“YOU DID WHAT?”
Incredulous, Claire turned her chair from her computer to face Nick. He stared back at her insolently, the always-present anger swirling like storm clouds in his eyes. Nothing had changed in the three weeks since Janice’s funeral.
“I joined the football team.”
“You can’t play football!”
“Says who?” he sneered.
“Says me. And your doctors. And the school! They know about your hip and your asthma. I can’t believe they let you sign up to play football.”
“Coach Hall said I could be on the team.” Nick stuck his chin out. “He said it would be good for me.”
“And how would Coach Hall know what’s good for you?”
“Tucker Hall knows everything about football,” Nick responded hotly. “He said he could make me a kicker.”
“I don’t care what he said he could do. And I don’t care how much he knows about football. He doesn’t know what’s best for you.”
Was Tucker Hall the same man who’d been the football coach when she’d attended Monroe High School? She had no idea, but the name sounded vaguely familiar.
“He’s a good coach,” Nick said. “All the guys say so. Of course, you wouldn’t know that. You don’t know a thing about football.” His voice dripped with scorn.
“Guilty as charged,” she said, her voice dry. “But I do know a few things about you.”
Beneath her nephew’s defiance she could see his hunger to be accepted, to be merely one of the guys instead of the newcomer with a limp. She’d learned that much about him in the past three weeks. Remembering her childhood as the one who never fit in, the child the other kids whispered about, the one who was different, her heart ached for him.
But it didn’t mean she could let him play football. It was a dangerous, ridiculous idea. “I guess I’ll have to straighten out this Coach Hall.”
“Let’s go back to school right now,” Nick said. “You can talk to him after practice.”
She wanted to refuse, to tell Nick there was no way he was playing football and that was the end of the discussion. But she hesitated. This was the most animated she’d seen him since his mother had died. And even if there was no way she could let him play football, she could at least explain the reasons to the coach.
“All right, Nick. I’ll go over to the high school and talk to him. I’m sure once he understands your medical problems he’ll agree with me.”
“I don’t have any medical problems.” Nick’s eyes took on the mulish expression that was becoming too familiar to her. “I keep telling you that.”
“You have asthma. And your hip is fragile.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my hip,” he shot back. “I had surgery on it when I was a baby. It’s fine.”
“Yes, your hip was repaired, but it’s not as strong as it should be. You can’t play a contact sport, even if you didn’t have asthma.”
“Kids with asthma play sports all the time,” he said scornfully, as if this was something she should have known. “They use inhalers and sh—stuff.”
“Do you even have an inhaler? I haven’t seen you use it once in the past few weeks.” She noticed the near slip into swearing, and the way he caught himself. He was listening to at least some of the things she’d said. It might be a tiny step, but it was progress.
He hunched his shoulders and turned away, a response she’d learned was typical when she was right and he knew it. “I haven’t had any reason to use it,” he muttered.
“All right. I’ll call the school tomorrow and make an appointment to talk to the coach.”
“No! We have to go right now!”
He faced her, and for the first time wasn’t trying to hide how he felt. The pleading look in his eyes made her heart constrict. “I need to start tomorrow. I can’t do that unless you talk to Coach today. I’ve already missed two weeks of practice!”
She glanced at the spreadsheet she’d been working on. It wasn’t nearly as important as her nephew. Clicking it closed, she stood up.
“All right. We’ll go over to the high school now.”
TUCKER HALL STOOD on the practice field, watching carefully as the sixty-four players on his team ran laps around the track, still wearing their pads and helmets. The crushing heat of a central Illinois summer had relented just a little today. He didn’t have to worry as much about heat-related illnesses, but he still assessed each boy as he trotted past.
A car door slammed in the distance, and a voice called, “Coach Hall! Coach Hall!”
He turned to see Nick Kendall hurrying toward him, trying hard not to limp. The kid’s face was lit with excitement, and Tucker felt something squeeze his heart.
Trailing behind him was a slight woman. Even from a distance he could see the resolve in her squared shoulders and determined stride. So this was the aunt. The woman Nick described as a combination jailer, tyrant and Cruella DeVil.
“All right, guys, take a water break,” he yelled to his team. “And keep walking while you’re drinking.”
He strolled over to the edge of the field and nodded to Nick. “Hey, Kendall. Brought your aunt, huh?” Tucker crossed his arms and waited for the woman to catch up.
“She says I can’t play football. Tell her she’s wrong.”
The raw eagerness in Nick’s eyes made him look like a typical fifteen-year-old. It was the most unguarded Tucker had seen him since school had started.
Tucker watched as the woman approached. She was shorter than Nick—the gangly teen towered over her. And slender in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. But she had curves in all the right places. He felt a quickening of interest as she got closer.
Her short, sleek, dark-red hair brushed her cheek as she walked. Her legs were firm and smooth, and her eyes were deep pools of mysterious green.
And faint, disapproving determination.
She stopped in front of him and had to look up to meet his eyes. “Mr. Hall? I’m Claire Kendall. Nick’s aunt.”
She held out her hand. Her grip was firm and businesslike. But her skin was smooth and creamy.
Startled by the thought, he dropped her hand and took a step backward. The air was suddenly too dense and heavy.
“I’m Tucker Hall,” he said, and waited for the inevitable recognition to seep into her eyes.
She frowned, and he braced himself. But all she said was, “Your name sounds familiar. But you’re not the football coach I remember.”
“Tom Peters retired last year,” he said, letting out the breath he’d been holding. “I took his place.”
“I see.”
She continued frowning, as if trying to place him, then shook her head. “That doesn’t matter. Nick says you told him he could play football. I’m afraid that’s impossible.” Her voice was brisk and firm. “He has a congenital weakness in his hip, and he can’t play any contact sports.”
“Nick told me all about his hip. And his asthma,” Tucker answered.
He saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes. “He did?” Then she recovered. “So you must see that football wouldn’t be a wise choice for him.”
“Not at all. I think football would be an excellent choice for him.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you didn’t understand, Mr. Hall. Nick—”
He interrupted, holding one hand up to stop her. “Hold on a minute. Nick,” he turned to the boy, “why don’t you go on over and start walking with the team. You’ve got some catching up to do to get in shape.”
Nick grinned and his whole face lit up. “Yes, sir!”
“Johnson!” Tucker shouted. “Walk with Kendall.”
Nick ran toward the other boys and fell in beside a couple of other sophomores.
Tucker turned to Claire. “Booger Johnson is a sophomore, too. He’s in a couple of Nick’s classes.”
“Booger?”
Tucker grinned. “It’s a teenage boy thing. You probably don’t want to know the details.”
He glanced over at the boys again, then back at Claire Kendall. “You were saying?”
Her jaw tightened and her eyes flashed. “You had no right to tell him to go practice with the team. He can’t play football!”
“He’s not practicing. He’s just walking. That’s not going to hurt him, is it? Or is walking prohibited, too? With his hip problem and all?”
He was baiting her and it was a mistake. But he wanted to see those sparks flash in her eyes again.
He wasn’t disappointed. “Do you understand plain English? Or are you going to prove that dreary stereotype of the athlete as a Neanderthal? Nick can’t play football! It’s cruel to get his hopes up like that.”
“I don’t agree. Nick can and should play football. Come on over into the shade so we can talk.”
He touched her arm and she jerked away from his hand. “Didn’t you listen to a thing I said? He was born with a dislocated hip. It’s been surgically repaired, but it’s still fragile. And on top of that, he has asthma.”
He took her elbow and steered her toward a tree, tightening his grip when she tried to free herself. He wanted to keep touching that velvety skin of hers.
Don’t do it, a voice warned. She’s definitely not your type. Everything about her says sleek, sophisticated city woman.
He released her when they reached the tree and she backed up a step, rubbing the spot where he’d held her. He hadn’t held her that tightly, he thought, watching the sweep of her fingers over her skin. His muscles tightened. Apparently sleek city women were his type.
Was it possible she’d felt the same tiny frisson of electricity when he touched her?
It didn’t matter if she did. She was here to talk about Nick. And that was all.
“Ms. Kendall, are you aware that Nick is having trouble in school?”
Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “What kind of trouble?” She took a step toward him, then caught herself.
“Not the kind you’re thinking of.” He wanted to touch her arm again, to reassure her, but he kept his hands to himself. “He’s in my U.S. history class, and he’s a good student. Bright, hardworking, conscientious. But he isolates himself from the rest of the students. He doesn’t talk to anyone, doesn’t sit with anyone at lunch. And it’s not as if no one tries. I’ve seen several kids make overtures to him, but he pushes them away.”
Worry filled Claire Kendall’s eyes. “I wondered if he was making any friends at school,” she said. “He never calls anyone, and no one calls the house for him.”
“School is as much about learning social skills as it is about learning math and reading,” he said. “That’s why I’m concerned.”
“I appreciate that,” she said, and swallowed once. Pain filled her eyes and was quickly hidden. “His mother died very recently. Nick has a lot to deal with.”
“I know about his mother. I’m sorry for your loss and his, and I think it would help him to get involved in an activity. He wants to play football.”
“There are a lot of other activities that would be more suitable.”
“Probably. But football is what he wants to do.” He leaned forward, trying to make her understand. “Do you know he’s been at practice every afternoon since school started? He stands against that fence over there and watches from beginning to end. Every day.”
“I didn’t know he wanted to play football that much. I wish it was possible,” she said in a low voice. Her gaze wandered and he could see she was watching her nephew. “I want him to find something he loves, something to be passionate about. But his hip can’t take the kind of beating he’d get playing football.”
“I think you’re wrong,” he said, his eyes on the boy. Nick was talking to Booger. He was more animated than Tucker had ever seen him. “Do you know anything about football, Ms. Kendall?”
“Not a thing,” she said, tearing her gaze away from Nick. “Do you?”
He wanted to tell her exactly how much he knew about football. He caught himself in time. The fact that she didn’t recognize his name meant she knew nothing about the game. And he was asking her to entrust her nephew to his care, a boy with physical drawbacks.
“Yes, I know a lot about football. I’ve been playing it for twenty years.”
Her gaze flickered over him, then she nodded. “All right. Tell me how Nick could play football.”
Her small concession had him moving a step closer. “Every team needs someone to kick the ball. For field goals.” He pointed to the uprights at each end of the field. “We get three points if we kick the ball through those poles.”
“I do know that much about football,” she said, her voice wry. “I live in Chicago. I’d have to be living in a cave not to learn something about football.”
She hadn’t learned much, or she would have recognized his name. And thank God she hadn’t.
“All right. We need a field goal kicker. We also need a punter. He kicks the ball when we have to give it to the other team.”
“And you think Nick could be a kicker?”
“Yes, he could. The kicker rarely gets tackled. The other team is concentrating on the ball more than the kicker, and the kicker usually ends up just standing on the field after the play is over.”
“It’s the ‘rarely’ and ‘usually’ parts of what you just said that bother me, Mr. Hall.”
“I’ll teach him how to avoid tackles. This is the one time in his life that his hip problem will actually be an asset, rather than a liability.”
She frowned. “How can that be?”
“His right leg is weaker than normal because of his problem. That means his left leg is a lot stronger. If he can kick with his left leg, he’ll have a big advantage.”
“And you think you can teach him all this?” Her eyes held skepticism.
The competitor in him leaped to attention. He’d never been able to resist a challenge. And Claire Kendall was clearly challenging him.
“Yes, I can teach him that. That’s my job. And I’m damn good at it.”
She tore her gaze away from her nephew. “I’m glad to see that you have a healthy ego, Coach. Although I’ve never found that trait attractive in a man, it doesn’t matter if you can help Nick.”
“You don’t pull your punches, do you?” he said.
“No, I don’t,” she answered coolly. “What would be the point?”
Oh, yeah. This one was a ball-breaker. “Any other concerns you’d like to share with an egotistical Neanderthal? Before I get back to the kids?” he asked.
Pink washed over her creamy skin. But she lifted her chin. “Nick has asthma, you know. That’s another reason he can’t play football.”
“There are several other boys on the team with asthma. They all handle it just fine with their inhalers and medication.” He raised his eyebrows. “Maybe you should see his doctor.”
“Nick already has an inhaler. He won’t use it.”
“He will if he wants to be on the team. That’s rule number one. If you need medication, you use it. If not, you’re off the team.”
She watched him for a moment, then nodded. “All right, Mr. Hall. I’ll give you a chance. Nick can play.”
He searched her gaze, startled. He’d been certain she wouldn’t give in, even though he’d answered all her questions. “Thank you,” he finally said. “And no one calls me Mr. Hall. The kids call me Coach Hall. You can call me Tucker.”
She gave him a cool look. “I can’t imagine I’ll have much reason to talk to you, Mr. Hall.”
He let his gaze sweep over her once. “You might be surprised.”
A faint blush of color bloomed in her face once more. “I’ll be monitoring Nick closely,” she said, ignoring his faint come-on. “If I think this isn’t working, I’ll take him off the team.”
“I hope you’ll talk to me about it first,” he said.
“Of course. And one other thing. Nick may not even be here for all the games. As soon as he’s more comfortable with me, we’re moving back to Chicago.”
“Is that so?” Of course they were moving back to Chicago, he told himself harshly. The confident look in her eyes, the challenging tilt of her head, the smooth sophistication of her clothes and hair were definitely out of place in Monroe. Claire Kendall had city girl stamped all over her.
“Yes. I don’t know when we’ll be leaving, but don’t count on Nick for the whole season.”
“Does Nick know about this?”
Her gaze slipped over his shoulder, and he guessed she was watching her nephew again. Uncertainty and pain filled her eyes. “We’ve talked about it in general terms.”
“Well, in general terms, I think Nick expects to be here for the season. It ends in November.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we’re making plans,” she said, cool and collected again. “How soon before practice is over?”
“About five minutes. I like to talk to them as a group before we call it a day.”
“What equipment is Nick going to need?” she asked.
“The sports store in town has a list. You can get everything there.”
“Thank you.” She held out her hand, and he wrapped his larger one around it. She felt fragile and unsubstantial. But Claire Kendall was anything but weak. She might be small, but she packed a wallop.
“I’ll see you at the first game,” he said.
She nodded. “I’ll be there.”
CLAIRE STOOD under the tree and watched as Tucker Hall talked to his team. His voice was low-pitched and quiet, and she couldn’t hear what he said. But every boy listened to him intently, their attention completely focused on him.
She wasn’t surprised. Tucker Hall was the kind of man who commanded attention. It wasn’t just his size, although he towered over her and all the boys. He wasn’t bulky, but his broad shoulders and lean build would make him stand out anywhere.
It was more his quiet assumption of authority, the way he carried himself, as if no one would think to question his leadership.
Apparently it worked with teenage boys. It had certainly worked with Nick. He never paid that much attention to her.
A few minutes later the meeting ended and the boys began to straggle toward the school. Tucker stopped Nick with a hand on his shoulder. Moments later, her nephew’s face lit up. He nodded vigorously, then turned and ran toward her.
“Thank you,” he said breathlessly, but she noticed he still wouldn’t call her by name. Not once had he called her Aunt Claire, or even Claire. “Coach Hall told me you said I could play. I’ll use my inhaler every day,” he promised. “Can we go get my gear now?”
“Sure,” she said, glad to see Nick so excited. “What are you going to need?”
As they walked to the car, Nick babbled about cleats and practice jerseys. Claire was almost glad she’d allowed him to play.
Almost.
Besides her worries about his health, football was another tie binding him to Monroe. As excited as he was about being on the team, there was no way he’d agree to leave before the season was over. She’d have to endure at least two more months of Monroe.
She could do it, she told herself. She’d been here three weeks and survived.
Of course, she hadn’t gone anywhere. She’d holed up in the house, working. She’d ventured out only to get groceries and school supplies for Nick, and she’d driven to the next town for that. But she couldn’t avoid everyone in Monroe for two more months.
This trip to town would be her first. It was long overdue. She’d never thought of herself as a coward, but she’d been cringing in her house like a whipped puppy.
Not anymore, she vowed.
She tuned out Nick’s chatter as she parked the car, then she took a deep breath and slid out onto the hot asphalt. Downtown Monroe didn’t look any different than it had when she’d left.
A few stores had different names, some facades had been updated, but most of the buildings looked the same. The library still occupied the old Rogard mansion, an elaborate, graceful Victorian set back from the street and surrounded by stately oak trees. City hall was still across the street, solid and sturdy in an old brick house. She couldn’t help looking at her ex-husband’s law office. It hadn’t changed, either. She reminded herself that she was a different woman from the girl who had fled Monroe, but the old shame and anxiety bloomed inside her anyway.
“Where’s the sports store?” Nick asked, craning his head as they scanned the stores on Main Street.
“It’s around the corner. This way.”
Nick hurried to keep up with her, and she forced herself to slow down. She was an adult, she reminded herself sharply. A successful adult who’d built a good life for herself. She didn’t have to scurry around Monroe, ashamed and scared. If she did, she knew what would happen. It was just like dealing with a vicious animal—if she showed any sign of weakness, the people of Monroe would be merciless.
They’d almost made it safely to the Monroe Sports Shop when the door of the barbershop opened and a man stepped into her path. She stopped in time to avoid a collision, but not before he’d recognized her.
“Well, well, well. Look who’s in town,” Roger Vernon drawled, flashing an ugly smile. “I’d heard you’d moved back to Monroe. What are you doing here, Claire? Slumming?”
Claire stood on the sidewalk, frozen in the summer heat, and stared at her ex-husband.