Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [47]
Wiping her hands on her napkin, Fran asked Charlie, “Is there anything else you want or need before you go?”
Charlie thought a moment. “Just wish me luck, Mom.”
Fran reached out to hug him, pulling him tightly against her chest.
“Always remember what I told you this morning, okay?”
“Sure, Mom.”
“Charlie, I—”
He waited, gripping the doorknob, impatient.
“Never mind. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Have fun, okay? Promise me—you’ll have fun?”
“Aw, Mom.” Charlie laughed. He opened the door and rushed down the steps, calling over his shoulder, “No way I hafta promise that!”
Fran stood by the door, tension making her shoulders and back ache. She heard the car start and seconds later, the garage door close. Still she stood there, instinct telling her to call them back. Resigned, Fran turned back to the empty kitchen. And trudged upstairs to get dressed.
Charlie and his dad were lost in their own thoughts as they drove to the field. Charles was second-guessing himself, wondering, Have I been too hard on Charlie? This is your doing, Fran—making me doubt.
Shooting pains were traveling up Charlie’s right leg. He fidgeted, stretched it out again and again. Glanced up to his dad to see if he’d noticed, but Charles’s eyes remained focused on the road. Charlie turned his head away, willing the pain to stop.
By the time they’d pulled into the parking lot, Charlie’s adrenaline was pumping so much he was able to ignore most of the discomfort. He nearly bounced out of the car in his excitement, shouting, “Later, Dad. Wish me luck.” As he jogged away, he turned back to give his dad a quick wave and then hurried over to the group of boys who were huddled near Coach Henry.
“Go get ’em, son.” Charles leaned against the car a moment, savored watching his son high-five his teammates. Noted how they gathered around as he joined them, their leader, many addressing him as The Toe Thomason. He felt a flush of pleasure, intense pride.
Coach Henry motioned for Charlie to join him for a private conversation. He looked worried, concern making a deep groove between his brows. “Seems like you’re still favoring your leg, Charlie. How is it this morning?”
“I iced and rested it like you said,” Charlie offered, eager to emphasize the positive first. There was no sense trying to fool his coach; he knew their movements and skills better than anyone, including themselves. Knowing he’d be asked about his leg, Charlie had already prepared an answer, determined to soften his response yet still be truthful.
“It’s still a little sore, but honest, Coach,” Charlie stretched the leg out before him, tilting it left and right, demonstrating his flexibility, “it’s better. It won’t stop me from doing what I need to do. Promise.” He looked up at Coach Henry, his face an open plea for permission to play.
Torn between his responsibility to protect Charlie, his desire to acquiesce to him, and the team’s need for their leader, Paul Henry weighed the options. Charlie had no idea what his coach was thinking, but he watched conflicting emotions move across his face. Noted how his eyes softened. Saw a twitch of tightening muscles about his jaw, and feared the decision as his mouth remained in a grim, straight line. But Charlie knew to keep quiet. More pleading would only come across as overkill. So he waited, sensing more than a game waited in the balance.
Coach looked down at Charlie’s leg once more and began slowly nodding his head. “Okay. You’re in. But if I notice you limping more, Charlie …”
“I know, I know. You’ll pull me. But it won’t happen, Coach.” Charlie had kept the practice ball at his feet, and he toed it up onto his knee, bounced it from one knee to the other and back down to his feet. “See? I’m good!”
Coach grinned at him. Reached out to squeeze his shoulder and then called out, “Okay, Flames. Out on the field. Drill time.”
Charles had been intently observing the interaction between the two. He followed Paul’s every move until