Page 28 of Old Fashioned
“That just means you’re a good mom,” he said, and as if it was normal and casual and damn near instinctive, his hand reached over and wrapped around my knee with a squeeze.
It was a friendly touch, one of admiration and assurance, which was why I nearly squeaked out loud when a bolt of violent heat sprang from his touch up the inside of my thigh.
We both looked at where he touched me, then at each other, and in the same breath, he pulled his hand away and straightened while I tucked my hair behind one ear and looked out the window.
I squeezed my eyes shut, knowing I should respond, that I should say something —anything. But when I finally turned back to him and opened my mouth, he was already leaning over the aisle, a clipboard between him and Coach Pascucci as they discussed the game.
I internally groaned, letting my head fall against the window. The glass was slightly cool, a sign that fall was approaching — slowly, but surely.
My skin that touched it, however, was still burning hot.
Jordan
One thing I had learned about Sydney in her time on the team was that she was tough.
She wasn’t one of those people who had to try hard to give off that vibe, either. It wasn’t as if she walked around scowling all the time, or puffed out her chest, or showed her scars and told battle stories. She didn’t bark at anyone who came near her, and she didn’t use force to get her point across when she had one to make.
She was effortlessly strong, in a way that was natural and pure.
I knew it from the moment she walked into my office. I saw it in the way she held her chin high, in the way her stoic eyes held mine, in the way she spoke — calmly and evenly, always. She didn’t have to tell me that she’d been through shit for me to see it, and she didn’t have to prove to me that she could handle herself.
Somehow, I knew that, too.
Last night, I watched her run on and off the field, her demeanor serious as she assessed each injury and determined next steps. She did it so quickly and confidently, and the players trusted her implicitly.
When I thought of Sydney, I thought of everything hard and resilient — rock, stone, iron, maybe even diamond.
Which was precisely why I was surprised on Saturday when I parked my Bronco in the driveway of a very soft, very feminine, very welcoming and modest two-story house on the north end of town.
It was a gray house with a yellow door and white trim. A colorful variety of stones paved the way from the driveway to the front porch, which was surrounded by a stunning garden of flowers and plants. I smiled at the three rocking chairs on the porch — two that were much like the ones my mom had, and one that was the same yellow as the door and about half the size of the other two.
It was exactly the right size for Paige.
There were remnants of a chalk drawing on the porch, too — a dragon and a castle, I thought. And as I lifted my fist to knock, I chuckled at the handmade Tennessee Titans wreath on the door.
“I’ll get it!” I heard a tiny voice yell before there was the distinct sound of bare feet barreling toward the door. In the next moment, it flew open, and Paige grinned up at me with a crooked smile.
“Hey, Coach!”
“Hey, yourself.”
“Mama said we’re going to play football today!”
“That’s not what I said,” I heard from somewhere in the house, and I smirked, bending until I was level with Paige.
“We’re going totalkabout football, yes,” I corrected, but before she could pout, I lowered my voice to a whisper. “But, I’d wager we’ll end up playing some, too.”
“I can already see you two will be the death of me,” Sydney announced as she swung around the corner behind Paige — who was snickering now, like we had a secret.
My smile faltered at the sight ofSydney at Home, who lookednothinglikeSydney at Work.
Her hair that was normally pulled into a bun on top of her head was wavy and unruly, pulled out of her face by a bright orange headband tied at the top of her forehead. It wasn’t curly like her daughter’s, but it was wild in its own way, barely tamed by that scrap of orange fabric. And the way she carried herself was different somehow, as if she were strolling in the park with nowhere to be. That guard she always hid behind, that shield that was always up seemed to not even exist at all.
She smiled at me as she wiped her hands on a rag, a tired smile on her face — along with a few smudges of dirt. I did a double-take at her overalls and gardening belt, my curiosity climbing as I noted the dirt stains on her knees.
“It looks likeyou’rethe one who’s been playing football,” I teased.
Sydney chuckled, opening the door wider so I could step inside the foyer with them. Paige was staring up at me with a giddy smile, bouncing slightly.
