Maeve's Symphony (12 page)

“You didn't used to feel all eww about Josh's workouts.”

“Doug, I'll happily deck you.” Maeve seared him with a glare, but he was immune. All he did was deliver an insolent grin, which caused Maeve's temper to ratchet upward a few hot degrees. “Oh, put away that quirky-smirk and use it on someone else, would you, please?”

Maeve's attention re-centered on Josh. Sure, she teased and sputtered and spewed; in truth, there was no denying the vital appeal and belly tug that came from the aura of a man like Josh when fully immersed in a training session. Wanting to avoid that train wreck of a thought, Maeve crossed her arms against her chest in a prim move that only served to inspire laughter from both men.

Doug walked to the spot where a pair of massive, weighted ropes lay on the floor. He lifted both ends and began to whip the ropes into ripple waves. Meanwhile, Josh performed an introduction to his trainer.

“Maeve Callahan, I want you to meet Steve Newman.”

Maeve accepted a handshake and beamed a smile. “It's nice to meet you. Glad you're helping him out.”

Josh shook his head. “You haven't seen anything yet.”

“Got that right.” Steve eyed her in speculation. “We've just started conditioning exercises. Want to take on the role of assistant trainer?”

“Sure. What can I do?”

“How would you like to throw tennis balls at him?”

Maeve went sly. “You have no idea.”

“Gee, thanks.” Josh smirked.

“Andrews, strap onto the slide board. Maeve, come with me.”

“I'll get you for this, Callahan.”

Unfazed by Josh's muttering, Maeve winked and issued a delicate shrug.

Meanwhile, Josh stepped onto a slick, glossy looking board. He stuffed his feet into holders and strapped in snug, warming up by crouching slightly and gliding from side to side in slow, easy motions. Gradually, he increased speed.

“OK, Maeve, here's what you do.” Steve positioned her in front of Josh, squaring her shoulders so she faced him at the mid-point of the slide board. After settling a pail of tennis balls at Maeve's feet, he directed. “I've given you just enough space to bounce a ball at him. Josh is going to catch it on the fly as he moves. We're testing reflex and agility, so don't throw it directly at him. He needs to earn every catch—”

“Please throw it directly at me. Please?”

Steve snorted at the interruption; Maeve snickered. “Dream on.”

“Here. I'll show you how it's done.”

Steve centered himself about ten feet away and launched a tennis ball. Then another, then another. Intent, sliding back and forth, Josh palmed each one, despite varying angles of trajectory.

“Amazing.” Maeve stepped into place, grabbing a batch from the pail. “My turn.”

For the next fifteen minutes, the routine played out until the ground behind the slide board was littered by dozens of round, green fuzzies.

“And…time.” Steve stepped forward. “Great work, Andrews.”

Maeve watched Josh in awe. “I'm impressed.”

“Thanks.” He cooled down by sliding in slow-motion for a few seconds. While his body decompressed and he saturated starving cells with oxygen, he braced against his knees for a moment then addressed Maeve. “It's a bit more intense than anchoring my feet while I did sit-ups during high school football practice, huh?”

“To say the least.”

But Steve wasn't finished yet.

“OK, Josh, you know the end game. Time to play cards.”

A quiet inner fire, so integral to Josh's nature, reared itself immediately and he nodded. He loosened the foot straps and stepped free of the slide board. “Playing cards. That's a sick joke for what you're about to do to me.”

In short order, Maeve understood the basis of Josh's comment. Steve folded playing cards in half, eying the ceiling fan above their heads. “Your record is fifteen. Let's hit twenty today.”

Steve kept folding cards. When his trainer crouched, Josh eyed him like prey.

“And…go!” Steve flipped a folded card toward the ceiling fan.

Down-force sent the card into a crazy spin. Agile, swift, Josh snapped it out of thin air. Maeve's jaw dropped as he repeated the process—again, and again. So, this was de rigueur for athletes in training? Incredible. Steve launched cards with nary a beat of rest. Defying exhaustion, Josh's focus remained absolute. He chased and captured card after card. Eight…twelve…eighteen…

“Twenty!”

Steve and Josh called the milestone in unison. Maeve released the breath she held and whooped. Smile wide, Josh closed his eyes and groaned, propping his back against the nearest wall. Visibly spent, he sank, landing rear-first on the floor. From there, he extended his legs and stretched forward, expelling exhaustion in a series of deep sighs.

Steve interrupted just long enough to offer a fist bump. “Great session. I think you're ready to test full rotation. We'll build to it, but next week I want you to get ready to swing the hammer.”

“What does that mean?” Maeve parked herself next to Josh, fingertips twitching to stroke the damp curls of hair along his neck and forehead.

Josh's answering grin was rueful. “That means I'll spend a good quarter hour taking a sledgehammer to a massive truck tire out back.”

Steve held up a hand. “Allow me to clarify, Maeve. That means he'll be building smooth muscle function by establishing physical rhythm and the level of power he possessed before the injury.”

“It's torture.” Josh whistled a breath through pursed lips then he grinned. “But that's OK. It's part of rehab.” He stood, extending a hand toward Maeve. As though guiding a feather, he lifted her to her feet. “I'm going to shower and change before we leave for Covington. I need to keep up with the woman who knows how to make a pair of blue jeans and a white sweater look incredible.”

The low-spoken compliment tweaked her senses and caught her completely off guard.

A short time later, the word incredible was precisely what came to mind when she watched Josh emerge from the locker room with Doug close behind. Dressed in tan khakis and a loose, untucked polo shirt of black, Josh's hair was damp and neatly combed. A duffle bag was slung against his shoulder.

“You look great…ah…refreshed.” Thoroughly taken in, she stumbled as she spoke.

“Endorphins are a beautiful thing.”

Showered and changed as well, Doug snagged Maeve's hands. “We're still on for dinner tonight, right?”

“I can't wait.” Disengaging from Josh, Maeve lifted to tiptoe and kissed her brother's cheek, although she sent Josh a fast, private glance. “Randolph's is an awesome spot; you're going to love it.” Josh's smile spread, as hoped. “I'll see you there at five o'clock.”

“Yep. Josh, I'll talk to you later. Thanks for a great workout.”

Josh yanked him into a quick, hard hug. “Let's see if you feel the same in a few hours when rigor mortis sets in. Ibuprofen. Maximum dose.”

“Will do.” Doug hoisted his nylon gear bag. “See you, guys.”

During the drive to Covington, Maeve brought Josh up to speed about proceedings for the gala.

“Around the middle of next week, we've scheduled dress rehearsals that include the full ensemble, orchestra, and lighting—even costumes and makeup. The entire production has come together with a level of precision that boggles my mind. I can't believe go-live is next weekend. My head literally spins.”

“You're going to be amazing.”

“Not as amazing as you were today.” She uncapped a pair of water bottles Josh had provided and handed him one. Surely, he needed hydration. His fingers brushed hers and a rousing surge of energy sizzled to life. “I have all new respect for the road you've traveled during recovery.”

“It's worth it. Commanding a football game every Sunday may seem effortless—”

“You certainly make it look that way.”

His low chuckle rumbled. “And you've always been my favorite cheerleader.” He checked the blind spot and shifted lanes, shrugging broad shoulders. “Taking the field is the easy part. Preps for each game are what tests mettle and determination. In ways, it's fun, too.”

Fun? All over again, Maeve stared at him in wonder.

They crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Josh's pass through the borough led them to a single-story brick structure flanked by a corner park with well-used equipment that offered a postage stamp playground, a few tufts of grass and a rim of trees. The facility was surrounded by a neighborhood of old brownstones with leaning steps, overflowing trashcans and spots of graffiti scrawled across discolored, crumbling brick.

Inside, Covington Outreach was packed by fast-moving bodies, chatter, and laughter. Kids blew past, ranging in age from five to twelve. After a call to order and introductions, Josh took command. Maeve sat in the front row of a set of wooden bleachers that edged a basketball court, tuned in while Josh walked a smooth line in front of the kids who assembled in a semicircle on the gym floor before him.

“I have a question for you, gang. What comes to mind when you think about leadership?”

An eager boy, perhaps eight or nine years old, thrust his hand skyward and burst out a response. “Swagger!”

Josh laughed. “That's a good answer.” The kids instantly erupted into high-fives. A buzz of excited chatter ensued. “Almost.”

Josh waited patiently while the qualifier sank in and silence fell. “Leadership should never be about winning attention. It should never be about showing off or being cool either.” Silence stretched; importance built. He paced once more, surveying the thirty or so camp attendees. “Swagger comes not from intimidation, or feeling like you're better than everyone else, but from commanding respect. From commanding loyalty by the way you live your life and respond to others.”

Legs crossed, Maeve propped an elbow on her thigh and leaned into her palm, focused.

“Swagger is about owning your life. Accountability and responsibility. Say that with me. Accountability and responsibility.” The kids offered a boisterous copy-cat of Josh's chant; hero worship ran rampant. “Remember those words. They're what see you through. Swagger stems from a deeply held belief in what you stand for and the building of your character through good times and bad. As most of you know, I'm working my way through a bad time right now.”

“Yeah, but, it's like a gigantic do-over, Josh! You'll be back, and you'll be more awesome than ever! You rock!”

Maeve's chest clutched. She settled a hand against her tight throat.

Josh fist-bumped the boy. “That's my prayer, but no matter what comes next, I know God will see me through. That's the other aspect of my life that keeps me grounded. Faith. Faith in God. Faith in the truth that God gives us those do-overs you talked about. He's the King of second chances.”

Do-overs. The King of second chances.

Two philosophies, two chains of thought, two reflections on God's truth catapulted through her mind. She tried desperately to hang on to them before shame, guilt and self-doubt sent them drifting away all over again…

 

****

 

Maeve cast Josh a pouting glance. “Forcing me to shoot free throws was a bit sadistic, don't you think?”

“You sank four out of ten.”

“I dishonored my family name.”

Josh hooted. “The kids loved you.”

Maeve watched while Josh checked the rearview mirror and relaxed against the leather seat of their SUV, battling the build of traffic headed into Manhattan.

“Man is it good to be home.”

“But when you think about it, New York isn't really home anymore, is it?” A quiet sadness tinged her words—longings she couldn't deny. Josh didn't answer; cautiously, she crept forward. “I've always meant to ask, why did you orchestrate such an elaborate event? Why the full-court press? Why now?”

“Because God is telling me, in no uncertain terms, that nothing lasts forever.” Josh didn't hesitate over the reply. He slid his hands against the steering wheel as he navigated; Maeve felt that stroke clear through to her core. “He's not taking football away from me. Yet. But I felt the need to look at my life and what I want it to be. Not just now, but in the future. That's you, Maeve. Always has been.”

“Really? Then talk to me about the rumored love affair I heard about between you and that celebrity chef from the cooking network.”

Her tone was playful; a sense of awareness intensified but she waited, cataloguing his nuances. First he blanked. Catching on, he groaned, and rolled his eyes as he slowed to a stop behind bumper-to-bumper traffic. “You mean Jacquie?”

“Yeah, that's the one. Jacquie Marsdale.”

“First of all, don't believe every headline you read at the grocery store checkout. Second of all, thanks.”

“Thanks?”

“Yeah.” A smile of pure devastation split his features. “Thanks for keeping tabs.”

“I've done no such thing.” A hot flush crawled up her shoulders, her cheeks in total betrayal of that lie.

Josh laughed and wove his fingers through hers. “Um-hum. And the color of your skin has always matched the color of your hair, Maevie.”

Maevie.
It had been eons since she heard the nickname. Josh used to call her that when he wanted to tickle and tease. She hadn't heard the endearment roll off his tongue for too many long and lonely years. An ache built in her chest.

“I saw the episode. The one where she featured you as a guest in her kitchen. The two of you made Coney sauce for Michigan hot dogs. She gushed and you seemed flirty.”

“Which means you paid attention.”

“Which means you're ridiculous.”

“Am I? Then why does your skin now match the color of those big green eyes? You've become a chameleon.” He shot her a taunting glance.