Page 2 of Old Fashioned
I didn’t know if I had my mother’s eyes — gray-blue, with a brown burst surrounding the iris — or if I had my father’s nose, the bridge slightly bent, nostrils wide. Was it his scowl that mine mirrored, thick eyebrows forever in a bent state of determination? Was it her freckles that broke through the dark complexion of my cheeks in the summertime?
Which one was black, and which one was white?
How did they find each other, and where were they now?
They were questions I’d asked myself hundreds of times throughout the course of my life, questions I knew I’d never have answers to. But one thing Ididknow was that I wasn’t anxious about the first day of school because I felt pressure to win, or because my little brother was in New York, or because my mom was sleeping soundly on her own across town.
The truth was my anxiety was rooted in the newest addition to my staff.
A woman.
A very attractive, very distracting to young, hormonal boys, very newly divorced woman.
She would be thefirstwoman on our staff, and the first new blood to come onto our team since I took over as head coach.
Everything I’d worked for, all the synchrony I’d developed over the years, all the trust and rhythm and comfort we’d grown accustomed to was about to be shaken up.
By the police chief’s ex-wife.
Before I could fall into another spiral, I shook my head, pushing off the counter and swiping the bathroom light switch with my palm. I peeled my shirt off, stripped my sweatpants off next, and climbed into my flannel sheets in my boxer briefs, setting an alarm on my phone before I plugged it in and turned it face down on my nightstand.
Then, I laid awake for hours, tossing and turning, pretending that I was still in control and everything would be fine.
By the time I finally fell asleep, the alarm rang.
Stratford, Tennessee, was a small map dot southeast of Nashville. It had a population of two-thousand-one-hundred-and-seventy-two people, according to the most recent census — and almost half of those residents worked at the Scooter Whiskey Distillery on the edge of town. It was where my grandfather had built his career, where my father had worked his entire life, and where two of my brothers worked still.
Noah was a barrel-raiser, with skillfully quick hands and muscles lining every inch of his arms. Logan was a tour guide, the face of our town to the tourists who passed through. And, before he left, Michael had worked in the gift shop.
It was a family tradition.
And though I was the oldest, and perhaps the one Dadmostexpected to follow in his footsteps, working at a whiskey distillery was the last thing on my mind growing up.
For me, it was all about football.
Mom had always told me that the first time I held a football, I couldn’t even walk yet. Dad had been tossing one in the backyard with a friend of his, and when he missed a catch, it rolled over to where I was sitting on a blanket with Mom. She said I picked it up with both hands, stared at it with both brows bent, and then I looked up at her and smiled.
She said she knew right then that I’d play football.
What shedidn’tknow was that I wouldn’t just play it, I’d becomeobsessedwith it. From the time I was on my first Little League team, football was my life. I couldn’t wait for practices and games. I watched football whenever I wasn’t playing it. I followed ESPN football stories like it was my job. I collected cards, ran drills on my own when the season was over, and was always looking forward to the next time I’d get on that field.
But where my teammates in high school dreamed of being scouted to a college and drafted into the NFL, my heart drew me to the behind-the-scenes work of it all. I wanted to dissect every play, watch every game, replay every tape, draw up myownplays, and — perhaps more than anything — I wanted to coach.
I never took for granted that my dream had come true, that I was doing what I loved most in the world and somehow managing to get paid for it, too. That’s why a familiar buzz of excitement crawled under my skin as I pushed through the doors of the stadium locker room, eyes on my clipboard, words I would say to the team repeating in my head. It was only an hour until our first practice, and nothing compared to that feeling of starting a new season — not the ten days of summer camp, not the energy that coursed through every kid at tryouts.
Nothing.
It’d been a fast first day of school, my regular day filled with introducing myself to freshmen who were in my physical education class and catching up with the athletes in my weightlifting classes. I enjoyed teaching both for very different reasons. The freshmen were nervous, and I always jumped at the opportunity to make them feel welcome and comfortable in their new atmosphere — mostly by encouraging them to join a sport. And when the students I’d worked with came to me in weightlifting, athletes of all backgrounds with issues ranging from golf swings to softball pitching, the excitement that rang through me was palpable.
Ilivedfor this, for discovering a physical limit and making a plan for how to overcome it.
But as much as I enjoyed teaching throughout the day, it was the first day of football practiceafterthe school day let out that my heart really pounded for.
My head was still down when I pushed through the door to my office, using my back to open it. I kicked the door stop under it with my foot to prop it open, still not taking my eyes off the notes on my clipboard. I didn’t realize my office wasn’t empty, even after I sat down in the familiar, worn chair, the old leather splitting under my hamstrings, a softwhooshof air from the cushion.
It wasn’t until a soft clearing of a throat hit my ears that I looked up from my work and saw her sitting across from me.
Sydney Kelly was not the kind of woman you could pass by without noticing — she never had been.
