Page 83 of Old Fashioned
I spent most of it thinking about Sydney.
Again, I wished for the focus I’d had before I met her. I imagined a completely different scenario for this night had I never known she existed, where I would be celebrating with the guys and taking silly pictures with the trophy and handing out accolades to those who deserved it.
As it stood, I was saving all that for Monday, when — hopefully — I’d be feeling more myself.
I wondered if it was partly everything going on with my father, knowing that the day after tomorrow, I’d be meeting up with my brothers to discuss where we’d go from here.
We’d all been sitting on what we’d found all week long, powerless to move forward without knowing what our options were, and now that I’d spoken with a lawyer in Nashville, I knew the odds weren’t in our favor.
We had something, that was sure, but if it would hold up in court was another question entirely — one the lawyer couldn’t answer without doing more research.
She said she’d get back to me, and to not do anything drastic in the meantime.
But she didn’t know my brothers.
Still, even as my heart squeezed with the thoughts of my father, I knew my misery tonight was wrapped up in Sydney. It was in the way I wanted to run to her when we won, how I wanted to pick her up and spin her around and celebrate withhermore than anyone else in the world. It was in the way we found each other on that field, in the long moment that passed between us, in the tears that flooded her eyes before we both turned away.
And it was in the way I’d seen Randy holding her wrist, the way she’d panicked and fled the field, the way she couldn’t even look at me.
I hated the power Randy had over her, and the way he could make her feel like shit on what should have been one of the best nights of her career so far. He’d had enough sense to leave before I made my way over to where they’d been standing, but he also knew that I’d seen it.
If I had it my way, I’d take him down right along with Patrick Scooter.
With my mind racing the entire drive home, I had a feeling it would be another sleepless night as we pulled into the high school parking lot. There was a small crowd waiting for the bus — friends and family and students who had beat us back to the school and were now holding giant signs that welcomed us home as three-time champions — and I stood in the aisle when we parked, addressing the team.
“Before you leave, all the equipment needs to be off this bus and put awaycorrectlyin the locker room, understood?”
There were murmurs of acknowledgement, but most of the focus was on the crowd outside, and boys were already hanging out the windows and shouting down, starting the fight chant.
I smiled, standing aside and waving them off the bus. “Alright. Go have fun.”
They were a boisterous wave of noise and body odor as they flew out the bus doors and down to where the crowd waited for them, and the coaches and I stood back and waited, chuckling to each other when we finally made our way off, too.
I kept to myself while everyone celebrated, having already hugged Mama and Logan at that stadium after the game. They were staying in a hotel overnight, not wanting to make the late drive back, and Mama had already insisted that we celebrate tomorrow.
She didn’t realize there was so much more to do than celebrate.
I took my time in the locker room, taking the equipment from the guys as they dragged it in and sending them on their way. I didn’t mind staying back to organize it all and make sure it was in the right place.
They needed to be out living it up.
I smiled as the last of them filtered out, remembering a time when high school football felt like everything to me. I couldn’t dream of a day past graduation, of a season more important than the one I played my senior year.
Those boys would remember this night for the rest of their lives.
When I was finally ready to leave, it was nearly three in the morning, and I was the only one left on school property. At least, that’s what I thought as I locked up the locker room behind me and made my way across the field to the staff parking lot.
But parked next to my Bronco was a Stratford Police squad car.
The lights weren’t on, but it was idling quietly, and when I was just a few feet away, the engine cut off and Randy stepped out of the driver side.
He looked manic — his hair out of place, eyes red, a bottle of something concealed in a paper bag wrapped in one fist. He took another swig of it as I approached, and a shit-eating grin spread on his face.
“Congratulations, Coach,” he slurred as I threw my athletic bag in the back of my truck. I leaned against it when I was empty-handed, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Thank you,” I managed, doing my best to keep a level of calmness in my voice. “Something I can help you with tonight, Randy?”
“Oh, fuck off with your niceties, Becker,” he spat, shaking his head. He pointed one of the fingers wrapped around the paper-bagged bottle straight at me, closing one eye as if he was aiming a gun. “You’re fucking my wife, aren’t you?”
