Page 38 of When You Wish Upon a Wideout

You don’t even have to name them.He typed back to Sienna.

“Why do you need to go to the planetarium on Tuesday night?”

Beau lifted his head in frustration. “Let me know when it’s done, Chase.” He looked down at his phone when it buzzed again.

I do. This is Luella’s number. Her son Damien could use some coaching that she can’t afford. They live in North Dallas. Make it happen. And get them comped tickets for next season.

Beau’s phone buzzed again with Luella’s contact.

Consider it done, he replied.

“Look, I know how some people get toward the end of their career and have a what-the-fuck-will-I-do kind of moment, but what, is space a new hobby or something?”

Ok. You can pick me up on Tuesday.

“No,” Beau said, driving by Sienna’s house on his way home. He caught sight of the side roof and smiled. “An old one.”

* * *

It had taken Beau nearly forty minutes to get off the phone with Luella when he called her. He learned she was a Pisces, from North Carolina but had lived in New York for ten years—they spent a chunk of their conversation arguing over the best bagel shop—and she hated her son played football but encouraged him because he loved it so much.

On Saturday morning, when Beau got out of his car in a municipal lot in North Dallas, he was expecting to meet a kid as much as a chatty Cathy as his mother.

“Damien?” he asked, approaching a teenage boy sitting on the bench of a picnic table. He was a fair size for a teenager—close to six feet.

The boy pulled off his hat, revealing a buzzed head, and jumped as if Beau were a drill sergeant. “Yes, sir.”

Beau dropped the mesh sack of cones and balls to the ground. “How’s it going, man? I’m Beau.”

“I know who you are.” Damien swallowed, pressing his hands into his thighs. “Sir.”

Beau pressed his lips together. “Okay... alright.”

Kid’s about as tight as a stretched rubber band. If he widens his eyes more, they’ll pop out of his head.

“How about a warm-up?” Beau looked beyond the picnic tables at the track surrounding the field. He could feel Damien’s wide eyes focused on him. “A couple of laps?” Beau suggested.

Damien nodded. “Yes, sir.”

How do I let him know to lose the ‘sir’ a.s.a.p.?Beau wondered.

“Alright, let’s go.” He walked, but Damien stayed still. “You... you coming?

“Withyou?”

Beau’s eyes bounced between the track and Damien. “Saturday’s normally my rest day. But I never say no to a workout.”

“Oh, okay.” Damien nearly tripped on his feet when he followed Beau to the rubber track. They barely did one lap when Beau realized Damien was slowing his pace—even his warm-up pace.

“Hold on, let’s stop for a second. I’m not much of a coach. I’venevercoached, but this is pretty informal. I’m feeling like you showed up for a job interview or something.”

Damien let out a laugh, to Beau’s relief. “It’s just... you’re kind of my hero.”

“Is that right?”

He scratched his head. The idea that Beau could be someone’s hero never sat well with him. It’s why he rarely interacted with fans to the same extent as some of his teammates. Heroes weren’t flawed—they were perfect. But Beau—who had played dozens of what were considered perfect games over his career—found himself far from perfect at heart.

Damien nodded.

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