Chapter 3
ALLYSON
“And then Coach B and Coach Mike had us doing fast feet drills up and down the field,” Cooper says excitedly, demonstrating by tap-dancing his feet across the wood floor of our rental house in town.
I smile. At least I think I do, but truthfully, I’ve only had one sip of coffee so far and I’m not firing on all cylinders yet.
I wish Cooper would sleep in just a little later on the weekends, but I try to remind myself that too soon, he’ll be a teenager who sleeps all day and I should enjoy his early morning energy.
Maybe even suck a little bit of it up for myself.
Lord knows I could use it after the week I’ve had. Work has been weighing me down, long hours in the office poring over legal briefs and research, bringing folders of case information home to work on after Cooper goes to bed, and preparing for an important mediation meeting in a couple of weeks.
On top of those responsibilities, Cooper started football practice and has talked non-stop about it ever since. He’s only had two practices, so I’m dreading, just a tiny bit, how much more football this boy can verbally throw at me.
“Footwork looks good, honey,” I tell him, not really knowing if that’s true or not but wanting to support his interest and hard work. He does it again, forward and then backward, from the kitchen to the front door and back.
“Light and quick like a ballerina,” Cooper says, surprising me.
“A ballerina?” I question.
He nods wisely, his eyes wide as he obviously recites, “How do you think ballerinas can move so fast?” He swishes his arms on top of each other, switching them in an imitation of a ballerina’s feet.
“They gotta be light on their feet so they can be quick. If not, they’d miss every play before they could get to the ball.
Light and quick.” Changing from his recitation, he asks, “Hey, Mom, did you know ballerinas dance until their feet bleed?”
My brows pull together. “Uh, yeah? Why so much talk about ballet all of a sudden?” The possibilities are already swirling around in my mind—do I make him finish the season since he made the commitment? Do I let him move on to what’s apparently a new interest? What made him so interested?
Cooper shrugs his little shoulder. “Coach B was telling us about them being so fast, and Trey said he wanted to be a tough football player, not a prissy dancer. Coach Mike cringed like this—” He pulls his face, mimicking an unhappy Coach Mike.
“But Coach B said ballerinas are some of the toughest athletes and showed us a video of their mangled up feets after a show.”
He crumples his fingers into claws, showing me what their feet were like. “Like bloody claws with toes on ’em.”
“Okay . . . first off, eww. Secondly, it’s feet, not feets.
Feet is the plural of the singular foot, honey.
So, you don’t want to do ballet?” I’m trying really hard to keep up with this kid’s mental gymnastics, so I take a good long pull of coffee to corral the few brain cells that are awake and alert and encourage a few more to join the party.
It’s Cooper’s turn to pull his eyebrows together in confusion. “What? No, I love football. Coach B was just talking about ballet because of the footwork.” He does his little tap-dancing routine across the room and back.
I shake my head, feeling like I just went on a trip that wasn’t even needed. But I’m doing my best to do anything I can for Cooper and to do it all right. That’s what single moms do, be everything in one. And I do it gratefully . . . for him.
“Well, now that’s settled, how about some breakfast before we leave for practice? What do you want this morning?” I open the fridge, peering inside like inspiration will strike me.
“Eggs and bacon, and biscuits and gravy if you got any,” my tiny, barely eats anything kid answers.
I lean back to catch his eye, one brow quirked and my lips tilted up. “That’s a mighty big breakfast. Think you can handle all that?”
He nods so fast I think his head might fall off. “Coach Mike says growing athletes need fuel. Food is fuel, and occasionally fun. Like cake and donuts. But everyday stuff should be protein, fat, and complex carbs. One gram of protein per two pounds of body weight!”
I have to bite my lip to keep from giggling.
This kid is eight years old and schooling me on nutritional facts like he’s an expert.
“Is that so?” I pull out the eggs, checking the date, and then dig around.
I don’t have any bacon, but I’ve got frozen sausage patties and a popping roll of biscuits.
“And just how big is a gram? Tell you what . . . how about a biscuit, egg, and sausage sandwich?”
He seems to think about it and then decides it’ll do. “Can you put jelly on it? I know that’s sugary, but a little’s probably okay, right?”
I set the jar of grape jelly on the table. “You can do it yourself . . . carefully.”
While I make us breakfast sandwiches, Cooper tells me all about his two whole football practices.
I think it takes him longer to tell me about them than it did for him to actually go.
But I love listening to him ramble happily about his coaches, his teammates, what he’s learned.
He sounds good, happy, and carefree, which is all I ever wanted for him.
Giving this life to him is why I left our previous one. He’s why I finally found the courage. Because this right here, breakfast sandwiches and football practices and silly stories, is what he deserves.
“So, tell me again, Coach Mike is Derek’s dad?
And whose dad is Coach B?” I’m trying to keep it all straight, but it’s a lot for people I haven’t even met yet.
My friend Michelle did carpool duty for me Tuesday and Thursday this week.
Her son, Liam, is on the team with Cooper, and she’s an absolute godsend to us.
Though she’d probably say the same thing about me and Cooper.
Michelle’s married, but her husband travels for work a lot, though I don’t know what exactly he does.
She always describes it as ‘something with sales and robotic medical devices’ like she doesn’t know either, but with her being a pseudo-single mom sometimes and me being an actual single mom, we became fast friends when the boys started kindergarten.
We’d bonded pretty hilariously over not wanting to be room mom while the other women were literally racing over each other to sign up.
Cooper’s mouth is full, but he shakes his head. After swallowing, he corrects me. “No, Coach Mike is Evan’s dad. Coach B is just one of Coach Mike’s friends.”
Something about that seems strange. I mean, most of the teams are fighting to get one person to step up and coach.
So for this guy to help out and not even have a kid seems .
. . odd? Maybe I’m jumping the gun, but I’m protective of Cooper, maybe even bordering on helicopter-y, not that I’d admit that freely.
I’ll definitely have to meet this Coach B today and get a feel for him.
I’ll make it a point to ask Mike about his qualifications and background check too.
Due diligence to check the guy is the least I can do.
There isn’t a chance to ask Mike about his friend before practice starts because almost as soon as we arrive, they start running laps around the park.
They look like a well-oiled machine, albeit one that occasionally misses a step or two.
But if their line gets out of whack, they quickly correct it themselves.
Pretty impressive for a bunch of eight- and nine-year-olds, I think.
I’m sitting on the makeshift ‘sideline’ of the boys’ practice field with Michelle, fresh cups of to-go coffees in our hands even though it’s hot as balls out here. “So, what do you know about this Coach B character?”
She laughs. “Let me guess, you’re getting ‘Coach Mike says’ and ‘Coach B said’ as much as I am?”
I nod, sipping my bean nectar and not saying anything else.
“I saw him at practice this week when I was waiting for the boys.” She lowers her voice, looking around and making sure none of the other nearby moms are paying us any attention, but still talking behind her cup like someone might read her lips.
“Huge guy that I would happily climb like a tree. My ovaries damn near exploded from across the field. And that was before he started helping the kids. Pretty sure I was soaked down to my knees at that point.”
I can’t hold back the snort of laughter. “Oh, my God, Michelle. You are so hard up! When’s Michael coming home?”
“Girl, it ain’t about being horny,” she says with a throaty chuckle. “Wait till you see him. You’ll be dreaming about that beard scratching your thighs all night, too. That cowboy could wear his dirty boots to bed and I wouldn’t complain a bit, especially if that was all he was wearing.”
Her words bring up imagery I’d rather not have.
It’s not that I’m asexual. I have a sex drive and a battery-operated boyfriend like most red-blooded women, but it’s been so long since I’ve had actual two-person sex that I’ve probably forgotten how to even do it.
Is it still tab A and slot B? Or is there some newfangled way of doing things these days?
“I don’t think that’s my thought pattern,” I correct her, shoving any lack-of-sex thoughts out of my head. “I’m more worried about Mike’s random friend hanging out with a bunch of kids. Can you say sketch-yyy?” I singsong the last word under my breath, drawing it out.
Michelle shrugs, unconcerned. “Mike said he’s some football pro or something that he wrangled into helping.
The boys like him and they seem to be learning, and you know Mike appreciates the help.
Getting those boys to play together is like herding squirrels, so if he got some backup that doesn’t require me getting out there to catch a ball, I’m for it.
” She does little finger-quotes around the word ‘catch’, making it clear that she can’t play any better than I can.