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She shakes her head. “I’m rambling about the psychology of my son, the one that isn’t even on your team.

I’m so sorry.” Clara June brings her hands together in her lap, clasping them.

“I forgot how nice it is to talk things out with another person.” She taps the side of her head. “It’s usually just me and me.”

I don’t know what’s appropriate here, because Clara June’s not my girl, hell, we don’t even know each other well.

Yet.

Still, the words clutter my tongue and I need to purge them.

“I’m a problem solver, and an overthinker.

” I shrug. “That, paired with how much I enjoy talking to you…” I let the sentence hang for a moment as I try to read her expression.

The apples of her cheeks grow bubble gum pink, and that makes me warm and fuzzy right where I don’t need to be warm and fuzzy, not right now at least. “If you ever need to talk through anything, call me, Clara June. ”

She tugs the neckline of her off-the-shoulder shirt, but it slips back down again. “Yeah?”

I nod. “Well, maybe not.”

Her face falls.

“You know, because I’d like to believe we’d already be talking on the phone, so you wouldn’t need to call.”

Her smile stretches from ear to ear, and desire twists my stomach, making me clench my gut. “You’re funny,” she says.

“See? Another reason why you should start talking to me on the phone at night. I’ll give you a laugh before bed.”

She dances her brows, and the smattering of freckles melting down the bridge of her nose seem to grow darker when she’s happy like this. “I’m a big fan of classic stuff. Knock knock jokes, a priest walks into a bar, that type of stuff.”

I blow on my nails and make a show of buffing them out against my chest, along my worn lucky flannel shirt.

“A priest, a rabbit and a shaman walk into a bar,” I start, earning me a long, breathy laugh from Clara June, a laugh so gorgeous and organic that I tell myself right then and there that I definitely need to invest in my jokes. Anything to hear more of that laugh.

She claps her hands together, steepling them beneath her chin, blue eyes effervescent and wide. “Oh my God, you’re coming through, I love it.” She readies herself for the punchline, crossing her legs on the couch.

It occurs to me while sitting next to her—cushion barrier between us and all—that I could reach over and lift her frame entirely, drag her onto my lap and sit comfortably with her pressed against me.

Forcing that image from my brain as best as I can, I deliver the rest of the joke.

“The bartender says to the rabbit, ‘what’ll you have?’ And the rabbit says, ‘I don't know, I’m only here because of autocorrect’. ”

Her eyes flit between mine for a split second before she erupts into laughter, and I laugh too, mostly just enjoying her, and her reaction.

But our focus shifts to the street, which we can see from the large window centering the living room space, behind the couch.

Rawley and Tanner pull up, slamming the old car doors.

“Oh good, they’re home. I’m sure you don’t want to hang around here forever, now you can talk to Tanner before you head out,” Clara June says, wiping at the corner of her eye before she leaps off the couch and pulls open the front door, greeting her sons as they enter.

“Hi boys,” she says, pulling Rawley first into a hug that he accepts but does not embrace. Next is Tanner, who she only carefully hugs, probably nervous to hurt him since he’s technically still in recovery. He, however, warmly hugs her back, despite her caution. Then they see me.

Rawley’s eyes narrow, but only for a moment. “Yo, Coach.”

Tanner only looks pleased, adding, “Coach! You’re here. Fu —damn, I’m glad to see you. I’m so ready to get back. I am so sick of not doing a damn thing.”

“You could clean up after yourself and help out around the house if you’re so bored,” Clara June counters. The moment offers a glimpse into her everyday—always asking the boys to contribute, always reminding them of what needs to be done. And all of this after double shifts at the diner, too.

“Hey Tanner, how are you feeling?” I ask, trying my best to assess his natural movements to see if he’s babying his head or collarbone. But he appears pretty much normal. Aside from being tired of the inside of his house and missing his friends, he looks good.

“Good, Coach. God these last few weeks are crawling by,” he says, flopping down on the couch where his mom was just sitting.

He kicks his sneakers off, and one falls onto the table, the other on the ground.

Rawley digs in his bag, dropping four heavy books onto the same table, which causes Tanner’s shoe to fall off onto the floor.

“Oh, so you got your books you were looking for,” Clara June says, sitting on the floor, pulled up to the coffee table, beginning to sift through the hardcovers wrapped in that loud plastic libraries always use.

“Oh, it’s a history paper? I thought this was the English paper about the effects of violent video games on preteens. ”

Rawley holds a single finger up, and then pulls a manilla folder from his backpack.

I recognize that folder. It’s the Bluebell High graded work folder, what all of the teachers use to pass back final, graded and already recorded work in.

That folder says: it’s done, it’s recorded, it doesn’t matter what you do with it now.

Clara June eyes the folder, clearly aware of what’s inside. She takes it cautiously, making Rawley taunt her by dancing his eyebrows.

“That was last week’s paper, Mom. And I got it back today.” He folds his arms over his chest, Modest Mouse t-shirt rumpling slightly. Today he must’ve had clean laundry, as he’s wearing blue jeans, black boots, and a black t-shirt—no more hoodie and swim trunks.

Clara June opens the folder, reads for a moment, then closes it, looping her arms around Rawley’s neck. “I’m proud of you, son. And I’m sorry I forgot it was due last week. I’m still recovering from all these extra shifts.”

He smiles down at her before drifting into the kitchen. “No worries, Mom. I know.”

“Bring me a soda,” Tanner calls from the couch. Rawley appears in the doorway, drinking an ice-cold can of Coca Cola .

“If you’re going to play football in a few weeks, I think you’re well enough to get off your ass and get a can of soda.

” Rawley sips and smirks, and it’s that precise moment that Archie runs inside, nearly tripping over the doormat as he rushes to slam the door closed.

He presses his back to the closed door, palms splayed over the wood like he’s preventing a monster from breaking in.

His little chest heaves, and orange marks the corner of his lips.

Rawley glances back at his little brother, then over at Clara June. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say Mrs. Salinger is going to be over here in less than one minute.”

Clara June gets to her feet. “Archie, I specifically told you?—”

There’s a violent knock at the door, one that rattles the inset glass and makes the window on the same wall vibrate. Clara June stands tall, tips her shoulders back, and opens the door.

On the other side, on the porch, wearing a house dress and not much else, a woman with silvering hair stands, hands balled in fists. “Clara June, I told you to keep that boy off my property!”

Tanner looks up at me. “That’s Mrs. Salinger. She lives next door. Archie eats her peaches. She hates us.”

“Who’s that? Who's saying those things?” Mrs. Salinger’s eyes narrow further, which I wasn’t sure was even possible, and she grips the doorframe, poking her head into the house. She locks onto Tanner. “Oh, it’s you.” She looks at Clara June. “How many kids are living here, anyway?”

Clara June is more patient than I’d be. Her smile is small but controlled. “I have three sons, Mrs. Salinger. It’s been that way for the last five years.

Thankfully, she turns around and takes a few steps down off the porch. “I’m calling the police next time!” She thrusts a clenched fist into the air and waves it around. “You can bet!”

“Bet,” Tanner mimics, twisting her verbiage to fit the current slang.

“Ope, Mrs. Salinger says bet,” Rawley laughs, bringing his fist to his mouth to smother said laughter.

Clara June closes the door and turns to face me, that milky soft shoulder still on display.

“Sorry about that.” She looks embarrassed but the last few minutes have been great.

I love the feel of a busy house with lots of things going on, and this little beef with the granny next door?

I love that, too. I mean, the lady is totally uncool because it’s clear that Archie is just a kid, but still.

Being in this house with Clara June and the boys feels like opening up a really good book, and jumping into the pages at the best point mid-plot.

Clara June pulls open the door, and I put my hat back on my head. “Thanks for coming by.”

“Thanks for checking on me, Coach.” Tanner says, getting to his feet to stand at his mother’s side. “Do you think you could put a good word in with my doctor and tell him I’m ready to go back now?” Somewhere behind us, Rawley is taking Archie outside to pick up peach pits.

“You gotta hide your evidence, man. She wouldn’t even know but you’re throwing your pits over the fence,” he tells Archie, his voice low. “Rookie mistake.”

“What’s a rookie?” Archie asks, but then the door is closed and I refocus on Clara June and Tanner.

I clap my hand on Tanner’s shoulder. “I could do that. I could go down there and tell Dr. Denton that you’re up and about and all good.

But if he signed off on you being okay, and you played this Friday in the game, and you got hurt?

That would be my fault. And more than fault, it would be negligent to do so.

” I glance at Clara June whose eyes twinkle as she listens and watches.

“Don’t rush it, Tanner. You’ll be back the safest way possible in a few more weeks, okay? ”

His shoulder slumps, but I gotta give the kid credit—he nods, finally sighing, “yeah, okay.”

With that, Tanner splits, slamming his bedroom door closed as Clara June partially follows me to the porch, staying on the last step as I move down the path, toward my truck. I stop and turn, and find her eyes already on mine.

“Can I call you again? Soon?”

Mindlessly, she drapes a hand over her heart, her fingers playing at her collarbone. “Yes, Coach, I’d like that.”

When I get home, I eat dinner alone, the TV running on low to make me feel anything but. We didn’t get the money for the hotel stay, but despite that, my lucky shirt continues its streak of not letting me down.