His Most Important Win. Cynthia Thomason
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one of the other country roads?
She realized he was talking and forced herself to tune in.
“… a done deal yet. The family will have to accept the offer….” He stopped, stared at her. “But I really want that house, Rosalie. I’ll start to feel more like a part of the community once I’ve moved in.” He waited for a reaction from her and when he didn’t get one he said, “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
At the risk of choking she said, “Congratulations, Bryce.” She almost said, Once again you’ll get everything you want, but instead said the words she knew her eavesdropping mother would be waiting for. “I hope you’re happy in the new place.”
He smiled. “Since we’ll be living so close, maybe you’ll bring me a cup of sugar if I need to borrow it.”
That was the last straw. In spite of Claudia’s listening to every word, Rosalie said, “Look around you, Bryce. Nothing but fields and barns and open space. This isn’t Wisteria Lane for heaven’s sake. We don’t meet in the mornings for coffee and in the afternoons for margaritas.”
She spared a glance in her mother’s direction and immediately felt the sting of her heated gaze. Well, sorry, Ma.
“I’m kind of disappointed to hear that, Rosalie,” Bryce said. “I was hoping we could put the past behind us.”
Rosalie let out a long breath and with it, some of the anger trapped in her chest. “Bryce, I hope you become the best football coach this town has ever known. And I hope you get as much out of this job as you can. I really do. But as far as you and I are concerned, the past will always be an issue. It won’t go away. It shaped us, made us who we are.” And I won’t let your coming back to town change the woman I’ve become now. I can’t.
He crossed his arms over his chest and gave her an intense stare. “Rosalie, Ricky was the best friend I ever had,” he said so only she could hear. “You were the second-best until one day you became so much more. I can’t forget that. I don’t want to forget it.”
“Then you’ll have to live with it any way you can. That’s what I’ve had to do.”
He started to say something but stopped when two cars pulled into the lot. Excited passengers spilled out of the doors and headed to the stand. Bryce gave her one last look, filled with sadness and longing. “I’ll see you around, Rosie-girl,” he said, calling her by a former pet name. “But it’s all just a damn shame.”
“That we can agree on,” she said.
He said goodbye to Claudia, got in his truck and drove off. And Rosalie began greeting customers. Anything to avoid the censure in her mother’s eyes and an old longing that was trying to squeeze its way into her heart.
Chapter Four
Live with it any way you can.
Those words spoken by Rosalie at the Campano produce stand yesterday continued to haunt Bryce as he dressed in shorts and a T-shirt for his first official visit to Whistler Creek High School’s athletic building. Without giving his mother a chance to discuss the real estate deal he’d entered into Sunday afternoon, he gave her a peck on her cheek, poured himself a mug of coffee and dashed out the door to his truck. He didn’t feel up to another argument this morning.
“What is it exactly that Rosalie expects of me?” he said aloud as he drove down the wide country road bordered by estate homes and green patches of rich, fertile farmland.
Obviously nothing, you thickheaded dolt!
The truck’s air-conditioning blasted him over the rim of the mug as he took a swig of steaming coffee. “And why the hell can’t you leave it at that?” he added, setting the cup into the drink holder.
Of course, he knew the answer to that question. Once Rosalie had mattered to him more than any other person he’d ever known. She and Ricky had been his constant companions for years. And then, one brilliant spring day at the end of their senior year in high school, he’d realized he was crazy in love with Rosie. Nothing in his life so far had equaled the pure, sweet jubilation, nor packed the emotional wallop, of that moment.
Thinking back now, it seemed to Bryce that Rosalie had come to the same conclusion as he had at the exact same minute in time on the momentous morning one day after their senior prom. Neither of their dates had made it to the ritual breakfast, this year hosted at the Benton home on Little River Road. Rosalie’s date, nursing a headache from too much booze the night before, had gone to church at his parents’ insistence. Bryce’s date, the girl he’d been with since his junior year, had slept in, refusing to even pick up the phone when he’d called that morning to rouse her.
Suddenly finding themselves stag at a date affair, and totally comfortable with each other, Bryce and Rosalie had wandered into the peach orchard with two wineglasses, a pitcher of fresh orange juice and a chilled bottle of champagne Bryce had pilfered from his father’s wine cellar. They’d laughed at the pop of the cork and jumped back as the frothing liquid had poured from the bottle, sending sparkles of golden wine over Rosalie’s flowered sundress.
Bryce made the mimosas a little strong, handed Rosalie a glass and suggested they wrap their arms in a traditional romantic toast. All fun and games, right? They’d sipped and smiled at each other as if they were Hollywood romance legends. Rosalie had batted those long black lashes that every girl in high school had envied, and Bryce leaned in to give her a kiss on her cheek. That’s what he’d intended. Only the force of some crazy cosmic collision seemed to take control of his body and he’d claimed her lips. To this day he didn’t know why. He only knew that when their mouths touched, hers soft as the peach-scented breeze that morning, his greedy and seeking, nothing had ever been the same.
Bryce navigated the moderate traffic of downtown Whistler Creek to the high school and parked in the lot reserved for teachers. Only one other car was there, a gray SUV with a faculty sticker on the windshield. He took cartons from the back of his truck, loaded them onto a two-wheeled cart and walked past the high school. Taking the track around the football field, he came to the freestanding athletic center where his office was located. The building had been dedicated ten years earlier, thanks to public tax dollars, corporate donations and too many bake sales to count.
Dexter Canfield had given Bryce a key to the facility, so he unlocked the door and went inside. The smells of sweat and socks and the indefinable scent of masculine dreams greeted him as he walked down a short hallway decorated with commemorative bricks inscribed with contributor names. Bryce stopped long enough to read the name Benton Farms in the short list of $5,000 benefactors. He entered the first office on the right where the name plaque on the door already said “Coach Benton.”
The office had been cleaned out in preparation for his takeover. Someone had spackled over reminders of the previous occupant’s certificates and photos. Fresh beige paint covered the walls. The large metal desk in the center of the room was free of clutter, and Bryce found the drawers empty. He set his cartons on top of the desk and began taking out his belongings and stacking files and documents in some sort of manageable order.
He would hang his diplomas and framed recognitions on the wall behind the desk. Research materials and empty file folders waiting for paperwork on players went into the plain gray file cabinet. He spread his playbooks and coaching charts on top of the desk, sat in the utilitarian metal chair and flipped through the material, deciding which formations would work for a coach starting up with a new team.
After a couple hours, he took a break to simply appreciate being where he’d always wanted to end up. He stared out a wide window that overlooked the field where, in a short time, he’d teach a bunch of raw players to become productive team members. One adult wearing shorts and a polo shirt stood on the sideline while two teens practiced pitching and catching a baseball in the center of the practice area.
Bryce spread his hands on the desktop and watched the interplay between the man and the boys. The man was obviously coaching. Bryce understood the connection between a coach and his players.