Chapter 43
MOUTH OF THE SOUTH
GREY
Practice is finally winding down, and thank fucking god.
It's Thursday, and somehow, I survived this week and all the torture it tried to bury us with.
Shit talking and gossip, looks and whispers--it's multiplied, amplified.
It's been the worst for Molly. I'm used to it.
She isn't. And it drives me fucking crazy that people will not leave her alone.
Seeing her hurt does something violent to me.
My neck is killing me from being constantly tense, and the only reason I slept at all was because she was in my arms.
I feel threadbare, worn down, and defiant as hell. Every day, I've woken up to take one look at Molly and say, Just get through today. One more day. And live in my stolen moments with her, appreciating every second.
Focusing on the team keeps me grounded. Focusing on Molly keeps me sane. Ignore the stares, white knuckle through the day. Just get through it.
But it doesn't matter anymore--we made it. When I blow the whistle around my neck in a few seconds, I'm off for eleven days.
I hope we don't leave the house once.
Things I never thought I'd say.
I blow my whistle, and the fucking angels sing a hallelujah chorus.
The guys come in from the field, chattering and excited about spring break, packing up equipment. Most are fine, normal, but a few have been awkward with me, and I wonder what they've heard, if their parents are talking--
Not my problem. I'm off the clock.
I give the shortest talk possible, tell them to stay out of trouble over the break. And then they begin to disperse, some heading for their cars, others for their parents.
Marc, one of my assistants approaches, and instantly I know something's up.
"Hey, Brooks--good practice."
"They're looking good. Hopefully they don't come back from break trashed."
He chuckles. "Well, you'll whip them back into shape. I, uh--I wanted to talk to you. I've heard the stuff people are saying--"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"No, no--I just wanted to tell you I think it's bullshit.
Molly's an adult, and neither of y'all have done anything wrong.
People need to mind their own fucking business.
Courtney thinks so too. We're pissed for y'all.
And I thought maybe you might want to know that not everybody is talking shit.
Some of us are out there defending you."
I'm shocked. Relieved. Something in my chest untwists. "Thanks, man. That means a lot."
He nods, smiles. "Hang in there. It'll blow over."
I hope he's right as I turn back to my bag to finish packing up.
See? Not everybody's against us. Some people get it. We just have to survive. Maybe spring break will be the cool down we need.
I grab my duffel, keys in hand, thinking of Molly. I wonder what she's making for dinner? Maybe I'll get stuff to make lemon drops for her. We can celebrate making it through the week. Because we fucking made it--
"Coach Brooks?"
Goddammit, I was so close to my truck too. I turn to find one of my players' dads. Price. Older guy, stern face.
Real stern.
I was so close.
"Got a minute?" he asks.
I almost say no. But I can't. "Sure. What can I do for you."
"I heard about you and that librarian."
My jaw clenches. "What about it?"
"People are saying a lot of things--"
"People are liars."
His eyes narrow. "They're starting to say you don't have any business being around kids."
"I've been coaching for twenty years. Never had any complaints."
"Yeah, well, there's a first time for everything. Young girl like that, man your age…makes people wonder what else you're capable of. My older daughter is on the girls’ team. I'm wondering if I need to pull her. She's not all that much younger than your girlfriend."
"Molly Lane is not a child. And none of this is any of your business."
"When you're in charge of our kids it is."
"Twenty years, no complaints," I say again, dangerously still and calm.
"Not one. Why? Because I do my job. I look out for my players.
I earn their trust and the trust of their parents.
And every one of them knows I would never betray that.
" I bore holes in him with my gaze, using my size to back it up.
"If you have any issues, you can take them to the administration. This conversation is over."
My fists are clenched so hard, they're shaking as I turn around and walk away.
"We're all watching," he says to my back.
Don't I fucking know it.
Vibrating with rage, I get in my truck, slamming the door and starting the engine, desperate to get out of this parking lot.
Fuck these people. Why can't they just leave us alone?
I wanted to tell him to fuck off. I want to scream and fight and roar. But I have to keep it together.
So I think about Molly. About her warm little house and her soft bed. It'll smell like dinner when I get there. I just have to get there. Everything will be better when I'm with her.
Eleven days. Eleven whole days starts now.
My phone buzzes when I'm stopped at the light out of the high school parking lot.
Grab some garlic bread on the way home? Making pasta! *Pasta emoji, heart emoji*
Simple. Sweet. Normal. She has no idea what just happened, and she doesn't need to.
This. This is what matters. Her.
Sure thing, peaches. Be home soon.
The second I hit send, my heart jerks in my chest.
Home.
I don't know when I started thinking about her place as home.
Maybe I didn't.
Maybe she's home.
I swallow hard, put my phone in the cupholder. Look up to find the light turning yellow and swear, gunning it so I don't have to wait through another light.
Home. Home. Home.
Almost there. Perpetually.
I hurry to the grocery store, feeling my luck change when I find a spot close to the front. Just run in. Grab the bread. Get out. Don't make eye contact. Don't engage.
I beeline for the frozen foods, finding the garlic knots she likes, grabbing two boxes because she always eats more than she thinks she will. Head to the check out.
The woman in front of me turns, recognizes me. Her eyes widen before snapping away.
I ignore her, staring at the conveyor belt until it's my turn.
The cashier is a teenager and couldn't give less of a fuck. She rings me up, oblivious.
"That'll be eight-forty-two."
From a couple aisles over, a woman says, "I think I just saw Coach Brooks in the frozen aisle. Did you hear about him and the young girl?"
I can't not hear. "Disgusting," another voice says.
I don't turn, just hand over a ten to the cashier.
"She's barely older than the girls he coaches."
"What's a man his age doing with a girl that young?"
"Well, I heard they were inappropriate at the elementary school. Can you imagine? Where the children are!?"
"Poor girl must not know better. He's taking advantage, mark my words."
"Someone should call the police. Or at least the school board. He shouldn't be around children--"
I turn around to pin her with a glare so scathing, the woman buying groceries blanches. Her cashier turns, and her face goes flaming red. They look caught, guilty.
Self-righteous.
I open my mouth--to say what? Defend myself? Yell?
I know with one look that they'll never believe me. Everyone's watching.
So I close my mouth. Take my change. Turn on my heel and walk out. Behind me, whispers explode.
My hands are shaking by the time I get in my truck. This week has been such hell.
But I have her.
I'd do it all again, every confrontation, every humiliation, as long as I get to keep her. She's worth it all.
She's worth everything.
Within a few minutes, I'm turning onto her street. Her house is warm and welcoming, lights on, and I park my truck in the driveway like it belongs here.
For just a second, I let the tension drain from my muscles, shake out my shoulders, roll my neck. Breathe. Leave all the bullshit in the truck. Don't bring it in to her.
Frozen garlic knots in hand, I get out, climb the porch steps. The door's unlocked, and I make a note to remind her to lock up later. The scent of garlic and tomatoes and basil hits me. Music is playing softly, and Scout is winding around my legs.
Home.
I scratch the cat's head, walk toward the kitchen, my heart banging in anticipation of seeing her.
I stop dead in the casing.
She's at the stove, stirring pasta, barefoot and dancing a little, wearing my jersey, my last name in big letters across her back.
Those cutoff sweatpants peek out from the hem. Her neck is exposed, hair in that little bundle on top of her head, little curls at her nape. She hasn't heard me yet. And I stand there, staring, unable to breathe or think.
Everything else falls away. The shitty week, the gossip and accusations, the anger--none of it matters. Only this.
Only her.
She turns, sees me. Beams. "You're here! I was just--"
I toss the bread blindly, crossing the kitchen in three strides to cup her face. And I kiss her, desperate, claiming, drowning, pouring it all into it. All the rage and fear and love. Mine. You're mine. This is mine.
She melts into me, gasping into my mouth, clutching my shirt, kissing me back with everything she has. I can feel every emotion she's had since Sunday. And we're both breathing hard when the kiss breaks.
She chuckles, pressing her forehead to mine. "Hi."
"You're wearing my jersey." My voice is wrecked.
"You like it?"
"I fucking love it. I don't know whether to rip it off you or make you keep it on while I fuck you."
She laughs, lips swollen and face flushed, sparkling eyes, this beautiful, bright, perfect woman wearing my name on her back, waiting for me.
It's what I've been fighting for all week.
"I made it," I mutter.
"What?"
"All week. I made it."
"Spring break starts tomorrow."
"Nope. It starts now."
I bend, grab her arm, and throw her over my shoulder as she squeals. The pasta bubbles on the stove, music soft, Scout purring.
"Wait!" she says on a giggle, whacking my back playfully. "Dinner's ready."
"Dinner can wait."
And I click off the stove, hauling her to her room, still not sure if I'm leaving the jersey on.