Chapter Thirty
Test Drive
Jordan
The sharp tweet of my whistle cuts through a moment that very much did not require whistling. Our kids freeze on the field, and Rod and I very slowly turn to our culprit.
Tali stands on the bleachers, eyes wide, my hot-pink whistle in her mouth. ‘Girl,’ I call, ‘I will pull that thing straight out your mouth, so help me.’
Intrusive thoughts, I can’t blame the troublemaker.
I was way worse as a kid, anyway. But Rod and I are definitely grasping at straws.
We’ve got something like two weeks until the big game, and our team is running practice matches.
Rehearsal is the best way to guarantee a stellar performance, which is why Benny arranged for us to play the most accurate opponent we could get: the tri-town U16 team.
Despite playing against kids anywhere from four to eight years older than them, our campers hold their own.
Captain Jake proves to us that he is more than the peanut butter and has led our team to multiple goals, tying it up against U16.
Unfortunately, Tali, who has a day off from karate camp, is the most whistle-happy assistant coach we could ask for.
‘Sorry!’ she squeaks, and the whistle, attached to my OKC lanyard, falls right out from between her lips.
‘She listens to you better than me,’ Rod quips, as play resumes with a shout from Jake in front of us.
We’ve only taken the first of many steps in a more serious direction, but I can already feel some of the tension that used to hang between us beginning to loosen, in the way Rod isn’t as afraid to talk to me about his family, his daughter.
It feels like an immense privilege. ‘You’ll be at her birthday Saturday, right? ’
‘Of course.’ I adjust my sunglasses with a smile.
Showing up for a kid is everything. Showing up for this kid …
I think back to the way she looked up at me as I brushed Hermes, as if I held the secrets to the universe.
‘Everything’ seems like a bit of an understatement.
‘She only listens to me because she doesn’t know me, Rod. That’s how kids are.’
‘She listens to you,’ he nudges me, his fingers lingering at my waist for just a moment, ‘because she very much does know you.’
I mull that bit over as the test drive continues. The U16 team makes multiple attempts on our goal, and eventually, to our chagrin, sneaks past our defence. Benny, Rod and I share a unified groan of frustration.
‘They’re caving,’ I tell Rod with a sigh. ‘The later into the game we get, the more they start to believe they can’t hold the opponent back. And Brady starts leaving his right open.’
‘Invites them in,’ he finishes. He fiddles with his whistle, popping it in the corner of his mouth for a moment. ‘Call a time?’
‘Nah, let ’em play it out.’ I wipe my way-too-sweaty palms on my shorts, then cup my hands around my mouth for a loud, ‘COME ON, brADY!’
Defence regains some spark, but it’s ultimately not enough. The kiddos wrap up 5–3, and they’re beating themselves up over it. The benches are the quietest they’ve ever been with fifteen minutes till pickup. It’s an awful sight.
‘This is horrible.’ My eyebrows furrow as I scan the stands. Every child is quietly undoing their cleats with forlorn expressions. ‘Rod, Benny, you know I can’t do silence.’
‘You think you can try talking them up?’ asks Benny. His big brown eyes reflect the exact same worry that I feel right now. Team morale being dumps the week before a big game is the ultimate Achilles heel.
‘I could.’ I watch Tali help Rod bring a big cooler full of Popsicle sticks over to the benches, though, and I realize that I’m not the one who can get this job done.
Rod’s been at this camp for years; after last weekend, I believe I understand just why he wants these kids to not only compete, but to learn how to have fun doing it – to love the sport. ‘But I think he’s got to do it.’
Benny purses his lips, and then nods before turning back towards the Popsicle cooler and yelling, ‘Rod!’
The two of them jog over to one another. I watch some whispers exchanged between the two of them, and then Rod, just a twinge of nerves on his face, brings his whistle to his lips and gives it a little tweet. ‘Circle up, guys!’
Our campers are more sluggish than I’ve ever seen them.
They drag themselves over to the face-off circle with duffel bags and backpacks not far behind.
I think back to that first week – Rod telling me he started this whole thing so kids could play with the edge off lacrosse, no pressure.
It looks like this competition has got the best of them.
We never told them about the funding issue but, from the looks of it, they’ve got wind of how heavy this match weighs.
‘Okay.’ Rod swallows, his eyes glancing over the circle of campers. They land on me, and I press on with a reassuring smile. You got this.
‘I know that the competitive spirit is a little bit high,’ he starts. Someone coughs in the pause that follows. ‘But, um … I want you guys to think back to when you first picked up a stick.’
Benny hums in approval. The kids still look confused, but I think this is going in a good direction.
‘Did you pick it up because you wanted to win?’ asks Rod.
His voice becomes more solid as he goes on.
‘Or did you pick it up because it was fun? Because I just thought it was fun. It is fun. Of course, it won’t be easy once we turn towards the winning-and-losing stuff.
This is not an easy sport. But I’m pretty sure it’s a sport we all can appreciate. And you are all phenomenal at it.’
Rod goes on. ‘I know we’ve also been unfairly serious about this match.
That is on us. It is supposed to be a friendly and, to be fair, I would rather see you guys play your hearts out with big smiles and lose than beat Boston all angry.
I mean, beating them would be excellent. But you guys get the gist.’
Faint chuckles. A couple of heads are starting to lift. Good.
‘And for the record. Losses happen. I’ve missed some gnarly shots. Remember that summer I was in that stupid Transformers thing all on my leg?’
This time, I definitely hear a snort. I assume he’s referring to his ACL tear, which was no doubt one of the nastiest Major League Lacrosse injuries I’ve ever seen, and one of the most incredible recoveries.
‘That was probably the biggest loss of my career. But hey, if I came back from that?’ He smiles slyly. ‘Think about what our comeback will look like.’
The pride that fills my chest when the kids each get up to high-five Rod and head out on their way is an unprecedented yet warm feeling.
Still falling. His morning hair is great.
And boy, do I love his witty one-liners.
But it’s the way he gets it, the way he is a natural empath to everyone – from country girls with trust issues to a low-morale kids’ lacrosse team – that hammers it home.
It reminds me that this isn’t going to be another run-away-when-done.
It makes me picture what staying would look like, and that is both dangerous and a dream come true.
‘She’s a smart kid. I think she’ll crack it herself, sooner rather than later.’
I round the island with the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc that is joining us this evening, and generously top off my glass.
The vinyl Rod has put on the turntable – Johnny Cash – hums quietly as I fill up his glass, too.
He quirks an eyebrow. ‘I think we’re doing pretty well, to be fair.
We’ve made it through the better part of tiny-town summer without anyone finding out. ’
‘Except our campers,’ I shoot back. ‘See? Kids.’
‘Fair point.’ We both head back towards the couch we’ve been camped out on for the past hour.
I curl up next to Rod, and he pulls me close so my head can fall against his shoulder.
It’s becoming one of my favourite places.
Technically, his entire house is. It’s built in a very rustic farm-style, with lofted ceilings and family photos on the wood-panelled walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, a cosy fireplace that we have no need for in the stuffy summer heat.
But I like to think it’s him that makes the space feel so special.
‘Speaking of which. I personally felt like I could run through a wall after your Friday Night Lights bit,’ I tell him, holding back a grin.
‘You did?’ The way Rod’s eyes light up is adorable. God only knows what he needs my approval for – he’s a natural – but it is one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen.
‘Oh, yeah. You were very “Eye of the Tiger”.’ I nudge his arm jestingly, look up at him so I can take in his big smile. ‘I can tell where Tali gets that excessive whistle use from. You have a born coach on your hands.’
It’s priceless. Mister Stocky Pro Lacrosse Captain is blushing all across his face. I think of the pressure he faced as a boy and realize that what I am seeing is that boy, finally receiving the praise he’s deserved. It makes my heart both ache and sigh.
‘Yeah.’ He bumps my arm right back.
My eyes travel down to his wrist where, beside the Garmin watch he usually wears, I spot two ponytail holders, one blue, and one black. ‘What are those?’ I ask, holding back a smile as I trace the bands, because I full well know the answer. I just want to hear him talk about it.
‘Oh.’ He’s blushing even harder now. The pink in his cheeks darkens. ‘Just hair elastics. I, uh … I do Tali’s hair for her. Like, ponytails, braids, those little space buns she likes. Never hurts to have extras.’
The look on his face, the attention to detail when it comes to his daughter.
It melts my heart right there. In a society so obsessed with what makes a ‘man’, here is one of those very special sorts of fathers, the sort who learns to braid hair so that his daughter can feel like a princess.
It pokes at a hole in my heart that I have carried around for years and years, but it also reassures me that good things – kindnesses – do exist in this world.
A tiny tear pricks the corner of my eye.
From my own wrist, I pull my favourite hot-pink hair tie, press it into Rod’s hand, and turn around so my back faces him. I stop only to brush that tear from my cheek. I clear my throat. ‘Could you do mine?’
‘Could I … for real?’ Rod’s voice quavers with nerves. Invisible to him, I bite back a little smile. Not because he’s a bag of nerves, but because he has such a cute innocence to him in this moment. It steals all my headspace in one fell swoop.
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘Uh. What kind?’
‘French braid, please.’
‘I just …’ His fingers gently run their way through my hair, which has now grown well past my waist, brushing the top of my forehead. He lets out a quiet sigh. ‘I feel like touching it is a cardinal sin, Jor. It’s unreal.’
Softly, he takes a small section from the front of my hairline and starts the braid. He adds hair so tenderly, working with the sweetest touch I’ve ever felt.
My hair, somewhere between wavy and straight at the moment, has always been an endeavour.
Mom taught me how to handle the unruly semi-Mexican frizz I’d been blessed with.
And it’s not that I’m not grateful for all the braids she did for me over the years, through rodeo, matches, quinceaneras, dances, and everything in between, but she would make sure that thing stayed for at least twenty-four hours with a hefty combination of gel and tug-of-war. This is incredibly different.
Rod works deftly and yet lovingly, no comb needed, and I can feel the way not a hair is out of place. I want it to go on for ever, but I hear the quiet snap of the elastic, once, twice, three times, and then he lets go.
‘There you are.’ He moves the braid over to the left so it falls over my shoulder, and I can see it well. Every section is perfect. Not severe or tight, but effortless. His fingers linger on the side of my neck for just a beat longer.
It’s not lost on me that this is one of the most intimate moments we’ve shared.
Just the slightest touch, few words, and yet everything we want to convey hangs in the air.
Rod’s lips just brush the spot where his fingers had been, and my eyes instinctively close.
I could do this over and over. I could wake up and ask Rod to braid my hair again and again, every morning.
Every morning.
The echo of that every morning still thuds in time with my pulse when I offer my next words. ‘Are you scared?’
‘Of?’
When I meet his eye, the unspoken answer passes between us. How real this could be.
It’s a different side of him I see when his brow furrows – not the closed-off part, nor the mischievous, fun-and-games part. ‘A little.’
I take his hand in mine and give it a firm squeeze. I don’t want to push. I’m honestly still scared, too. But it feels a bit less frightening when you’re trying to figure it out together.
‘I’ve been pretty scared since Tali’s mom left.
’ I feel his voice in the vibrations of his chest as he continues.
‘You know, as one is. Decided I’d try not to focus on that and put my kid first.’ He plants a kiss on the top of my head.
‘Till you spilled coffee all over yourself and ploughed into the gas station.’
‘It was chai,’ I correct him. My heart practically skips a beat, though.
Is this what it’s like to become more than a fleeting moment in someone’s life?
To become a constant? In a way, it feels like trying to stay on a tightrope.
Fighting the urge to bail before it’s too late, and I’m all in.
No longer just a game I’m playing. Except every time I sway, Rod knows just the right way to pull me back into balance.
‘Same difference,’ he chuckles. He turns to meet my eyes, and he sets his wine glass down on the side table.
His thumb traces a gentle back-and-forth along my jaw.
‘Either way. I guess what I wanna say … I’m sorry if it’s slow going.
I’m sorry if it might be painful. It’s just that looking my fears in the eyes for the first time since Tali was born is—’
‘Rodney Wilson.’ A lump in my throat grows the way it never has before. This man absolutely wrecks me. ‘You don’t get to apologize for being human.’ I press my forehead to his. His eyes flutter closed, and he nods, a quiet gesture of understanding. ‘We can look our fears in the eyes together.’