Bright Hopes

Instinctively, Pam braced herself. He was wearing jeans, a cutoff football jersey and sneakers. Lord, but he was big, she thought as he stopped in front of her.

“Do I call you Coach, Miss Casals or what?” he asked, wrinkling his face as if he’d been pondering the question for some time.

“Pam will do nicely.” She could play this game. “And you? Do you prefer Coach Kelsey, Mr. Kelsey, Patrick or Pat?”

He gave her an engaging grin. “The fellas call me Coach, the newspaper boy calls me Mr. Kelsey, my grandmother calls me Paddy, short for the Gaelic version of my name. I hear my history students call me Napoleon. My friends call me Patrick.”

The sun was in her eyes as she squinted up at him, holding her clipboard to her chest in what she recognized as a protective gesture. “Well, I’m not the fellas, nor the newsboy. And I’m not your grandmother. I also don’t think we’re friends, at least not yet. That leaves me stymied.”

Kill the enemy with kindness, Patrick thought as he rocked on the balls of his feet and watched her. “Honeybuns is open.”

She laughed. “I think I’ll pass on that one, too.”

He watched her sit down on the bench and shift her attention to her notes. She looked young enough to be a high school senior. No wonder the boys had whistled and stared. The sun brought out the red in her brown hair. There was some red on her cheeks, too, and he wondered if it was from weather exposure or from hassling with him. He sat down beside her.

“I heard most of your pep talk. Not bad.”

Why was it she could almost hear him add the rest: for a woman. Keeping her features even, Pam looked up. “Thanks.”

“What’d you learn from the game films?”

“Too early to tell.”

She had to be the least chatty female he’d met in a while, Patrick thought as he leaned his elbows back on the seat behind. “I saw you and Rosemary riding around yesterday. Checking out the town?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Where’d you go?”

Pushy, friendly or just plain nosy? Pam asked herself. She put on a polite smile. “Here and there. Rosemary showed me the hospital where she works and we drove past some beautiful old mansions on Elm Street. Then we went out toward the lake and saw the lodge, Timberlake. Seems like it’ll be really something when they finish the renovations.”

“Did you hear about the body they found there while they were inspecting some plumbing pipes?” That caught her interest, Patrick thought as he saw her eyes widen.

“No, really? Who was it?”

He shrugged. “They’re not sure yet. Some old-timers around town think it might be Margaret Ingalls.”

Pam frowned, trying to sort through the many names she’d heard over the past few days. “I don’t think I’ve heard of her. There’s a Judson Ingalls....”

Patrick nodded. “Margaret was his wife. Disappeared one day some years before I was born. Rumor has it that she got bored with her marriage and left with a lover.”

Pam shook her head. “And I thought this was a sleepy little town.”

Patrick straightened, shifting closer. “It is. Small towns are not immune to love affairs or even murder. My mother told me the story of Margaret Ingalls’ disappearance years ago. She’s always suspected something more happened than the woman just up and left. Margaret’s daughter, Alyssa, went to school with my mother. Mom can’t imagine a woman turning her back on a child, even for a lover.”

“Your mother’s a romantic.”

“She certainly is.”

Pam found herself looking into those compelling blue eyes. “But you’re a cynic, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Patrick lifted her hand from where it had been resting on her knee. “Which are you, Pam?”

She felt herself drowning suddenly, in fathomless blue water. Without conscious effort, her hand tightened in his. “You know, I’ve never seen eyes as blue as yours. Never.”

“And I’ve never been this close to a football coach who smelled as good as you. What are you wearing?”

“Jasmine. I...”

Thundering footsteps heralded the arrival of the team. They rushed onto the field, carrying helmets and equipment, suited in practice gear. Pam snatched her hand back and jumped up guiltily, flushing as she did. What was the matter with her, sitting here discussing cologne and eye color when she had a job to do?

Clearing her throat, she grabbed her clipboard and started toward the field.

“Hey, you didn’t answer my question,” Patrick called after her. “Are you a cynic or a romantic?”

Over her shoulder, she frowned at him. “Somewhere in between. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

She hurried off to watch her boys.

* * *

THE FIRST PRACTICE did not go well. Of course, they were rusty after the long summer, but that wasn’t all. Two hours after they’d begun, Pam blew her whistle and motioned the boys back to the bleacher area.

Some time ago she’d seen Patrick leave, and she’d felt relieved to be left alone with her team. Strolling from group to group, she’d taken notes, given short instructions, requested demonstrations of various plays. Now she felt more confident about the things they needed to work on.

“Okay, fellas, there’s some good news and some bad news.” She paused to let the groaners have their say. “The good news is I wasn’t mistaken. You have amazing potential, many strengths and much going for you, both individually and as a team. The bad news is we have a lot of work ahead of us. Sit down, please.”

Pam glanced at her notes as the sweaty players sprawled on the benches. “The summer’s taken it’s toll and some of you are badly out of shape. I’ve looked at your weigh-in figures, and a couple of guys are going on a diet, starting tonight.” She ignored the gripes this time. “I’m posting a weight-requirements chart in the locker room. We’ll weight in every Monday.” She tossed meaningful looks toward the heavier boys.

“Coach, you’re sadistic,” the kid named Moose complained.

“You’re defense, Moose, so we need you strong. But we don’t need you flabby. Twenty pounds have to come off, starting today.”

“There go my Twinkies,” Moose moaned, then laughed.

“Tomorrow morning, practice starts at nine sharp. I’ve arranged for tires to be brought in. Your footwork is sloppy. A man running the ball has to be able to pivot and swivel on a dime. You also need to learn how to fall with the ball. A few of you are going to break an arm or dislocate a shoulder if you don’t master falling. That means falling without letting go of the ball.”

“Sounds like we won’t be through before noon,” someone grumbled.

“More like three or four,” Pam explained. “You’ll have an hour for lunch and then back to work. Our first preseason game is in two weeks. We can’t get in shape on a couple hours a day. We’ll be doing push-ups, sit-ups, running exercises, and in the afternoon, we’ll scrimmage.”

“It’s still pretty hot to work that hard,” B.J. threw out.

“So come in shorts. But come prepared to work.” She stepped back and gave them an encouraging smile. “It’ll be worth it. You’ll see. Picture us on Thanksgiving Day walking off the field with the trophy.”

“Yeah, man!” Moose called out.

“That’s it, fellas. See you in the morning.”

Pam stood aside, watching them file off, catching a few fragmented phrases.

“Not as bad as I’d thought she’d be.”

“Tougher than McCormick, can you believe it?”

“Wait’ll Coach Kelsey hears what she’s got us doing.”

Shaking her head, Pam picked up a forgotten helmet. Coach Kelsey again. It would seem she’d have less trouble winning over the boys than the man whose amused blue eyes seemed to hint that she wouldn’t last.

Walking toward her office, she vowed to prove him wrong.

* * *

AT SIX IN THE MORNING, dew was heavy on the grass in the pastures and the air was fresh and clean. Pacing herself, Pam ran along the edge of the two-lane road, enjoying the slip-slap sound of her running shoes as they briefly hit the asphalt. She wore a blue cotton shirt and shorts, and had scarcely worked up a sweat though she’d been at it for about twenty minutes.

Loping along beside her, Samson kept up somewhat grumpily, his tongue hanging out, his breathing huffy. Though quite large, sheepdogs had great stamina, and Pam knew he dropped back occasionally not from fatigue but to investigate a tree or some creepy-crawly he’d spotted. For years a morning run had been part of their routine—until Pam’s illness had put a halt to most physical activity.

Those months confined to a wheelchair, when the debilitating numbness made it difficult and sometimes impossible to do even the smallest of chores for herself, had been the worst weeks of her life. Pam followed a bend in the road, letting herself remember back four years ago, when she’d returned to her father’s house in Chicago from her coaching stint with the Olympic team in Seoul. She’d been happy, in love, planning for a limitless future.

Bob Conti had coached with her, a tall blond giant of a man who’d never been sick a day in his life, or so he’d said. They’d met in Seoul, two athletes in the prime of life, attractive and attracted, with mutual interests and goals. Love had hit like a thunderbolt and life had taken on a rosy hue.

When Pam developed flu symptoms after their return, she’d naturally thought them temporary. When two weeks later she’d still felt tired and weak, sometimes having such difficulty with dizziness that she couldn’t walk straight, Bob had insisted she see a doctor.

Even during the battery of tests, Pam hadn’t really worried. After all, she was young and healthy, an athlete who’d always taken extraordinary care of herself. By the time a neurologist had been called in, her hands were plagued with needlelike tingling and she couldn’t trust her legs, for they would often go numb from the knees down. Finally, the doctors met with her to discuss the diagnosis—multiple sclerosis.

Feeling warmer now, Pam slowed down, slipped her sweatband around her forehead, then resumed her pace. She’d learned she was a prime candidate for MS. The disease struck mostly young adults under thirty, seventy-five percent of the patients female, thirty-five percent white women from upper middle class homes, a good many of whom had had scarlet fever. Unfortunately, Pam fit the profile to a tee.

Shock more than anything had slowed her return to health, her movement into the remission state. The doctors had been very helpful, very informative, but she’d been so devastated that no one had seemed able to reach her. Not her family nor her friends. Not even Bob. No one, until therapist Rosemary Dusolt had come into her life.

Working with Pam’s weak limbs, Rosemary not only pumped life back into her body, she tapped into Pam’s strong will and taught her to learn to live with her disease as well. She convinced her that she could still live a full and vital life by coming to terms with MS. As she grew stronger, Pam slowly came to realize that Bob was unable to deal with her situation, that he didn’t want to be committed to someone for whom life at times would become a daily struggle. Though the hurt and disappointment ate at her, she broke off with him.

Just as Rosemary had predicted, she was eventually able to leave her wheelchair, to rebuild her body, to heal her mind. Pam knew what to avoid now—extremes of temperature as in saunas and very hot showers; humid places, like the seashore; getting stressed out or overtired. She also knew that she’d move in and out of remission, and that bad times would come again. Perhaps that was why the good periods were so sweet, so much to be savored.

Needing to work, to keep busy, she’d started looking for a job only recently, answering ads and sending out résumés. The Tyler High position, necessitating a move, had been ideal. She’d be close to Rosemary and away from her well-intentioned but hovering family. She needed to prove to herself that she could go it alone.

Smiling down at Samson as he came galloping up to her from behind, Pam stretched out her arms and slowed to hug the shaggy dog. Life was good if you didn’t expect too much, if you took each day as it came and counted your blessings. Learning to live one day at a time had been a hard lesson, but she’d mastered it.

When life tosses you lemons, Dad had often said, you have to learn to make lemonade. Pausing under the shade of an overhanging tree to catch her breath, Pam realized again how right her father was. He’d been wonderfully supportive about her new job, maintaining that she could make the Titans into winners, that she could conquer MS in the same way she’d overcome adversities on the way to her gold medal. Too bad Bob couldn’t have had that kind of faith in her.

Pam started to run back to her car. Bob was no longer a sharp ache inside her, but rather a dull disappointment. Though Rosemary and her doctors had told her that marriage and children were not things an MS patient would have to do without, Pam wasn’t so sure. It would take a special man—patient, caring, tolerant—to live with and love her. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, for either of them.

Limitations at the outset of a relationship were difficult to face. And her future would always be cloudy. She no longer counted on finding a man she could love who would return her feelings, without pity, without regret. Pam looked up at the climbing sun. She had today, and today she felt wonderful. Perhaps that would have to do.

“Come on, Samson,” she shouted over her shoulder at the lagging dog, “race you to the car.”

* * *

PAM STOOD on the sidelines of Tyler High’s football field watching the boys returning from lunch. She’d finished her own yogurt and apple juice a while ago and was ready to set up some scrimmages.

She’d had them exercising fiercely this morning, as they had the past six mornings—push-ups, rope climbing, running through tires for foot coordination, tossing the pigskin through hanging tires to improve aim. She’d given them Sunday off, then had them back on Monday. Now, a week after they’d begun, she could see improvement—in performance and in pride.

Stepping out onto the field, she blew her whistle and waited for them to join her. “Okay, fellas. I want to see you divide into teams and practice the plays we worked on yesterday.” She frowned as she looked through the crowd. “Where’s Ricky Travis?”

“He had work to do on his father’s farm this afternoon, Coach,” B.J. said. “Said to tell you he’ll be here in the morning.”

She leveled her gaze. “I’ll talk to Ricky. If any of you see him before morning, you might remind him of rule number two. If you don’t come to practice, you don’t play in the games. There are no exceptions.”

“Come on, Coach,” Moose said, “Ricky’s our quarterback.”

“He is if he comes to practice. He won’t be if he misses. B.J., you play quarterback this afternoon. And fellas, remember what we went over yesterday. Be aware of each man around you, and of your opponent. You’ve got to protect the quarterback, not let him take hits. Especially since we’re down to one today. Okay, let’s go.”

She jogged back to the sidelines and put on her sunglasses. Hunkering down near the fifty-yard line, she scribbled on her clipboard as the boys went into position.

* * *

SHE WAS WEARING pink today. Patrick couldn’t believe it. Did she have sweats in every color? he wondered as he stood at the far end of the bleachers. The boys were all in abbreviated uniforms and protective gear, mostly in drab colors. Pam stood out like a pink beacon across the field, her dark hair tied back with a piece of pink yarn. Damnedest sight he’d ever seen on a football grid.

Why would a woman want to coach football? he asked himself, not for the first time since hearing of Pam Casals. She was attractive and talented. She could travel, do promotional work, put on running exhibitions, coach women’s basketball—any number of things. Why football?

Was it the challenge, a climb-the-mountain-because-it’s-there type of thinking? She’d conquered running, now she wanted to conquer a man’s domain. Was she hoping to make the Titans into winners, thereby luring another college coaching offer? Or—God forbid—did she have her sights set on the pros? Was Tyler merely a stepping-stone to Pam Casals?

Patrick ran a hand through his windblown hair. She was a hard one to call. She looked so feminine, so young. Yet watching the boys, he had to admit they were listening to her, following her instructions. The smart remarks and clowning had stopped. For nearly a week now, he’d come by for a few minutes every day, just to check on her methods and the team’s progress. It wasn’t sensational, but it wasn’t shabby, either.

He’d stayed mostly out of sight, seeing that she was too occupied to notice his brief visits. A couple of the guys had glanced up, but they hadn’t come over. He’d noted that she was tough on discipline, something he tried to instill in his basketball team as well. He’d checked with several of the fellows off campus about how they were getting along, and except for the usual grumblings about workouts and diet, none had really complained about Pam specifically.

Patrick watched her toss down her clipboard and leap into the air to catch a stray ball, her movements clean and sure, yet gracefully feminine. She was cute rather than beautiful. Not that he was here because of Pam as a woman. He owed it to his boys to keep an eye on their new coach, that was all. Leaning against the back bleacher, he saw her call them into a loose huddle and wondered what she was saying.

* * *

“THAT LAST PLAY was lousy,” Pam said, hands on her hips, eyes on her players. “Where’d you learn to hand off like that, B.J.?”

“From Coach McCormick.”

Pam turned aside thoughtfully. This had come up before and she’d ignored it. No more, she decided as she paced a short distance and returned to address them. “I told you from the start that we would learn to play football all over and that we’d be winners. I want you to forget everything else you’ve been told—no matter who told it to you—and do things my way. I’m not saying I’m always right. But doing plays the old way, you wound up near the cellar in the standings. Let’s try the new way and see if it works. If it doesn’t, I’ll bow out. Is that fair?”

Exchanging uneasy and skeptical glances, the boys nodded.

“Okay, then. Let’s run that play over again. On three, B.J., and I want to see some blocking, defense.” She jogged off the field and turned to watch them move into formation.

Pam was hunched down observing, so deeply absorbed she didn’t hear anyone approach. The play went off beautifully, and B.J.’s receiver, Todd, caught the throw and ran clear. “That’s more like it,” she shouted out.

“Where’d you learn that play?” Patrick asked from behind her.

Startled, she nearly fell over from her awkward position. Rising, she glared at him. “What are you doing, sneaking up on me?”

“I didn’t sneak. I walked around the field in plain view. I repeat, where’d you learn that play?”

Pam wiped her damp palms on her sweatpants. “What difference does it make? It works and that’s what’s important.”

“The plays Dale and I taught them last year worked, too, and most of the team know them backward and forward.”

“If they worked so well, why did the team wind up in sixth place in a field of eight?”

Patrick made a dismissing gesture. “Couldn’t be helped. We had a lot of injuries, our best running back moved out of town halfway through the season, and our kicker contracted mono and we didn’t have a backup man.”

She shook her head. “Tough luck. Each position should have a backup and every team has injuries. Let’s face it, McCormick’s methods were outdated and unimaginative.” She didn’t add that she lumped Patrick’s routines in with the retired coach’s, but she could see by his stormy expression that he got the message.

Becoming aware that the boys, waiting for the next call, were moving closer and enjoying their heated exchange, Pam turned to them. “Take a water break, guys,” she yelled out.

As the players strolled off the field, Patrick got hold of his temper. “Listen, there’s no guarantee your new ways will work when these guys face other, more experienced teams, so don’t be so damn cocky. And don’t you be undermining my methods to them. I coach quite a few of the boys in basketball, and I don’t want you messing up their thinking.”

“I haven’t said one word against you to those boys. Which is more than I can say about you and the way you’ve just happened to run into several of them and pump them for information.”

Patrick felt his face flush and could have cheerfully popped the kid who’d blabbed to her. “I’ve never talked detrimentally about you.”

Pam picked up her clipboard. “Maybe not, but you haven’t exactly spoken up on my behalf, either. Listen, we’re supposed to be on the same side, working for the same school. You could have encouraged them to give me a chance, to try things my way. But you chose not to. All right. I’ll win them over without you. It’s just a damn shame your ego’s so monumentally big you can’t accept that there are several ways to build a winning team and that yours might not be the only way.”

Turning on her heel, she started across the field.

“Wait a minute,” Patrick called after her. “I want to talk to you.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk to you,” Pam shouted over her shoulder as she walked toward the drinking fountain. What she really would have liked was to pour a pitcher of cold water over the arrogant Patrick Kelsey’s head.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE ALWAYS HAD the most voracious appetite when she was nervous, Pam acknowledged as she poured melted butter over a huge bowl of popcorn. She also had a craving for sweets, so she popped the lid on a can of cola and took both into the living room.

Tomorrow night at this time her team would be playing its first preseason game. Miss Mackie had happily reported that it would be in front of a sellout crowd. Everyone in town, it seemed, was curious as to what the new woman coach had done with their high school football team. Pam closed her eyes and prayed she wouldn’t bomb the first time out.

Grabbing a handful of popcorn, she dug in. No negative thinking, she ordered herself. The boys had come a long way, their spirits were high and, blessedly, there’d been no serious injuries so far. They were revved up and ready to go. Winning this one was important to their self-esteem. And maybe to hers.

Samson loped over and laid his big chin on her knee, his eyes begging to share in her treat. “Did I forget about you, Sam?” Quickly she got his bowl, tossed in several generous handfuls and placed it on the floor alongside the couch. “Go to it.” He wasted no time in doing so.

The two of them were home alone tonight, Rosemary having gone backpacking for several days with a couple of friends. The weather was definitely cooling, the very first leaves starting to change color. Soon she wouldn’t be able to camp out, Rosemary had explained.

Pam took a long drink of her cold soda. She felt restless and a bit jumpy. Too fidgety to read, and she’d never been one to watch much television. Maybe what she needed was a boost to her own morale. Rising, she went to her room, found the right cassette and returned to shove it into the VCR.

Watching herself on tape—the pageantry of the Olympics, the winning run itself and the moment of glory as she’d stood in the winner’s circle—smacked of living in the past, of wishing for things that were no longer possible. Pam had rarely done so before MS had struck. Yet occasionally now, it seemed necessary for her to remind herself that she’d excelled once, and could do so again, albeit in another capacity.

Almost forgetting to eat, Pam watched the grandeur of the torch-lighting ceremony, remembering what it had felt like to stand among her fellow Americans, proudly wearing the red, white and blue. She remembered the lump in her throat as the final runner had stretched to ignite the flame. Her father and brothers had been in the audience, and it had been such a glorious time. Dad had asked a friend and neighbor to tape the event both years, and then he’d had copies made for all of them.