Chapter Twelve #2
Stan would ask her to downplay tonight’s events.
He wouldn’t want to hurt the Bulldogs’ chances of making it to State any more than the sheriff’s deputies did.
The whole event would get swept under the rug, because nothing was more important than football.
The kids responsible for putting Tommy in the hospital might get a slap on the wrist, but that was all.
Calla doubted they’d be suspended for a single game.
The team needed its senior players, and given the fact that a younger kid had gotten hurt, she could venture a guess as to who had been responsible for his injuries.
Sure enough, when Jackson finally emerged from the treatment area, his very first words confirmed her fears.
“It was the team captains,” he said as he slumped into the plastic chair beside her. “All three of them. They made him stand on the fifty-yard-line and then they took turns tackling him. No pads, no helmet, nothing. They called it a team initiation for getting so much play this season.”
“The team captains? They’re supposed to be setting an example for the younger players, not beating them up.
” Bile rose to the back of Calla’s throat.
Watson Stokes, Hunt Collier and Zander Brown all outweighed Tommy Riess.
By a lot. They were graduating this year, and Tommy was just a tenth-grader—a small one, at that.
No wonder the poor kid had ended up in the hospital.
“Yeah, I know.” Jackson dropped his head in his hands and sat very still for a long moment while Calla tried to wrap her head around the ugly truth. It was even worse than she’d thought possible.
When he finally looked up, the sight of Jackson’s bloodshot eyes made her heart twist. “At least Tommy told you what happened. He’s such a team player, I honestly didn’t think he would.”
“He didn’t, actually. He kept saying he didn’t want to get anyone in trouble and it was all just an accident.
But while he was getting his CT scan, Principal Dean called me with an update.
The whole thing transpired right there at the stadium.
Luckily a janitor showed up and intervened.
He found Tommy slumped on the ground and called 911.
The other students fled. Their faces were painted, but apparently, they were wearing their team shirts with their jersey numbers.
The janitor had no trouble at all identifying them when he talked to the principal. ”
“They wore their jersey numbers to haze a kid?” Calla shook her head. “That wasn’t the smartest move.”
“I wish I could chalk that particular choice up to stupidity. Unfortunately, I think it’s worse.
Those boys were being brazen because they didn’t expect to get punished, even if they got caught.
” The vein in Jackson’s temple throbbed to life again.
“Principal Dean blamed the curse, as if some invisible force had done this instead of three boys who’d made the conscious choice to hurt a teammate. ”
All of Calla’s breath felt like it was trapped inside her lungs. This entire night had been a bad dream. When would it stop? “It keeps getting worse and worse, doesn’t it?”
“I do have a bit of good news.” He turned toward her with a sad smile. “Tommy’s spleen isn’t bruised. He’s going to stay here overnight so they can monitor his concussion, but he should be fine to go home in the morning.”
Calla closed her eyes as tears of relief welled up behind her lashes. “Thank goodness.”
“Yeah. I think that’s the best news we could expect right about now,” Jackson said, and the low rumble of his voice seemed to scrape her insides.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this raw. She’d spent the past few years doing her best to avoid feeling anything , and now that she’d allowed her walls to drop, she couldn’t seem to build them back up.
“I can’t help feeling like this is at least partly my fault,” she said in a ragged whisper, finally giving voice to the nagging thought that had been plaguing her since she’d first set foot in the emergency room.
Jackson’s forehead creased. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. I should’ve seen this coming.”
“We ran that cover story about Tommy in the paper. There’s no way what happened tonight was an initiation. Those kids were mad because everyone fell in love with a fourth-string player. In their minds, he was stealing their thunder.”
“No doubt,” Jackson said, and the kindness in his eyes nearly made her weep. “But that’s their problem, not yours. You didn’t do anything wrong, Calla.”
She reached for his hand and threaded her fingers through his. She didn’t care who saw them together. Maybe tomorrow she’d change her mind, but right now, protecting her job was the last thing she cared about. “And neither did you.”
The lines in Jackson’s brow grew deeper. Clearly he wasn’t convinced. “It’s my team, and this happened under my watch. I’m their coach. I’m supposed to lead those kids.”
Weeks ago, when Jackson Knight first rolled into town, Calla would never have been able to imagine this conversation.
She doubted Jackson would have, either. Something had shifted between them, all right, but something had also shifted inside Jackson.
He hadn’t just changed their town. The town had changed him.
Oh, how she wished he could see it.
“You’ve been leading them, Jackson.” Calla squeezed his hand as tightly as she could. “You’re a good coach. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true. I promise it is. You do an amazing job with the boys when they’re on the field.”
But this wasn’t about what happened on the practice field or during a game. It was about more than that, and they both knew it.
The look Jackson gave her just about broke her heart.
It was worse than the footage she’d seen of him on the practice field after he’d torn his ACL.
The agony in his eyes wasn’t because of any sort of physical pain.
It was emotional. He was ripped apart, but on the inside this time instead of the outside.
Calla knew, because she’d seen the same tortured look in her own eyes before.
But simmering beneath that pain, she saw something else—a spark of determination that made her heart thump so hard that she could feel it pounding in her throat.
She wondered what he was thinking or if he had any idea what he’d be up against if he intended to make sure the team’s standout players faced any real consequences.
Stokes, Collier and Brown were the team captains…
the lead scorers. As much as she admired and respected the fiery resolve burning in his icy blue gaze, she knew how a fight like that would end.
The Victory Club, the school administration and the town itself would never allow it.
Jackson would be run straight out of Bishop Falls.
There was a reason the head coaching position at the high school had been a revolving door since the curse talk had started. If anything, that was the Bulldogs’ fatal flaw. Not some silly imaginary curse. A leader couldn’t do his job with one hand tied behind his back.
“You’re a good coach, Jackson. And no matter what SportsSphere or anyone else says, you’re a good man. You can’t control everything the kids do when you’re not looking.”
“No,” he said through gritted teeth. “But I can control what happens next.”
Could he, though?
Calla wasn’t so sure.
* * *
Calla’s dad was still up when she got home, despite the late hour.
When she first spotted the warm glow of the kitchen light through the front window, she thought maybe he’d been called out on a veterinary emergency.
Dad kept normal hours at the clinic, but he frequently shared his personal phone number with clients, especially if they had a pet who was recovering from surgery.
It wasn’t unheard-of for him to dash out and meet someone at the clinic after closing time.
The second their eyes met, she knew better.
He was seated at the big oak table in the breakfast nook, dressed in the striped pajamas she’d given him last year for Father’s Day, face ashen and with his lips pressed into a thin line. A cup of tea sat in front of him, but there was no steam rising from it, which told her it had long gone cold.
“Hey, Dad.” She pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. “I’m guessing you heard.”
He gave a solemn nod. Then his eyes dropped to the table, and his fingertips inched closer to a shallow groove in its oak surface until he began to trace the indentation with his pointer finger.
Calla had spent countless hours at this same table as a child, often alongside her brother.
They’d sit side by side and do their homework together after school when they’d been enrolled at Bishop Falls Elementary.
During the Christmas holidays, this was where they’d rolled out cookie dough and cut it into shapes with cookie cutters that had been passed down from their great grandmother.
Later, after Ethan had started playing for the Bulldogs, they’d eat an early dinner here on Friday evenings before kickoff, hands linked as they said grace—Mom, Dad, Ethan and Calla.
Even the groove her father was absently toying with held a memory. Years ago, a hammer had slipped from Ethan’s grip when he’d been building a robot for the school science fair.
“Tommy’s going to be okay, Dad,” she said.
He let out a long exhale and let her pull his fingertips away from the groove and curve his hands gently around his teacup.
“Would you like me to warm that for you?” she asked. “Or I can make you a new cup. You look like you could use some chamomile.”
“I’m okay. Thank you, though.” He waved a hand and sat back in his chair. “I got a call a few hours ago from the Victory Club phone tree. When I heard the player who’d gotten hurt was Tommy, I just…”
Calla nodded. “I know, Dad. Me, too.”
Their gazes locked, and something unspoken passed between them—something tender and raw, like someone was pressing down hard on an old bruise that had never quite healed.
“He’s a fine boy. He’s got such a soft spot for our patients,” Dad said, voice thick with wistfulness.
“He does, and he’s going to be as good as new. I was at the hospital with Jackson just now, and—”
“You were with Jackson?” The corner of her father’s mouth tipped upward.
“Yes, and he’s really upset about what happened. We were at the school carnival when word came in that one of the players had been taken to County General. Stan wanted me to go so I could write about it for the paper, and Jackson wanted to be there for Tommy.”
His brow furrowed. “And are you? Going to write about it, that is.”
“Yes. It’s a story that people need to hear.
” She closed her eyes, dreading whatever rebuke her father’s expression might carry.
“Please don’t tell me you want me to sweep it under the rug.
That’s not going to happen. Even if Stan doesn’t want to run my story, it’s not just going to disappear. Jackson won’t let it.”
Even if it costs him his job.
“I like him. He’s good for this town,” Dad said.
She let her eyes drift open again. “So you’ve said. Quite a few times, in fact.”
She wondered how he’d managed to be so certain, right from the beginning, when she’d misjudged Jackson the way she had.
Maybe she’d been blinded by his celebrity good looks and all those airborne pairs of panties.
Or maybe her dad had spent so much time around animals that he’d picked up on the sixth sense they seemed to have—the mysterious thing that made dogs such great judges of character.
“It’s true.” He wagged a finger at her. “And shame on you for thinking I’d want you to sweep this under the rug. That’s the last thing I want.”
“Really?” For the first time in hours, she felt herself smile. “You know your friends at the Victory Club are going to disagree. They’re going to blame the dumb curse, let those kids off the hook and say we shouldn’t talk about it.”
“Maybe they will.” Dad nodded, and ever so slowly, the color returned to his face.
He looked like himself again. “And maybe it’s time I stopped caring what they think.
You know how I feel about the Bulldogs. I love our team with all my heart.
What happened to your brother was an accident, but this is different. ”
Calla’s throat went thick. She wanted to tell her father that she was proud of him—that this felt like a turning point of some sort or the start of a long-awaited healing.
But the words just wouldn’t come. All this time, they’d kept on pretending that everything was normal after Ethan got hurt…
that football was the most important thing in the world.
Never once had she seen her father get angry or rail at the unfairness of their family’s deepest, darkest tragedy.
He hadn’t even mentioned Ethan’s accident in years.
Sure, he talked about his son—about his trophies and the records he’d broken and how proud he’d been when Ethan went back to the Bulldogs to work as a coach. But never, ever about that awful, sickening tackle.
Perhaps it was best to simply let him talk for once.
“You know what? Some chamomile does sound good.” He pushed his chair back and stood, lingering by the table in his bedroom slippers. Then he ruffled her hair like she was a kid again. “Join me for a cup, honey?”
Calla gave him a watery smile. She was so tired she could barely think straight, but wild horses couldn’t have dragged her away from that table.
“I’d love to.”