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  As he pulled into the driveway and shut his truck off, he thought again about the encounter with Jack Murphy early that morning. Jack expected a championship, but it was more than that. A lot more. He just wasn’t sure what. He’d gone on and on about putting the team first, but at the end of a long day, Max was having trouble making sense of Jack Murphy’s ramblings.

  As much as he hated to admit it, Jack was an important man in Lakeside. He had influence. He got things done. He made things happen. The stadium was evidence of that. The Lakeside School District didn’t have the money for a new stadium, so Jack raised it. Every penny. All $23.7 million.

  Max was trying to piece it all together when his phone buzzed. It was a text from Michelle: Are you coming in?

  Chapter 4

  The aroma from the kitchen found his nose the moment he walked through the door. She grew up on the New Jersey coast about sixty miles from New York and had learned how to cook Italian food and seafood from her mother. Then she’d gone to college at Tulane in New Orleans where she fell in love with gumbo, etouffee, jambalaya and other Cajun dishes. If she ever quit teaching elementary school, she could easily open her own restaurant.

  Cooking together was something they’d enjoyed for much of their marriage. It was tougher during football season, but during the off-season, they’d try at least one new recipe a week. They loved experimenting with exotic spices and unusual ingredients. Friends never turned down an invitation to join them for dinner. It was a culinary adventure whenever Max and Michelle Henry were in the kitchen together.

  But it had been a long time since that had happened. Sometimes Max missed it, but not enough to bring it up. It had stopped being fun. It wasn’t just cooking thought. Everything had stopped being fun.

  “Hi honey,” she called from the kitchen. “Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  Most of the time their fights led to two or three days of silence, so he was surprised to even hear her voice. He turned the corner to the kitchen and saw her standing at the stove stirring a pot wearing her tight, faded jeans. The ones with the rip in the back pocket. She had on a white tank top and her hair was in a ponytail. He loved this look. And she knew it.

  “Hey,” she said with a smile. “I know it must have been a rough day. I’m so sorry to hear about Dante.”

  “Yeah, it was tough.”

  “Would you feel like stirring the sauce while I fix the salad?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m pretty beat. I’m gonna sit down for a few minutes if you don’t mind.” He could see the look of disappointment on her face, but it wasn’t enough to make him change his mind.

  He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and sat on the sofa. He quickly drank half the bottle and tried to forget the day for a few minutes.

  “Almost ready,” she called from the kitchen.

  He flipped the television on to catch the local news. The lead story was Dante’s accident. The news anchor said, “According to Lakeside Chief of Police, Terry Cook, the one-car accident involved, Dante Jones of Lakeside who died at the scene. According to police, the driver fell asleep, left the road and collided with a tree.”

  Max turned the television off as Michelle set two plates on the coffee table. “So he fell asleep?” she said.

  “That’s what they say.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Huh?” Max said.

  “You don’t think he fell asleep?”

  “How should I know?” he said.

  “Well, I just feel terrible for his mother. Have you talked to her?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Dante’s mother. Have you talked to her?”

  “Ah, no, I haven’t talked to her. I talked to her sister for a couple minutes before the team meeting.”

  “Don’t you think you should talk to his mother too?”

  “Yeah, I will. Just let it go, will ya.” He took a bite of spaghetti, which was as delicious as always, but he had no appetite. He pushed the plate away and finished his beer.

  They sat in silence while Michelle finished eating. After clearing their plates, she said, “I’ve got open house on Thursday night. I should be home by nine.”

  “Nine?” Max repeated to show he’d been listening. “Yeah, okay.”

  He tried to remember what their fight had been about that morning, but couldn’t, which always made him feel anxious. He didn’t have the energy to get into whatever it was, but knowing it was still unresolved and the other shoe was about to drop was always worse.

  “Honey, I know the timing isn’t great, but I think we need to talk,” she said.

  Here it was. The knot in his stomach pulled tighter. We need to talk. Those words never led to anything good. Ever. Not once had they ever been followed by, “We need to talk about getting tickets to a Cowboys game.” Or, “We need to talk about a new sex position I want to try.”

  “Did you hear me?” she said.

  “Yes, I heard you,” he said with the same level of enthusiasm he’d felt when talking to Jack that morning.

  “Really? Is it that bad, Max? Is it really so awful to talk to me?”

  He knew she wasn’t asking much. But things had been so tense, for so long, that nothing good ever came from talking. It always led to another argument. “No,” he said. “You’re right. What do you want to talk about?”

  “Saturday is the anniversary,” she said.

  He cursed under his breath.

  “We have to talk about it,” she said.

  “Why?” he said through gritted teeth. “What’s it going to accomplish?” He was so sick of hearing how he needed to talk about it.

  “Max?”

  “What?” he said as he felt the for the vein on his forehead.

  “Why can’t you talk to me?” she said.

  “What would you like me to say?” he said as he stood up. “Is there something I can say that will change things? Let me answer for you, Shelle, there isn’t. There’s not a single thing I can say that will change anything.”

  He went to the kitchen to get another beer and saw tears filling her eyes.

  “I need to talk about it,” she said. “I can’t keep pretending like it didn’t affect us. I need us to work through this. Together.” He slammed the refrigerator door as she continued. “Are you even listening, Max?”

  The feelings were as raw as they were three years ago. The desperation. The confusion. The loss. The pain. The anger. It was all there. Gnawing at him. It never stopped.

  “Max, I’m hurting, too,” she said. “And I’ve carried it all for three years. Alone.”

  The lump in his throat prevented all but a whisper. “I know.”

  “Please, tell me what you’re feeling,” she said. “Talk to me.”

  “Give me a minute,” he said. She wouldn’t like it, but if she wanted to know what he was feeling, then it was time.

  He walked to the window looking out on the backyard. He’d always loved their backyard at sunset, especially when he and Sarah would sit on the deck and watch the deer at the edge of the tree line nibbling at the strawberries.

  “So where was he? Huh? Where was he?” He ran his hands through his hair

  She sat quietly with tears spilling from her eyes.

  “Why didn’t he help us?” His voice was no longer a whisper; it was gaining strength and growing louder with every word. “Just tell me why!”

  “I don’t know,” she said, staring at the floor. “I don’t know why.”

  “And neither do I. But I’m supposed to trust him? Where was he when we needed him? Where was he when our eleven-year-old daughter needed him?”

  Michelle covered her face.

  “How many times did we pray?” he said. “Hundreds? Thousands?” Max slammed his fist against the wall. “Did he do anything? Anything at all?”

  It had been a long time since he’d let it all out. “Where were you?” he said shaking his fist at the ceiling. “Why didn’t you help her? W
hat kind of a God are you that would allow an innocent little girl to suffer like that?”

  He plopped into the chair and closed his eyes. He debated whether or not to continue, but if she wanted to know how he felt then she was going to hear all of it.

  “Here’s what I learned three years ago, Shelle, and you can take this to the bank...when it really matters, I mean, when you really need him to come through...God can’t be counted on.” He sighed deeply and shook his head. “And if he won’t...or can’t...heal a little girl from leukemia, then I don’t want anything to do with him.”

  “Max, please, let’s go talk to someone.” Her eyes were pleading with him. Again. He’d seen this look so many times before.

  “Talk to someone?” he said, getting loud again. “A counselor? Hah!”

  “Max, we need help. We can’t keep doing this.” She wiped her eyes. “It’s not working. If not a counselor, then a pastor.”

  “A pastor?” he said. “Are you serious? A pastor? What’s he going to tell us…that it was God’s will? That Sarah’s in a better place? That Dante’s death is part of his plan too?” He laughed. “What a joke.”

  “Then what’s your plan, Max?” she said. “Or is this it? Huh? Is it? Is this our life now?” She got to her feet and stared at him.

  He looked away and said nothing.

  “I can’t keep doing this. I really can’t.” She hesitated for a moment. “I won’t. All we do is fight. We don’t talk; we don’t do anything together. And I can’t even remember the last time you came to church with me.”

  “The Sunday two days before Sarah died,” he said without even having to think about it.

  “This is no way to live, Max, no way to have a marriage.” She waited a moment, then said, “I guess that’s it then,” before walking to the bedroom and quietly shutting the door behind her.

  He wondered if he’d also just heard the door closing on their marriage.

  Chapter 5

  Tuesday, September 3

  Max parked outside the field house at 6:15 a.m., even early for him. The eastern sky was getting lighter, but the sun wouldn’t rise for another half-hour. Their living room couch was good for a two-hour nap, but not for sleeping on all night. He never could get comfortable and had only slept for a few fitful hours. He wanted to get out of the house before Michelle was awake, so he packed his briefcase and grabbed a change of clothes before quietly slipping out.

  He knew his wife needed him, but the thought of another conversation about Sarah’s death literally made him want to throw up. At least on the football field, things made sense and he could make a difference. He could help kids who were still alive. The first game of the season against Fayetteville was three days away. He was winless against them in his first two years at Lakeside. They were loaded again this year and were ranked number three in the statewide pre-season poll. Local sports writers had Lakeside a fourteen-point underdog.

  He was busy making notes on the whiteboard when he was startled by the door opening behind him. “Sorry, Coach, didn’t mean to scare ya.” It was Dave Turner, his defensive coordinator.

  “Didn’t expect anyone this early,” Max said.

  Dave sat down at the conference table. “Are you doing okay, Max?”

  “Yeah, I’m good,” he lied. “Heavy week with Dante’s funeral on Thursday and Fayetteville on Friday.”

  “You look like you could use some sleep.”

  He ignored the comment and kept writing.

  Dave had been a coach at Lakeside for six years and had wanted the head coaching job when Max was hired. He’d kept Dave on as the defensive coordinator, a move he’d often regretted over the past two seasons. Dave was a good coach. He was a great coach, in fact. He’d seen few guys who understood defense like Dave did. And yet, there was something about him Max didn’t like. He couldn’t ever put his finger on it. He just didn’t feel like someone you could turn your back on. It was the same feeling he had about Jack Murphy.

  Max didn’t encourage the conversation, so Dave left and shut the door behind him. He continued with preparations for the meeting when he heard the door open. He turned, expecting to see Dave again.

  “Morning, Max. Thought I’d stop by for a minute.” It was Jack.

  “Look, Jack, I’ve got a coach’s meeting in a few minutes I really need to get ready for.”

  “Yeah, I know. Just stopped by to wish you good luck.”

  “Oh, well thank you,” which he only half meant. He knew Jack well enough to know he would never stop by unless there was something he wanted.

  “Fayetteville’s a big one.”

  “That’s right,” Max said as he continued making notes.

  “How’d the team respond to the Dante thing?” Jack said.

  The Dante thing? He wanted to tell Jack what he thought of him, but restrained himself. Just barely though. “How do you think they responded? It was a shock.” Max went back to writing. With his back to Jack, he added, “They also dedicated the season to him.”

  “That’s good,” Jack said. “That’s good. I know that will mean a lot to his mama. She’s a good woman. Such a shame, such a shame.”

  Max flipped through his legal pad looking for the notes he’d made about the kicking game. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jack still standing in the doorway, apparently not realizing he wasn’t welcome.

  “Found anyone to replace him yet?”

  “Not yet. Won’t be easy,” Max said through tight lips. He tossed his notes on the table and turned the thermostat down a few degrees.

  “I heard there’s a young man moving to town from the Dallas area,” Jack said. “Good wide receiver. Caught seventy-five passes last year as a sophomore.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Max said. “How do you know about him?”

  Jack turned to leave without answering, but before shutting the door behind him, he whispered, “You’re welcome.”

  You’re welcome? “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing to be concerned about right now. I know you’ve got a meeting to get ready for,” he said. “I’ll show myself out.”

  He wanted to know what Jack meant, but was in no mood to play his game. He said nothing and Jack Murphy went on his way.

  Chapter 6

  It was 10:30 p.m. when Max got home. He could have worked even later. The Fayetteville game was big, and a loss would get them off on the wrong foot just like the past two years. This game would set the tone for the season. And maybe the rest of his coaching career.

  The added benefit of working late was avoiding another uncomfortable evening with Michelle. Studying game film was easier and more enjoyable than arguing over things that couldn’t be changed.

  He tossed his keys on the kitchen counter and set his briefcase down. Michelle was in the living room reading a book and drinking a glass of wine. He sat down in the recliner on the opposite side of the room. “Hey,” he said finally.

  “Hey.” She didn’t look up.

  “Good book?” he said.

  She took a sip of wine and said, “So far.”

  “Good,” he said. “That’s good. What’s it about?”

  He didn’t really want to know and she didn’t answer. After reading a couple more pages, set the book down on the coffee table. “Is there something you want?”

  What did he want? To apologize? To tell her he was just trying to hold it together? He didn’t know.

  “Look Max, if you have something to say, please say it. Otherwise, I’m going to bed. It’s late.”

  What did she even want to hear? He didn’t know.

  “I’ve got school in the morning,” she said. “Goodnight.”

  “Wait,” he said.

  “What is it?” She stood and looked at him from across the room, hands on her hips. She waited a moment then shook her head slowly. “Goodnight.”

  “Michelle, wait,” he said. “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry?” He’d never seen her look so unhappy. But i
t was more than that. She looked tired and defeated.

  “Do you really want to know, Max?” she said. “I don’t want you to say anything right now. I want you to be with me. I want to know I still matter to you. That you still care. About me. About us. Because for the last three years, you’ve been absent.”