Bright Hopes. Pat Warren

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СКАЧАТЬ and disappeared toward the locker room. Several paused to say a few words to someone seated on the bottom bench at the opposite end. It was only as the last of the boys walked out of sight that she recognized Patrick Kelsey. Unwinding his long legs, he started toward her.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ