Chapter 8
Bash tossed his key fob in the air, catching it as he walked to Rover. The fob would have been safer in his pocket, but not as much fun. He grinned. He shouldn’t be in a good mood—they’d lost Sunday’s game in overtime, and Coach Shockley was still unimpressed with his team-building skills. So unimpressed that they’d put a meeting on his calendar for tomorrow morning. Instead of lifting with his teammates, he’d be stuck in an office with Sam and head Coach Mack.
But the look on Penny’s face for the last hour had been priceless, and he didn’t know if he’d ever not smile thinking about it. He’d shocked her when he’d showed up for the kids’ book club, like he’d promised. He always got a kick out of it when people underestimated him. Proving them wrong was a sick satisfaction for him. And when he’d listened to them and asked age-appropriate follow-up questions, that had surprised her, too. She’d barely gotten a word in. It must have killed her, he thought.
He threw shopgirl off her game, and he was okay with that. The only win she had was when he’d announced he wouldn’t be at book club for the rest of the season. But he’d bought everyone copies of book four—insisting on paying full-price when Penny offered him a discount—and he would sign them before their next meeting. He was a sucker for signed books, especially when the giver made a personal comment. The Tin Man had a heart, but he was selective about who he shared it with.
He slid into the driver’s seat, and his phone chimed with a reminder to call his dad. His smile dropped. Calling his dad from the Rover was safest. No one would overhear them, and the twenty-minute drive back to the house would give them time to catch up, but not enough time for his father to rant at him for ignoring his responsibilities.
He hit the Call button on Rover’s display and his fingers beat against the steering wheel as the ringing filled the car. “Is this my prodigal son calling?”
“Do you have another one you haven’t told mom about?”
His dad laughed. “No, you’re the only one, and I’ve got you on speaker phone while I get ready to go to the Hilton’s cocktail party.” Of course you are. If John Vander Vetter had his way, life would be one party after another. His dad loved nothing better than talking to people he barely knew about things he knew nothing about. He was the king of small talk. He drew people to him, much like the Buchanan phenomenon, but without their depth or caring.
John always made plans for golf or weekends in the Hamptons, but he rarely followed through. It was just words with no actions. He didn’t want to be tied down in case something better came along. There was no planning or foresight. His dad ran his life and the business on gut instincts, and it drove Bash nuts. “Are you driving?”
“Trying to. I’m stuck at what must be the longest stoplight on the planet.”
“If no one’s coming, run it.”
“Yeah, no,” Bash said as the light turned green. The last thing the team needed was for him to be pulled over by the CCPD. Harper would pen an opinion piece falsely blaming the Tetons for a crime spree. “What do you know about book clubs?”
“What kind? Women drinking wine, most of whom didn’t finish the book or the subscription sort?”
“Neither. Ones sponsored by bookstores.”
“Why?”
“There’s a bookstore in Cascade City that sponsors clubs and I’ve been to a few.”
“Really? Which ones?” Bash heard his dad’s surprise.
“I went to two for a kids’ group discussing book three in the Ricky Rivera series.”
“Did they like it enough to justify the runaway sales?”
“They loved it. In fact, they’re reading book four next. We need a book like that.” But with dragons.
“I’ll get right on that,” his dad mumbled. VV Pub wasn’t a hot publisher for middle-grade fiction. But we could be. “What else do they have?”
“Women’s fiction, romance, a police procedural where they compare notes as to what the detective should have done, and a new age, Buddhist-type group.”
“Interesting.”
“It is. They’re encouraging readers and building a sense of community. I think it might be an opportunity for us.”
“I’ll have marketing look into it. There’s too much information for one person to stay on top of.”
“Subtle, Dad.” Bash complained as the guilt pricked him.
“Caught that, huh?”
“Hard not to, but I have two more seasons on my contract.” He hoped the reminder would keep his dad from harping on Bash’s choosing to play football instead of joining the business full-time.
“What did you think of the books I sent you?”
“They didn’t hold my attention. I couldn’t get past 30 percent in either of them.”
John’s heavy sigh filled the car. “It’s not always about fun, Bash.” Bash worked hard, but when he had free time, he wanted to do something he enjoyed. Read something entertaining, travel, try new foods, be outside. While his dad was the opposite. He spent so much time playing and amusing himself that he could indulge in heavier tomes.
“I know, but if a book is good for me, I want it to be good, too. Approachable but not preachy.”
“Easier said than done, but you’ll know soon enough when you’re here in the hot seat sharing in the decisions and guessing what the readers will buy. And speaking of not fun, did you read the second quarter financials I sent and the revised forecast for the fall?”
“I looked at the forecast, but not the financials. Those are old news. I’m pulling into the driveway. Let me know what marketing says, okay?” Bash hung up before his dad could respond. He was five minutes from home, and he didn’t feel guilty about lying. If the conversation had continued, it would have disintegrated into disappointment, resentment, and guilt.
Bash slowed as he entered their neighborhood. An older couple walked a dog that looked older than them, and he raised his hand automatically when they waved. New Yorkers don’t wave. But in Cascade City, people waved at neighbors, and the kids left their toys out at night, knowing they’d be there in the morning. He liked this oddly charming city with its mix of big city amenities and businesses and small-town friendliness, caring, and size. It amazed him that no matter where he was, he could get to where he needed to be in under twenty minutes, no matter the time of day. Unless he was at the bookstore where he’d need to add five minutes because of that hellish stoplight.
Penny was also growing on him, a feeling that puzzled him. She barely tolerated him, but he was relaxed around her. Unless she was glaring at him, but even then, he felt calm. It baffled him. She baffled him, so it was a good thing he wouldn’t have much free time in his schedule. Between the Tetons and reading submissions for VV Pub, he didn’t have the energy to be baffled.
“Any idea why we’re both here?” Derrick Nickerson asked as they lounged against the wall across from Coach Mack’s office. Coach Shockley hadn’t mentioned the left tackle would be joining them.
“No clue.” Bash shrugged. Nickerson pulled out his phone and nudged him, showing him a blooper reel from last Sunday’s NFL games. Missed catches, tackles into thin air, and QBs dropped on their asses. The fans loved nothing better than to watch the pros botch it. People are twisted, he thought, rolling his shoulder slowly and carefully, just as the trainer had reminded him to.
“Did Bob do that cupping thing on you?” Nickerson asked.
“He tried.” They exchanged sympathetic glances. One of the assistant trainers was eager to use his newfound cupping skills, thanks to a weekend continuing education course he’d taken in Seattle before the season began.
“I’d rather do acupuncture,” Bash said, hoping to keep the conversation going and work on his small talk. It was getting easier with people he knew, like the team or training staff, but chatting with complete strangers was painful.
“I’d rather do a long massage, followed by a beer and a fishing pole. Best relaxation there is. Do you fish?” Nickerson asked. Coach Mack opened the door before Bash could admit he’d tried it once and preferred cupping. Too much stillness. He needed to move.
“If you ladies are done jabbering, how about we get this meeting started?” Coach Mack opened the door wider. “I’d offer you a cup of coffee, but the damn thing is blinking at me again. There’s water in the mini fridge.” Coach might be gruff, but he was big on hydration.
“Nickerson?” Bash asked as he grabbed a bottle. The coaches already had open bottles in front of them. Coach Shockley looked like he needed an IV drip of caffeine. The new dad was exhausted, and Bash wondered why anyone had more than one child.
“Sure.” Bash tossed it to him as the coaches exchanged glances. Nickerson looked nervous, like a kid called into the principal’s office. Bash was old enough and had been around long enough to know that odds were good the coaches wouldn’t chew them out in front of each other—if that’s what was happening—but this was the rookie’s first year.
“Sit.” Coach Mack pointed, and like well-trained dogs, they sat. Bash hadn’t been in the head coach’s office before. He’d expected stacks of papers, dirty coffee cups, and general chaos, but it was clean and tidy. He had some family photos on the credenza—him and his wife, Margie, a family photo from his son Alex’s wedding to London Banks, daughter of Stephanie Banks, the morning talk show icon, and Ian Banks the famous former NFL kicker turned sports show host, and close-up shots of the family’s sports legacy. Alex and his Olympic medals, CJ, his other son, with his Super Bowl ring, and one of his daughter and her Olympic hockey teammates. “I’ll cut to the chase before Sam falls asleep on us. You two need to knock it off.”
“Sir?” Nickerson asked.
“Whatever your issues are, they don’t belong on the field. Understand?”
“What issues?” Nickerson paled, and it looked like the giant was going to pass out. He was an inch taller than Bash, and he had at least eighty pounds more on him.
“The fact that you won’t follow Bash’s plays. They’re good and they have potential, but you consistently muck them up. You need to stop.”
Shit. Bash scrubbed his hand over his face. He’d planned to talk to Nickerson or Sam about this privately, but he’d avoided it. He knew his plays had potential, but Sam wasn’t pushing them, so Bash hadn’t pushed his suspicion. Doing so might open Pandora’s box.
“Is there a way we can take my plays and visualize them?” Bash asked.
Sam sat up. “You want charts?”
“We don’t need more charts,” Coach Mack growled.
“I think we do,” Bash said. “When I shared my plays with Sam and the others, they were written, with step-by-step instructions. I think pictures might be useful.” Coach Mack sighed and looked at Nickerson, who hung his head.
“Nickerson, would pictures help?” he asked, and Coach’s matter-of-fact tone impressed Bash. No blame. No condemnation. No shame.
“Yes,” the big man mumbled, looking at his shoes.
“Okay, then. We’ll get them done ASAP. Can you read?”
“I can read.”
“But you couldn’t read Bash’s plays.”
“They were pretty complex.” Bash shrugged and Sam shook his head no when the coach looked at them.
“Did you read your contract before you signed it?”
“My agent did.”
“Did you read your agent’s contract before you signed that?” Coach Mack sounded exasperated. Nickerson swallowed and the tips of his ears turned red.
“I’m not much of a reader.”
Sam rested his elbows on his knees, saying, “I’m not either, and neither is my son, Ben, but we read together as much as we can. We both have dyslexia, but Ruthie, my wife, has an interest in it. Without her, I don’t think I would have made it through college.” Nickerson met Sam’s eyes. “She might be able to help. I’d be happy to give you her phone number.”
Nickerson snorted. “She’s got enough on her plate with the new baby and the other kids.”
“Are you kidding me? She’d love something other than changing diapers and laundry. If you’re interested, we’ll make it work.”
“I’m no expert, but let me know how I can help. If it’s going to take several days to get the charts done, I could draw something. It won’t be pretty, but it might be usable,” Bash said. If they thought the plays had potential and the only thing keeping the offense from perfecting them was Nickerson’s non-collegiate reading skills, he’d draw the charts. It was a better use of his time than plotting the demise of the schools that graduated Nickerson.
Both coaches looked surprised at his offer. Bash shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with their reaction. He was helpful. When it was convenient or beneficial. The same as everyone else was.
Nickerson handed his phone to Sam. “No harm in talking to her, right?” he asked as Sam entered Ruthie’s phone number.