Bright Hopes. Pat WarrenЧитать онлайн книгу.
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