Page 5

CHAPTER

TWO

DEAN

The bell rings, but Tanner stays behind. He doesn’t always stay back, but from time to time I let him sit in my classroom during lunch so he can study history. He’s a smart kid—grades and education are just as important as playing football. I tell all of my boys that.

“Glad you stayed back,” I tell him as he pulls his notebook from his open backpack, resting at his feet. It’s worn, and if I had to guess, I’d say Tanner Colt is no stranger to hand-me-downs.

“Yeah?” he says, clicking the end of his mechanical pencil.

“Yeah,” I tell him, taking a seat at the table directly across from him. I stack one boot on top of the other after outstretching my legs. “You know West—eh, Mr. Dupont? The athletic director?”

Tanner nods. West Dupont is new to Bluebell, well, new by Bluebell standards.

Meaning, he’s lived here the better part of six years, but is one of the few people not from here.

He and I get along real nice, sharing a passion bordering on obsession for high school sports and doing them right.

He spends most of his time in his office, but the students who have had the pleasure of getting to know him, like him.

“He told me after the game that one of his buddies watched you. One of his scout buddies.” My lips curve into a smile that matches the one Tanner wears. “Said if you keep it up, you’ve got a scholarship waiting for you next year.”

His face rumples. “But, I’m a sophomore,” he counters, confused.

I smirk. “The earliest a player can accept a scholarship for college is September 1st of his junior year. So as long as you keep those grades up and that arm healed, come next year at this time, you’re as good as gold.”

Tanner nods in understanding, but the happiness only lasts a moment. He taps his finger on the paper he dug out of his bag. “I failed my history test and I have a D.”

I glance back at the clock. “You got twenty minutes to study.” I eye his bag. “You bring a lunch?”

He shakes his head. “Forgot it,” he winces, then adds, “my mom’s gonna be pissed. She despises wasted food. ”

“All parents do. Wasted food is wasted money,” I tell him, then glance back at the clock again, weighing my options. “I’ll pop over and get us something to eat. You stay here and study. Got me?”

Tanner nods. “Thanks, Coach.”

After a win, it’s tradition for me and the boys to get a beer at Lassoed and Loaded, but after a particularly long day at school, we have the same tradition. Cold beers, a little bitching, a lot of eating questionable nuts out of a shared bowl, and if there’s time, some more cold beers.

Marcy slides four long neck bottles down the bar, and Jake snatches them and passes them out. We each tip them back in a moment of much needed silence.

The first swig is unbeatable. Cold and foamy, the brew slides down my throat and immediately kisses all my sore edges and raw nerves, soothing them, I swear. Another drink, followed by four inconspicuous belches, and we’re finally ready to converse.

Hey, don’t be too quick to judge. When you spend your days around high school kids—predominantly high school boys who are obsessed with spitting, jerking off and fighting each other—the evening requires a certain quiet period.

A handful of minutes with zero stimulation, nobody repeating your name over and over, and without anyone needing you— that’s the walk to my truck after practice, the drive to the bar, and the first few drinks.

West rolls his neck, making it crack. He lets out a sigh. “Fuuuck.”

Jake arches a brow. “That a general fuck or does it have a name?”

West takes another drink. “Paperwork. Each year that goes by, there is more and more fucking paperwork.” He takes a long drink, nearly finishing his beer. “I’m so sick of seeing my own signature, if I never saw it again I’d be happy.”

Hudson takes another drink too, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before pointing out the obvious. “Yeah but West, you must be good at paperwork. The schools have gotten more funding for sports in the last few years than ever before.”

He’s got a good point. West has done an exceptional job getting funding for our athletic programs. See, getting money for your school isn’t much different than how the rest of the world works; the schools that produce more collegiate level athletes get the money.

Period. But somehow, West has made strides without Bluebell High being a champion of all sports.

West scratches the back of his head. “Well, good at it or not, I kinda miss teaching. Being holed up in that office all day, signing things, arguing with people over email, it’s just…every day just rolls into the next.”

I arch a brow. “That good, eh?”

He shrugs. “You know what I mean.” At the same time, his phone vibrates and he moves quickly to unlock the screen.

His lips curve into a mischievous grin as he begins texting with one hand, and finishing his beer with the other.

I’ve popped by Leah’s office a few times and caught sight of West texting with that same grin on his face .

I nudge him, but respect his privacy and don’t eye his screen. “Who’s that?”

His cheeks flare with color, which pulls an “uh oh” from Jake and a “he’s in trouble now” from Hudson. I nudge him again.

“No one. Just…a friend.” He flags down the waitress for another beer, and she brings us all another round without question.

“Yep, that’s exactly what I look like when I’m texting Hudson.” I lean back in the stool, and scratch at my forehead beneath the sweatband bow.

Hudson drapes a hand over his chest. “Oh my god,” he feigns, “I look like that when I’m textin’ you too!”

Jake snorts but finishes his beer, moving onto the next. As he pushes his empty out of the way, his face twists up in a wince, and he reaches behind himself, pressing one hand to his lower back. “Fuck,” he groans, cautiously settling into the chair again.

“Back still hurtin’ ya?” Hudson asks, taking his hat off to reveal a bandaid smack dab in the middle of his forehead.

I look between the two of them. “What happened to you two?”

Jake’s cheeks flush, and I got my answer.

Hudson doesn’t get all red and shy away from it.

He used to, but that was before we all got to know his wife Dolly really well.

He couldn’t lie about his injuries these days even if he wanted to.

Jake, however, is still getting used to the fact we all know about his kinky sex life.

Women talk. And I happen to eat lunch with his wife a few days a week.

I don’t care to know it, but Riley doesn’t care that I don’t care to know.

Jake clears his throat. “I was workin’ out back and?—”

“Liar.” I sip my beer. “Riley got bucked off your kinky little bedroom saddle rack and you threw your back out catchin’ her.”

Jake morphs into the hue of a vine-ripe tomato. “Yep, that’s about the size of it.”

I look at Hudson, who is finding Jake’s situation far too funny, considering.

I point the neck of my beer at him. “What’re you laughing at? I know you didn’t get that bandage on your head from ringing the bell at Salvation Army.”

He smiles, and as much as I love giving him a hard time, I’m happy for the guy. He’s got a great goddamn life, but it ain’t always been that way. Still, I gotta stick it to him.

“Dolly is going through her… contortionist phase,” he starts, but I raise my palm to order him to stop right the fuck there.

“I like her too much to have to see it in my mind, Hud,” I tell him.

He nods. “Well, anyway, her position didn’t hold and I took a foot to the head two nights ago.”

At his admission, and Jake’s too, I can’t help but let out a sigh that is far heavier sounding than I intended. “I hope she’s okay,” I tell him, trying like hell to bypass the sudden knot of… I don’t even know what it is. Jealousy? Longing? Loneliness?

That last one seems to resonate. I’ve always been alone. Lived alone since I was in college. But only recently have I felt lonely.

“So what’s new with you, Dean?” Jake asks over the top of a Benson Boone song suddenly blaring from the jukebox. A group of high school students clambered around it, and when I glance back, it looks like one of them is looking at West. But I don’t give it enough time or thought to know for sure.

I try to think of something so I’m not the outright damn loser at the bar. And that’s saying a lot since One-Boot Carl is at the end of the bar. “I got Disney Plus last night.”

My god.

West is clearly talking to some lady friend, Hudson and Jake have kinky sex injuries (I can’t believe I just said that and more than that, I can't believe it’s true), and I just subscribed to Disney Plus.

Jake arches a brow. Hudson silently drums his fingertips against the worn bartop. West tips his head to the side just a few degrees, the way people do when they feel bad for ya but don’t wanna outright say that.

“Want me to set you up with someone?” Hudson asks, getting to work on that second beer as he glances at his watch. “Dolly’s got lots of friends.”

I let out a long sigh. “My answer hasn’t changed.” Because this is not the first time I’ve been the center of a round table of pity. “No setups.”

I don't have anything against people who fall in love after they’re set up by friends. I don’t hate happiness. I just always imagined my life a certain way.

Teaching, coaching, owning my own little home that I fix up with my hands, having season after season of boys who go all the way with their gameplay.

Lastly? Meeting a woman here in the town I was raised in, where I grew up.

Catchin’ eyes with someone in a crowded dance hall or reaching for the same cut of meat at the market. I don’t know. But you get it.

I always expected, hoped and wanted it to just… happen on its own.

“You sure?” Jake asks. “Because Riley?—”

I slice my hand through the air. “That ain’t how it’s supposed to happen.”