Anything for Her Children

“So why didn’t you offer to show him the saved document on your computer?”

“Becky told him she sent it to me electronically, then erased it.”

Bryan had given the impression he’d just found out about the suspension when he showed up at the house before game time, but he seemed to know an awful lot about the details.

“Bryan, when did Coach Quinlan suspend you?” Keri asked.

He answered her immediately. “At school today.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“Because the charges are bogus. I thought Coach would realize that and let me play. I just don’t get him.” Bryan made a noise and shook his head. “Must be on some kind of power trip.”

Keri tried to make sense of that. “But if the story’s not true, what motive would he have to suspend his best player?”

“To prove he’s a hard-ass,” Bryan retorted.

Keri slanted him a look rich with disapproval.

“Sorry,” Bryan said quickly. “I meant he’s one of those tough guys who won’t change his mind no matter what.”

“And you think he’s made up his mind about you?”

“He believed Becky Harding, didn’t he?”

“Did you tell him your side?”

“Hell, y—I mean, yes, ma’am. But he wouldn’t listen. He has this chip on his shoulder, like he has something to prove.”

“What can he possibly prove without his best player on the floor?”

“That he’s such a good coach he can win with anybody in the lineup.”

The logic seemed skewed to Keri, but then she couldn’t relate to the Grady Quinlans of the world. “I’ll talk to him again tomorrow after practice.”

Bryan didn’t say anything for a few moments. “How ’bout if I ask Mr. Marco to be there, too?”

At the name of the school’s athletic director, Keri felt her muscles tense. “I didn’t realize you and Mr. Marco had that close of a relationship.”

“Me, neither,” Bryan said. “But he told me at the beginning of the season to come to him if I needed anything. He even gave me his cell number.”

“I don’t think—”

“Please, Keri,” Bryan pleaded, leaning closer to her. She smelled the body spray he’d started to use when he noticed girls noticing him. “Mr. Marco will be on our side.”

She hesitated, but Bryan gazed at her so beseechingly that in the end there was only one answer she could give. “Okay.”

She tried to return Bryan’s grateful smile, but her mind was already preoccupied with tomorrow’s meeting. She couldn’t say which of the two men she looked less forward to dealing with.

Grady Quinlan, the basketball coach who thought he had the right to ruin Bryan’s future. Or Tony Marco, the man to whom Keri might have pledged her own future if he hadn’t unexpectedly broken their engagement.

H ANDS LOCKED BEHIND HIS back, Grady watched the Springhill High players finish the last of the line sprints that usually signaled the end of practice.

The more free throws they missed during the two hours of practice, the more they ran.

Bryan Charleton, the best free-throw shooter on the team, usually loudly urged his teammates to follow his example as he sank shot after shot.

Bryan hadn’t shown up for practice today.

The soles of basketball shoes squeaked over the court, then silenced, the only sounds the harsh inhales and exhales as the players fought to get their breathing to return to normal. Some of the boys bent at the waist, sweat trickling down their faces and dripping to the floor. Others, their arms folded above their heads so their elbows angled outward, started to file toward the locker room.

“Not so fast.” Grady’s voice rang out in the gym. “Give me one more. Hubie and Sam, touch every line this time or we’ll do it again.”

Groans drowned out the heavy breathing.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Hubie groused.

“Make that two more,” Grady said. “Anybody got anything else to say?”

Nobody did. Eleven of the twelve members of the Springhill High varsity lined up shoulder to shoulder on the baseline, some of them red-faced, all of them damp with perspiration. Grady ignored the internal voice that told him to give the kids a break.

Coaches used to refer to the drill they were about to repeat as “suicides” before the term was deemed politically incorrect. The players were required to sprint to the near foul line, the half-court line, the far foul line and the far baseline, bending to touch each line in turn before returning to their starting place.

This time every player touched every line, although a couple of the boys looked ready to collapse when they finished.

“We’ve got tomorrow off so I’ll see you Monday,” Grady said, then left the court before another team member had a chance to say something Grady would have to make him regret.

Only then did he notice Keri Cassidy, who lingered near the door that led to the athletic offices.

She’d dressed more her age today, in blue jeans and a quilted blue jacket, her hair falling to her shoulders in loose waves. She appeared to be wearing little or no makeup, a fresh-faced look he found appealing.

“Did you have to be so hard on them?” she asked when he was close enough that she didn’t have to shout.

She might not look like a mom, but she sure sounded like one.

He considered telling her that, contrary to popular opinion, he didn’t enjoy being the bad guy. That he’d embraced the roll for the good of the young men on his team.

But she wouldn’t understand, not if she’d come here to defend Bryan Charleton.

“Yeah,” he said, and walked past her to the door. He held it open, nodding across the wide hallway to his office.

“We can talk there.”

The office was the same one Fuzz Cartwright had used for the twenty-two years he’d been head basketball coach at Springhill. Grady watched Keri’s eyes travel over the interior walls—painted gold, of course—that Cartwright had decorated with photos of district championship teams and Coach of the Year plaques.

“Have a seat.” Grady indicated one of two chairs across from the worn wood desk. He sat behind the desk. His usual style was considerably less formal, but he had a strong feeling that Keri Cassidy was about to challenge his authority.

Deciding it was to his advantage to get in the first word, he asked, “Any idea why Bryan wasn’t at practice?”