CHAPTER 1

Where's Graeber?"

I freeze. Guess it was only a matter of time before CoachWarren came gunning for me. I toss my coffee in the sink, listeningwhile Bill Miller, the pudgy biology teacher who alwayssmells of formaldehyde, rats me out. "Barrie? I just saw herheading for the teachers' lounge."

"Graeber," the coach barks as he storms through the doorway."What's the deal with you pulling Dennis Cutler off theteam right before our big game?"

Okay, here goes. I muster everything I've been taught abouteffective communication and look Coach Warren directly inthose deep blue eyes. No way is he going to bully me. "I did notpull the Cutler boy. I simply asked Sharon to enforce what weall agreed upon last spring. His academic improvement planrequires him to attend the special tutoring sessions I put inplace. As it stands now, he's not going to pass his core subjectsand graduate. I already went to bat for him once, based on apromise he'd work hard this year."

Coach Warren shakes his head. "But—"

"But nothing. Sleeping through his classes and skippingtutoring sessions is not acceptable. I'm sorry, I really am. Butwe both know if Dennis is not on target to graduate, he's ineligibleto play. Simple as that."

When I tell people I'm a school guidance counselor, theythink it means I spend hours helping students fill out collegeapplication and FAFSA forms. And that's true. But my job is somuch more. I'm here to advocate for my students, to look outfor their best interests. Sometimes that means protecting themfrom a coach who has yet to understand that the one with themost trophies can still wind up a loser.

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against a good footballgame. But why must education always take a backseatto sports? Truth is, in this town football reigns. Academicsare often abandoned and left to drift to shore while the athleticprogram leans back, clipping along like a Kennedy on asailboat.

Warren pulls his arms tighter across the chest of a jacketthat reads Sawtooth High Cougars. "So, let me get this straight.You're going to let down a whole team, the entire town ofFalcon, Idaho, for that matter ... what, so you can make apoint?"

I huff. "That is the point. When Dennis failed to do hispart and study, he's the one who let his team down." I feelmyself gaining emotional steam. "And what does it say if welet Dennis flunk out? Will that prepare him for his future?"Satisfied I'd made my point, I smugly climb down from myimaginary soapbox.

Coach Warren unfolds his arms and leans forward. Witha lowered voice he speaks, pausing between each word foremphasis. "I don't give a rat's tail about how nice little Dennis'sfuture is. That's your job. Mine is to win football games."

Before I can respond, several teachers enter the lounge.Coach Warren instantly plants a smile on his face and worksthe room like a politician, assuring everyone that, yes, indeed,the Cougars will put the Vikings back on the bus after thegame this afternoon with their heads hanging low. He glancesback at me. Those striking blue eyes narrow to drive his pointhome.

Count on it, he says.

* * *

Nobody wants to admit this, but often adults don't understandhow hard life is for teenagers these days. In thispressure-cooker life, young people need someone they cantrust, someone who will encourage them to work hard so theycan accomplish their dreams.

That's where I come in.

I head for my counseling office, a tight little room linedwith bookshelves filled with college catalogs and FAFSApublications. Sliding into the chair behind my badly marredwalnut desk, I pull a scheduling book from the drawer andassess what the rest of my morning holds.

A knock at the door alerts me to my first appointment—CadeWalton, a kid whose single mom is working two jobs sohe can attend college next fall. I motion him in and have himtake a seat. Then, lifting his file from the stack on my desk, Ibegin my work for the day.

By four o'clock, I've finished my student interviews andmove to grab my coat and gloves. Today is the only afternoonfootball game of the season, and I'm anxious to join the cheeringcrowd I hear outside my window.

Moving quickly, I juggle my purse and coat while trying tolock my office door.

"Mrs. Graeber?"

I turn to find Emily Jorgensen, a rather high-strung girlwho comes from a family of known achievers.

"Hey, Emily. What can I do for you?"

Emily bursts into tears.

I muffle a sigh, unlock my door, and invite her into myoffice. I hand the distraught girl a tissue, and she plops downin the chair at the side of my desk, apparently oblivious to thefact nearly every other student from Sawtooth High School iscurrently out at the football field.

My eyes glance at the wall clock. Pearl's dance team is performingduring halftime, and I don't want to miss seeing mydaughter execute the moves she's been practicing all week.

"Okay, sweetie, why the tears?"

"It's just that Mr. Baxter won't relent on my grade in Englishcomp, and if I don't score at least a ninety-seven, my chance toget accepted to Harvard will be ruined."

I lean closer, slightly amused at her melodrama but silentlywishing all students I counsel cared this much about their academiccareers. "Emily, I know you worry." I look her directlyin the eye to make sure she feels validated. "But, you are anexcellent student. A single grade on one paper this early inyour senior year won't affect your university plans. I promise.Besides, a ninety-five is still impressive."

The plain-looking girl, who has yet to come out of her shelland even wear makeup, looks unconvinced.

After sneaking another look at the clock, I opt for a differentapproach. "But tell you what, I'll talk to Mr. Baxter and seewhat extra credit opportunities he'll be offering this semester."Mindful of the no-touching rule imposed on educators thesedays, I still stand and give her a brief hug, "In the meantime,focus on doing your best. That's really all you can do."

The teary-eyed girl nods and moves for the door. "Thanks,Mrs. Graeber. I really appreciate it." She gives me a little waveas she leaves.

After cramming her file in my drawer, I gather my thingsfor a second time and head out to the big game.

Stepping into crisp fall air, I hurry past lines of parked carstoward the sound of band drums and referee whistles. Slowing,I flash my staff badge at the tired-looking security guard at thegate before continuing toward the stands. My eyes pan thecrowd until I finally locate Joe and Connie Anderson and myson, Aaron. I wave and make my way up the bleachers.

"Where've you been?" Connie scoots over, making roomfor me.

I roll my eyes. "Don't ask."

Connie's expression turns sympathetic. "Well, we're aboutto finish second quarter."

My son greets me without pulling his gaze from the field."Hey, Mom."

"Hi, sweetheart." Glancing around to see if I can spot Pearl,I move to give my son a hug before I remember my eleven-year-oldhates any public display of affection.

I turn to Connie's husband. "Hey there, Joe."

Joe Anderson is one of Steve's closest buddies. They go wayback, football teammates from when they attended Sawtoothyears ago.

No one loves football more than Joe. Despite his respectedposition on the school board, he's been known to yell like abanshee when the Cougars' score falls behind. I dip my handin his container of popcorn, painfully aware I should neverhave skipped lunch today. "Where's Steve?"

Joe nervously scans the field. "No sign of him yet."

"I'm not surprised," I eye his popcorn but decide it'd berude to grab another handful. Instead, I check my phone formessages. "My husband is always running late these days. Ifhe doesn't quit burning the candle at both ends, he's going towind up with a heart attack before he turns forty."

The scoreboard at the south end of the field flashes twenty-oneto twenty. Too close for comfort. Barely in our favor. Joetells me we'd run the ball well so far, but the Vikings' place-kickerhad been hot. Now, with just a minute left in thesecond quarter, they'd punched up the grass into field goalrange. Lowering my gaze to the forty-yard line, I breeze pastthe action to the sidelines.

"Oh look, there's Pearl." Beaming, I pull up my cell phoneand shoot a photo. I watch as she waves at number thirty-twoas he jogs back to the sidelines from the line of scrimmage.

Pearl has been going out with Craig Ellison, the team'squarterback, for a little over a year. Together, they look likethe Ken and Barbie dolls I played with growing up. At times,I worry they might be getting a bit too close. She has a wholelifetime ahead of her, and I certainly don't want her duplicatingmy mistakes.

I'd worry a lot more if she wasn't with a boy like Craig.He's a polite kid from a good family. When Pearl was in juniorhigh, I cochaired a school carnival with his mom.

Back at the field's edge, Coach Warren and his assistanthuddle with the defense, barking out orders. With a slap onthe back of number forty-two, he launches the players out onthe field.

"C'mon! Hold the line!" Aaron screams.

I join the rest of the crowd already on their feet when theVikings' quarterback takes the snap and drops into the pocket.He scans for an open receiver as he pats the ball once. Twice.Then he whips the ball past his ear and a perfect spiral soarsforty yards into the straining hands of the Vikings' tight end.He cradles the ball tight and sprints for the goal line.

"STOP HIM!" the diminutive woman in front of us belchesout, causing more than a few of us to look at her in surprise.

The crowd across the field explodes into cheers. I snapmy head back to the action just in time to watch the Vikingreceiver cross the goal line and slam the ball on the end zonegrass. A routine extra point a minute later cements their leadat halftime.

Joe curses and I reach for my phone, thinking I'll textSteve to see if he's going to make it in time for Pearl's halftimeshow.

"Mom, can I have some money for popcorn?" Aaron holdshis hand outstretched.

"What happened to the twenty I gave you yesterday?"

He explains in detail, reminding me buying his vintage JoeNamath card cleaned him out. I hand him my wallet. "Put itback in my purse. And only take a twenty."

He follows my directions, then starts down the bleachers."And get me some," I add.

Connie gives me a nudge. "Barrie, the dance team's takingthe field. Hey, there's Pearl." She points.

I let my cell phone drop back into my purse and crane myneck around the tall guy in front of me. Nobody gets betweenme and the halftime show.

My daughter takes her place in the formation with the restof the group at the edge of the field. She's been practicing forthis routine every night this week, working hard to master thecomplicated moves.

On the field, girls in gold-colored glittery tops and shortblack skirts march in precision formations to the Star Warstheme song. My daughter snaps her head left in unison withtwenty other girls from her spot, third from the end.

When the dance team finishes their final number, uniformedband members follow the girls off the field, playing thelast strains of a snappy march. I am applauding with the restof the crowd, when Steve juggles his way past the Andersonsand moves in next to me on the bleachers. "Sorry I'm late." Hekisses my cheek. "What'd I miss?"

Joe shakes his head. "The Vikings just crept ahead. I hate tosay this, but I hope Coach cleans clock at halftime. That Bakerkid especially."

"Honey—" Connie looks at her husband with disbelief."How can you say that? You know Vince Baker's mother isbattling cancer. Cut the poor kid some slack."

Brushing his hand across his shaved head, Joe continueslooking out at the field. "Well, another wrong move and wewon't even have a chance at play-offs."

Connie rolls her eyes, leans over, and says in a low voice, "Iswear, he'd sell his grandmother to win a football game."

Steve's eyes lock with mine, and we share a smile.

Aaron climbs back up in the stands, his hands juggling ahot dog, two bags of popcorn, and cola. "Hey, Dad." He handsone of the popcorns to me.

"Hi, Scoot." Steve ruffles our son's hair. A flicker of guiltcrosses my husband's face as he leans over to me. "So, did Imiss Pearl's halftime routine?"

"Afraid so, honey." I smile and offer him some popcorn."But don't worry, she'll understand. I almost missed her routinemyself because of a meeting with a student."

"I thought you didn't have any afternoon appointments?"

I lean toward him and lower my voice. "A student showedup in tears."

Steve nods. "Ahh."

I stretch my hand out toward Aaron. "Hey, where's mychange?"

My son grins and juggles his drink while he reaches in hisback pocket. I relent and tell him he can keep the money ifhe'll help me rake the leaves tomorrow. His face brightens."Sure!"

Minutes later the players take the field, and the third quarterbegins.

A sense of palpable excitement throbs in the bleachers asthe Vikings kick off to the Cougars' line of receivers. I findmyself holding my breath as the Cutler kid lines himself upwith the soaring ball. Wait—?

I shade my eyes for a better look. "Steve, is that DennisCutler out there?"

"Yeah, why?"

A wave of frustration hits me like a tsunami. Looks like Mr.GQ Coach got his way after all. No telling what strings he'dpulled this time.

I shake my head. "Long story." Miffed, I tell myself thatMichael Warren may have won for now, but I'll make sure thisissue is revisited.

On the field, Dennis catches the ball and races down thefield, advancing thirty yards before a Viking slips past one ofour blockers and tackles him to the ground. Joe and Stevehigh-five each other. The ref blows his whistle, and Pearl'sboyfriend, Craig, jogs out to the field and gathers the teamin a huddle. Seconds later, they break and move to the line ofscrimmage.

My attention diverts to our daughter, gathered with herfriends on the edge of the field. Her laughter fills my heartwith joy.

It's true. A mother loves all her children the same. But I haveto admit I feel especially connected to my firstborn. Maybebecause for the first four years of her life, it was just the twoof us.

Steve leans over and whispers in my ear—"Where're youat?"—which is his way of telling me he notices I've been deepin thought and not plugged in to the game. I smile and weavemy fingers in his, enjoying the feel of his calloused palmsagainst my own.

Just before the game ends, our receiver sprints into the endzone. The extra point a minute later hands us our victory.

Joe lets out a whoop followed by a rather colorful expletive.Connie slaps his arm. "Watch it," she nods toward Aaron. "Wehave young ears nearby."

"That Craig sure has an arm," Steve says, his face beamingas if Pearl's boyfriend were his own son. And he might as wellbe, for the amount of time he spends in our home.

After a few parents in the stands mutter, great game, andknew Coach Warren would pull off another one, I gather my thingsand trundle down the bleachers with the Andersons and Steve.Aaron trails close behind.

We make our way out to the parking lot before Joe turnsto Steve. "The Kiwanis are holding a reception for the coachTuesday night. You guys going?" Holding my breath, I wait forSteve's reply.

"Naw, can't. Got a meeting with my new business partner,and it'll likely run into the evening."

At least I've been spared that misery. The last thing I wantto do is join a mob of Coach Warren worshipers.

We wave our good-byes to the Andersons, agreeing to tryto get together for dinner soon, when Pearl rushes up, breathless."Hey, Mom. Craig isn't going to be able to take me home.Something about a team meeting with the coach. He said he'dpick me up later, so can I catch a ride with you?" Without waitingfor a reply, she turns to Steve, looping her arm in his. "SoDad, what did you think of my routine?"

Coming to Steve's rescue, I jump into the conversation."We're both very proud of how you did, sweetie." Pearl grinsand says she'll gather her things and meet me at the car.

"I owe you one," Steve tells me as soon as Aaron is severalsteps ahead and out of earshot.

"Only one?" I tease. "Oh, and you'll need to pick up chickenon the way home because I don't have anything thawed."

"Again?" A grin crosses his face, and his hand playfullyslaps my behind. Laughing, he hurries to catch up with Aaron.He places his arm around our son's shoulder, and I listen totheir fading discussion about which team the Cougs will bematched up with in the play-offs.