24. Dexter
DEXTER
In a funny twist, Troy asked me to cover his Thursday evening practice for the mill. Viggo’s team.
“My sister and her family are coming to visit, and they arrive that day. I should have dinner with them. But hey, don’t worry, I’ll be coaching this weekend,” Troy assured me.
No problem. In fact, I loved that I had an excuse to watch Viggo in action.
Goofing around with a bunch of kids while wearing street clothes wasn’t the same as suiting up in workout gear with a Velcro belt at your waist to play a competitive game of flag football.
His teammates were big, brawny men who made up for their lack of talent with muscle and machismo.
Troy had been coaching them for a few months and always had a story about the band of bearded tough guys who were literally flummoxed that they didn’t win every freaking time they stepped onto the field. They celebrated too soon, their passes were inaccurate, and they were very, very slow.
“I don’t think these guys do any running…ever. They’d be a lot happier if they could mow through the offense with brute force, and yes, I remind them daily that there’s no tackling. Just…try not to get frustrated,” Troy warned.
“I’ve got this, man. Not my first rodeo.”
But I couldn’t deny that it was…different.
“Okay, listen.” I huddled midfield with a posse of lumberjacks, clipboard in hand. “We’re gonna warm up with some stretches. High knees, walking lunges, side shuffle jog, the usual. I’ve set up cones for sprints, too. Once the blood is flowing, we’ll run some routes. Any questions?”
“How’s the kid?” Beau asked, swinging his arms like a gorilla.
“Uh…my kid?” I pointed at my chest, catching Viggo’s smirk out of the corner of my eye. “Still percolating.”
“Did you find out what you’re having?” Lyle piped in, bending forward to touch his toes.
“No, I’m not going to.”
“The ultrasounds are crazy cool, man. We could see Nico’s whole face in 3-D,” Dirk piped in. “That’s my nephew. You know Nico, right?”
“Of course he does,” someone else replied. “Have you done the ultrasound yet?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Viggo groused. “Are we serving tea and cake with this party? Let’s get fucking going.”
I pursed my lips in amusement. “Love that enthusiasm. Let’s do it.”
Practice was funny. I knew most of these guys by their donut order, not by their skill on the field.
Sure, I’d watched them play, but I’d never coached the loggers.
Silas usually did the honors. Troy was his summer backup while Silas coached the NFL stars who’d demolish all of us—until the final game where we’d dismantle the group and add a couple of pros to our regular teams so we could wreck our competition in Elmwood, Pinecrest, and Fallbrook.
Ultimately, Wood Hollow was in it to win it.
And sadly, the loggers were our weak link. As I mentioned, brute force wasn’t the key to success in flag football. You had to be quick and agile. The drills were designed to get your feet moving, promote spatial awareness, and evade the defense with swift turns.
I spread cones in a semi-circle and instructed two players to guard either end and attempt to pull the flags off the runner weaving through the cones in the middle…without leaving their post. The only one who made it with their flags intact was Viggo.
“How’d you do that?” Lyle griped, wiping sweat from his brow.
Viggo shrugged. “I remember from my college days. But it helps that you’re slow.”
Lyle flipped him off. “I bet I can throw the ball farther than you.”
“Don’t embarrass yourself, Lyle. I will crush you.”
“You’re on.”
I blew my whistle and waved my arms as everyone chose sides or claimed they could beat Lyle and Viggo lefthanded and blindfolded. “Whoa! Wait up. Accuracy is what counts here, and Beau is your quarterback, so…cool it.”
“I’m more accurate too,” Viggo stage-whispered.
Beau chuckled. “Fuck you, Thor.”
The guys hooted and demanded a post-practice contest, which for some reason, got them fired up enough to put some extra effort in on the remaining time on the clock. I ended the hour with a series of sprints and passing drills, then wished them luck with Elmwood.
“Do you think we have a chance, Coach?” someone asked.
Nope. Not even in Hell.
But I went with the more diplomatic response. “They’re tough, but you’re gritty and if you remember to stay light on your feet, you might do it.”
The posse of sweaty, gruff lumberjacks grunted on cue. They rehydrated, then grabbed a couple of footballs and shuffled off to organize their contest.
Viggo hung back, guzzling water and signaling that he’d join them soon. “You shouldn’t give false hope. They’re terrible.”
“Hate to break it to you, but you’re part of the team now.”
“Coerced again,” he grumbled, recapping his water bottle. “How badly are we going to get beaten?”
“Demolished is the more accurate term.”
He winced. “I’m not going to be much help. I haven’t played in too many years.”
“It’s not about winning,” I said, barking a laugh at his over-the-top WTF expression. “I’m serious. Just showing up is what matters.”
“Maybe. But I’ll feel better after I win the football throwing contest.”
“I really shouldn’t condone this, but…go get ’em, Viggo.”
He gave a wicked chuckle before tossing me his water bottle.
I caught it reflexively and stared after him like a lovesick puppy.
I set the bottle next to his bag and packed up my things, intending to head home, make dinner, and relax…
alone, in my bed. But the raucous laughter at the end zone was hard to ignore. So was Viggo.
I could almost imagine him as a college athlete—young, hopeful, and ready to take on a new sport in a new country. Now, he was a little jaded, a little cynical, and much less likely to put himself in uncomfortable situations.
He hadn’t alluded to it, but something life-altering must have happened in the past eighteen years.
Maybe he’d fallen in love, had his heart broken, or perhaps there’d been strife within his family.
At first, I’d thought it had something to do with Freya, but that wasn’t it.
Glimpses of a jolly man with a heart of a gold shone through his rough exterior more often these days.
If it was his intention to hide his amiable nature, he was losing the battle.
Look at him now, hurling a football with his peers for a laugh. No serious agenda, no high stakes…just fun. For someone who’d been reluctant to join the team, Viggo seemed perfectly comfortable in the mix of loggers. Like he belonged here.
The game was terrible.
Elmwood’s hockey jocks kicked the sawdust out of Wood Hollow’s loggers—pun intended.
42-7. There were no highlights, only a series of unfortunate events.
I sat with Reg and Gretchen behind Troy and did my best to pump up the beleaguered lumberjacks.
All the enthusiasm in the world didn’t help with dropped passes, slow running, or the very real fact that Elmwood was simply in better shape.
They had a bit of an advantage. In spite of the fact that they were ten-plus years older than our guys on average, Riley Thoreau, Vinnie Kiminski, Court Henderson, and Smitty Paluchek were former pro hockey players who ran the Juniors camp and coached year round.
It was basically their job to stay fit. Sure, Elmwood had a few less physically imposing team members, but that didn’t quite even things out.
Viggo growled as his last flag was ripped from his belt, his face red with exertion and frustration. He hobbled over to the sideline and gulped water like a man who’d been stranded in the Sahara for a month.
Troy patted his shoulder. “Good game out there, Big V.”
“That was good?”
“You scored, man. At least we’re on the board.” Troy resumed cheerleader-slash-coaching duties, pumping up the remaining players with “You’ve got this!” and “Let’s go!”
They didn’t have it, and honestly, it was a relief when the final whistle blew.
“Ouch,” Reg commented. “That hurt. And Elmwood only had a couple of their big guys out there.”
“They’re tough to beat.”
“The hockey boys are, anyway,” Reg groused. “But I think Big V helped us out there. Troy’s right. We wouldn’t have scored at all if he hadn’t bullied his way into the end zone.”
I hummed in agreement, my gaze fixed on Viggo’s broad back. “True. I’m glad he’s here.”
Viggo turned just then with a scowl that turned into a lopsided smile, and damn it, my heart flipped in my chest.
I coughed, averting my eyes before I got caught blushing. If Reg noticed, he was kind enough to let it slide.
He hugged Gretchen to his side. “We’re gonna head over to Elmwood and catch Rhys’s game. If I leave now, I’ll be on time. You sure you don’t mind waiting for Jess? Or…Gretch could come with me to watch her brother play.”
“Mom wants girl time with me,” Gretchen replied. “She said so, and she texted me that she’s only five minutes away. I can stay with Dex. Right, Dex?”
“Right.”
Reg kissed his daughter’s forehead. “Okay. See you later, pumpkin. Thanks, Dex.”
I gave him a thumbs-up and nodded at a few friendly locals who’d come to support the mill’s team.
The sun was scorching in the midday sky, giving everyone a wilted look. I pulled my ball cap off and wiped my brow as I scanned the emptying field where Viggo, Lyle, and Beau were gathering their belongings. Viggo hiked his bag on his shoulder and loped toward us.
“Tough game.”
He grunted. “Very.”
I twisted my lips in a sympathetic gesture. “Have you met Gretchen?”
Viggo squinted. “I don’t think so, but I’ve seen you in town.”
“You’re Thor,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Or Viggo. Where’s your cape?”
Gretchen held up a ball of black fabric. “It’s too hot. It was making me sweat.”
“I never sweat,” he boasted, turning to shake moisture from his hair like a dog.
Gretchen yelped and giggled. “Ew! You’re super sweaty!”
“Well, I was running and running, and what can you do?”
“It’s why I don’t like sports.” She scrunched her nose. “I also don’t like the costumes. Everything is itchy. Plus, I’m terrible.”
“Uniform, not costumes,” I corrected. “And you’re not terrible.”
Viggo set his hands on his hips. “If you’re terrible, I’m terrible, too. But not always. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. That’s life.”
“Are you sad that you lost today?” she asked.
“Not too sad. And I’ll feel better after I get some ice cream. Something ordinary like chocolate—no jalapenos, please.”
Gretchen chortled. “No one puts jalapenos in ice cream. That would be so gross.”
“They might,” Viggo singsonged. “I went someplace very strange once that served mustard and ketchup ice cream.”
“No way!”
“It’s true. And they had potatoes and gravy ice cream, macaroni and cheese, lobster, and—”
Gretchen hooted. “That’s not even possible!”
“If you can put sausage in a donut, someone can put potatoes in ice cream. I’m not saying it’s right, but…what can you do…call the police?”
More giggles. “Yes! Call my dad. He’ll arrest them and make them change back to normal flavors like bubblegum and—”
“Bubblegum ice cream? Oh, no.” Viggo waved in protest. “Next you’re going to tell me there’s cotton candy ice cream.”
She hopped like a kangaroo, grinning from ear to ear. “There is! It’s pink and pretty and fluffy and—”
“Pink, pretty, fluffy? What ice cream is this?” His brow was furrowed and his accent was thicker than ever, but the twinkle in his eye was pure sunshine. “I need cold ice cream, ja?”
“Ja!” Gretchen agreed, slapping his outstretched hand for a high five.
I chuckled at their exchange and if my smile was a little too wide, that couldn’t be helped.
Fuck, I liked this guy.