. “You won 640 bucks off me.”
“Pocket change to a man of your means.”
They drop their putters into their golf bags, hop into the golf cart, and head toward the club house. “You’re buying drinks,” says Holt.
A couple of minutes later, they step off the cart and into the club restaurant. Giant windows rise to the ceiling, framing a rustic bar and grill in the dining room. Rich brown beams cross the ceiling and wooden fans and lights complete the décor. The sun glistens off a lake not far away. Holt and Chief remove their caps as they plop down at a table overlooking the lake. A waitress approaches and they quickly order sandwiches and cocktails.
“How long we been playing golf together, Chief?” asks Holt.
“Ten, twelve years?”
Holt grunts and hands over the $640.00. “Have I ever won any money off you?”
Chief laughs as he pockets the cash. “I hope I die before you ever do.”
The waitress brings their cocktails, and they nod approvingly as they taste them.
“Well, down to business,” says Chief, placing his cocktail on the table. “And I have to say, your Coach Deal is an intriguing woman.”
“I’m all ears.”
Chief chuckles and points to Holt’s giant ears. “You shouldn’t use that phrase, Les. I mean, for God’s sake, you’re carrying manhole covers on your head.”
“At least I have hair.”
Chief laughs again, pulls out his phone, finds an e-mail, and forwards it to Holt.
Sipping his cocktail, Holt quickly reads the email, his eyes widening by the second. “How did you find this?” he asks when he’s finished, his voice tinged with shock.
“Never you mind about that. Question is, what will you do with it?”
Holt puts down his phone and eyes Chief. “I’m not sure,” he says, sipping his beverage.
“You could blow her world up in your little town.”
Holt nods as he considers the possibilities. “It’s just leverage for now,” he decides. “Maybe I’ll use it, maybe I won’t.”
“It’s good though.”
“Way better than good.”
Their sandwiches arrive. “Tell me this, Les,” says Chief, chewing on the sandwich. “What’s your beef with this woman?”
Les takes another drink as he weighs the question. Thinks back to the first time he met Chelsea. He liked her after that first encounter, a social gathering at a Booster Club meeting right after Dub hired her as his offensive coordinator. Thought to himself then: I might hire this woman if I needed a lawyer. But as a football coach? Not a chance in hell.
“I don’t know,” Holt says, addressing Chief query. “The Rabon School Board passed over a friend of mine to hire her as the interim head coach.”
“You’re loyal to a friend. Admirable.”
Holt swallows a bite of sandwich. “Well, the woman thing too. Affirmative action, the politically correct mob running amuck. I mean, a female football coach in Rabon? What’s the world coming to?”
“Its senses maybe?” Chief shrugs.
Surprised by the response, Holt puts down his sandwich. “You voting Democrat now?” he asks Chief.
Chief chuckles before turning serious again. “I have two daughters, Les. What if one of them wanted to coach football? Who am I to say she shouldn’t … or couldn’t?”
Holt sips his cocktail. “I need to get out of Atlanta before that kind of thinking rubs off on me.”
“What if this woman wins a championship for you?”
Holt smiles at the possibility, as unlikely as it is. “I’ll congratulate her and send her something pink for Christmas.”
Chief laughs and raises his glass as if to toast. “That’s some Grade-A sexism right there, my friend!”
“It’s a joke, Chief! A joke!”
His eyes closed, Ty lays in his bed at home, an IV in his arm. Russell and Vanessa read their phones in chairs beside him, the TV on mute across from them. Russell’s phone rings and he quickly answers. “Okay,” he says. “We’re in Ty’s room. Come on in.”
Russell walks out to the top of the stairs and waves Dr. Ramirez up. A folder under his arm, Ramirez hurries upstairs and follows Russell into Ty’s bedroom.
“We do appreciate you making these house calls,” Vanessa says as she stands and hugs Ramirez.
“It’s way beyond the call of duty,” agrees Russell.
Ramirez smiles. “Just get me tickets if the Falcons make the playoffs.”
Russell laughs. “Fat chance of that happening.”
Ramirez chuckles again and steps to Ty as he opens his eyes. “You feeling any better today?” Ramirez asks.
“Better than the last day or so.”
“That’s good. As I said, you can be miserable today but fine tomorrow. It varies, person to person, treatment to treatment.”
“I just want to stay out of the hospital.”
“As long as you’re not any worse, you can stay right here.” Ramirez turns back to Vanessa and Russell. “Can we talk outside a minute?” he asks.
Vanessa and Russell glance at each other. “Sure,” says Russell.
Ty closes his eyes again and Ramirez leads Russell and Vanessa out and down the hall beyond Ty’s room.
“Here’s the deal,” starts Ramirez after they stop walking. “Since Ty is a little stronger, I want to up his chemo dose this afternoon at the infusion center. It might make the nausea worse, but I think it’s worth trying.”
“And you’re doing this why?” asks Russell.
Ramirez opens his folder and pulls out a scan image. “Because we’ve found a third spot.”
Flags flap in the wind as the football team and coaches huddle around Chelsea before practice starts. She tosses up a football and catches it as it falls. “Okay, gentlemen,” she begins. “We’ve had a week off. Everyone should be rested and ready to go.”
She looks around as the team nods. “It’s every cliché in the book,” she continues. “Do or die. Backs against the wall. Survive and advance.”
She faces Palmer. “Palmer will start at quarterback this week,” she announces. “And we’re planning to win with just twelve plays on offense.”
“Twelve plays?” asks Buck, his brow furrowed in surprise.
“Twelve plays,” Chelsea responds confidently.
“Good God Almighty!” Buck exclaims.
Chelsea ignores the outburst and tosses the football to Swoops. “Swoops, lead the warmup!”
Swoops barks out the instructions and the team lines up in rows across the field.
About three hours later, Palmer and Chelsea sit quietly in Dub’s office as he studies the Playbook and she watches game video. The wall clock shows 8:30. Yawning, Palmer leans back and stretches. “This stuff is killing me,” he says.
“You had a good practice today,” Chelsea says. “You’re improving.”
Palmer grabs two water bottles from the fridge, hands one to Chelsea, and plops down again. “Dirk’s back in Nashville,” he says.
Chelsea opens her water bottle. “You miss him when he’s away?”
Palmer weighs the question. “I been alone a lot in my life. It ain’t the worst thing.”
Chelsea drinks water. “I meant to tell you,” she says. “You were outstanding at Georgio’s the other night.”
Palmer grins. “They hired me for a regular gig. Twelve dollars an hour, plus tips.”
Chelsea studies him closely. “I believe that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you smile,” she observes. “You should do it more often.”
Palmer picks up the Playbook and flips a page.
“You like music more than football, don’t you?” Chelsea asks softly.
“With music, it’s just me and my guitar,” Palmer explains. “But football? I have to trust everybody on the field … Have to connect what I’m doing with what they’re doing.”
“That’s hard for you, isn’t it? Trusting people.”
Palmer sits up straighter, instantly suspicious. “What did Dirk tell you?”
Chelsea’s phone beeps and she checks it, holds a hand up to Palmer, and answers the phone. “Hey, Russell, what’s up?”
“It’s Ty, Coach. Not good news. He’s taken a turn for the worse and we’re back at the hospital. He wants to see you. And Palmer. Come now.”
Ty is resting in bed, his eyes swollen and his face puffy. Vanessa hovers beside him as Russell meets Palmer and Chelsea at the door and ushers them into the room. “They increased his chemo a few hours ago,” Russell quickly informs them. “He had a terrible reaction to it.”
He steps aside and Chelsea hurries to hug Vanessa while Palmer hangs back. Ty struggles to raise himself up but is too weak and sags back down. Chelsea quickly moves to Ty.
“Hey,” she starts. “Bad day, huh?”
Ty smiles weakly. Chelsea turns to Palmer and waves him over. He reluctantly steps closer as Vanessa and Russell wait by the wall. “You look like somebody beat you up,” he tells Ty.
“If I had a choice, I’d choose the beating over chemo.” Ty coughs and his body shakes. After a few moments, he settles a little and speaks again, his voice weak. “Mama, Pops, I need a few minutes alone with Coach and Palmer.”
“Okay,” says Vanessa. “We’ll be right outside.” She leads Russell out and Ty turns to Palmer.
“It’s time you got your mind right with the Playbook,” he says.
“I’ve tried, Ty,” answers Palmer. “But I ain’t smart like you.”
Ty’s eyes brighten a bit, like he just took a shot of adrenaline. “That’s busting an old stereotype, right there,” he grins. “Black kid smarter than a white boy.”
He offers a weak fist pump and Palmer returns it. “White boy faster than a black kid,” retorts Palmer.
“Black kid richer than a white boy.”
“You guys shouldn’t be joking that way,” interjects Chelsea. “Might get us all in trouble.”
They laugh but another cough hits Ty and everyone turns serious again. “This cancer has a mind of its own,” Ty manages to say. “I don’t know if I’ll beat it.”
Unsure what to say, Palmer stares at his shoes as Ty continues. “I tell you this, though. If I go down, I don’t want my last memory to be watching you screw up a play to lose us a championship.”
Palmer looks back up. “I don’t know what else to do, man. The more I study, the more mixed up I seem to get.”
“I’ve thought about your situation, Palmer,” says Chelsea. Talked with Mr. Towe. What about doing some testing, see—”
Palmer raises a hand to stop her. “I see Mr. Towe twice a week already. Don’t need more time with him.”
“But testing might help you,” she says. “If we can diagnose the problem, we might find a treatment for it, something to make learning easier for you.”
Palmer shakes his head. “What’s the good of hanging a label on me? How will that help me learn the Playbook before Friday?”
Chelsea glances at Ty, back to Palmer. “You’re right,” she admits. “Nothing we can do between now and Friday. But what about next year? The rest of your life?”
“I’ll study more,” says Palmer. “But no testing.”
Chelsea starts to speak again but then sighs and gives up.
“All right,” Ty says. “We’ll just work harder. Longer. Till it’s done.”
Palmer leans closer to Ty. “You still up for that? As sick as you are?”
Ty coughs and closes his eyes. “That’s what I wanted to tell you, man. It’s ride-or-die time, Palmer. Me and you.”
Back at her house thirty minutes later, Chelsea parks her truck and leans back. Totally exhausted, she feels helpless, unable to do anything for Ty or Palmer. Her phone rings and she checks Caller-ID, then quickly answers. “Hey, Russell,” she says. “Ty hanging in there?”
“Yeah, nothing new since you left. But here’s the thing: Vanessa and I talked. Ty can’t work with Palmer anymore.”
Chelsea rubs her eyes. “I’m a little surprised,” she says. “After what Ty just said to me and Palmer.”
“He’s too fragile, Chelsea. Needs to conserve his energy. We’re taking him out of school too.”
“He seems to enjoy coaching Palmer.”
“This isn’t a debate. Our minds are made up.”
Chelsea starts to argue but realizes she shouldn’t. Vanessa and Russell are just protecting their son, like all good parents would do. “You know I want what’s best for Ty,” she says. “If you and Vanessa feel sure of this, I’m on board. I’ll let Palmer know.”
“No hard feelings, Chelsea. We have to do whatever we can to help Ty win this war.”
“I understand.”
“And Chelsea, one more thing: Don’t mention to Ty that I called you.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what we want.”
Palmer slouches on his sofa with a tray in his lap. A hotdog, a bag of chips, and a glass of water sit on the tray. The Playbook lays open beside him, but he ignores it as he bites into the hot dog and chews. Seeing Ty so sick bothers him, forces him to remember his dad, the only other person he’s cared about who died before his time.
He swigs from the water and eats another bite of hotdog. Other than Ty and Coach Deal, he’s got no close friends in Rabon. But can he really call them friends? If he suddenly died in a motorcycle accident, who wound attend his funeral? Dirk and his mama if they let her out of rehab. But who else?
He finishes the hotdog. Stupid thoughts, he decides. He won’t live in Rabon forever. Truth is, he might not live here longer than a few more months. So, what difference does it make if he doesn’t know anybody here? He’s spent most of his life alone, so nothing has changed.
Wanting to keep his promise to Ty and Coach, he sets his tray on the floor, picks up the Playbook, flips to a play, and studies it for a minute. But the diagram makes no sense, just a jumble of X’s and O’s darting this way and that.
Frustrated, he slams the Playbook shut and stares around the empty room. Suddenly, he wants to talk to somebody, anybody, to not be alone with his crazy thoughts. He grabs his phone, clicks through his contacts, finds Molly’s number, and texts her.
“Hey. Me again. Playing at Georgio’s on the weekends now. You should come. I quit the motel, so I won’t see you there anymore. Miss you.” He sends the text but receives no response.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The pace of life in Rabon intensifies as the quarterfinal game approaches. Townspeople hustle about quicker, their blood charged as they prepare for the much-anticipated gridiron battle. Local radio talk shows dissect every angle of the forthcoming game, cutting up the negative and positive possibilities like a butcher carving a filet mignon, each slice made thinner and thinner as they whittle away at it.
Conversations in restaurants, business offices, and beauty salons spout opinion after opinion on what to expect in the game. The verdict splits pretty evenly on the chances of a Knights’ victory, especially with that woman coach leading the team and Ty too sick to play. Christmas decorations suddenly appear everywhere on the streets, but only because it’s the season, not because the birth of the baby Jesus somehow takes precedence over the upcoming football contest.
The football team, caught up in the town’s enthusiasm, practices harder every afternoon, the offense running the same twelve plays over and over, Palmer at quarterback most of the time. Buck guns the defensive pressure up a notch, throwing every trick in the book at Palmer as the week slips by. Palmer and Chelsea study the Playbook after practice until all hours of the night, the two of them in Dub’s office, watching film, discussing plays.
Though Ty is still managing to avoid another hospital stay, his chemo treatments knock him down even more and he retches, coughs, and hurts worse and worse every day. But he still fights back, pushing himself to limits he didn’t know he could cross. Vanessa, Russell, and Tanya care for him around the clock, their hands holding his, their voices encouraging him to hold on, their spirits working to lift him up. Sadly, though, as the week rolls forward, his strength ebbs lower and lower.
Buck and Holt meet at Kangaroo Coffee early in the morning on two separate days, sliding into a back booth both times and whispering to each other as if trading international secrets. The afternoon after the second meeting, Buck and Principal Roberts talk behind the locker room after football practice. Buck carries most of the conversation while Roberts rolls a pencil in his fingers. The morning after that, Dub shows up in Principal Roberts’ office, a crutch under his arm, and a worried scowl on his face. He and Roberts discuss something for close to an hour, then Dub shakes his head and leaves in a huff.
On Thursday night, an hour or so after football practice, Palmer holds a math book in his lap at home, his eyes on an equation he can’t figure out. Working hard, he scratches numbers on a yellow legal pad, his fingers busy as his mind grinds away, trying to decipher the problem. Sadly, though, the equation won’t yield to his sincere but confused efforts. Stymied, he tosses the book to the floor and leans back on the sofa.
