Bright Hopes. Pat Warren

periods were so sweet, so much to be savored.

      Needing to work, to keep busy, she’d started looking for a job only recently, answering ads and sending out résumés. The Tyler High position, necessitating a move, had been ideal. She’d be close to Rosemary and away from her well-intentioned but hovering family. She needed to prove to herself that she could go it alone.

      Smiling down at Samson as he came galloping up to her from behind, Pam stretched out her arms and slowed to hug the shaggy dog. Life was good if you didn’t expect too much, if you took each day as it came and counted your blessings. Learning to live one day at a time had been a hard lesson, but she’d mastered it.

      When life tosses you lemons, Dad had often said, you have to learn to make lemonade. Pausing under the shade of an overhanging tree to catch her breath, Pam realized again how right her father was. He’d been wonderfully supportive about her new job, maintaining that she could make the Titans into winners, that she could conquer MS in the same way she’d overcome adversities on the way to her gold medal. Too bad Bob couldn’t have had that kind of faith in her.

      Pam started to run back to her car. Bob was no longer a sharp ache inside her, but rather a dull disappointment. Though Rosemary and her doctors had told her that marriage and children were not things an MS patient would have to do without, Pam wasn’t so sure. It would take a special man—patient, caring, tolerant—to live with and love her. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, for either of them.

      Limitations at the outset of a relationship were difficult to face. And her future would always be cloudy. She no longer counted on finding a man she could love who would return her feelings, without pity, without regret. Pam looked up at the climbing sun. She had today, and today she felt wonderful. Perhaps that would have to do.

      “Come on, Samson,” she shouted over her shoulder at the lagging dog, “race you to the car.”

      * * *

      PAM STOOD on the sidelines of Tyler High’s football field watching the boys returning from lunch. She’d finished her own yogurt and apple juice a while ago and was ready to set up some scrimmages.

      She’d had them exercising fiercely this morning, as they had the past six mornings—push-ups, rope climbing, running through tires for foot coordination, tossing the pigskin through hanging tires to improve aim. She’d given them Sunday off, then had them back on Monday. Now, a week after they’d begun, she could see improvement—in performance and in pride.

      Stepping out onto the field, she blew her whistle and waited for them to join her. “Okay, fellas. I want to see you divide into teams and practice the plays we worked on yesterday.” She frowned as she looked through the crowd. “Where’s Ricky Travis?”

      “He had work to do on his father’s farm this afternoon, Coach,” B.J. said. “Said to tell you he’ll be here in the morning.”

      She leveled her gaze. “I’ll talk to Ricky. If any of you see him before morning, you might remind him of rule number two. If you don’t come to practice, you don’t play in the games. There are no exceptions.”

      “Come on, Coach,” Moose said, “Ricky’s our quarterback.”

      “He is if he comes to practice. He won’t be if he misses. B.J., you play quarterback this afternoon. And fellas, remember what we went over yesterday. Be aware of each man around you, and of your opponent. You’ve got to protect the quarterback, not let him take hits. Especially since we’re down to one today. Okay, let’s go.”

      She jogged back to the sidelines and put on her sunglasses. Hunkering down near the fifty-yard line, she scribbled on her clipboard as the boys went into position.

      * * *

      SHE WAS WEARING pink today. Patrick couldn’t believe it. Did she have sweats in every color? he wondered as he stood at the far end of the bleachers. The boys were all in abbreviated uniforms and protective gear, mostly in drab colors. Pam stood out like a pink beacon across the field, her dark hair tied back with a piece of pink yarn. Damnedest sight he’d ever seen on a football grid.

      Why would a woman want to coach football? he asked himself, not for the first time since hearing of Pam Casals. She was attractive and talented. She could travel, do promotional work, put on running exhibitions, coach women’s basketball—any number of things. Why football?

      Was it the challenge, a climb-the-mountain-because-it’s-there type of thinking? She’d conquered running, now she wanted to conquer a man’s domain. Was she hoping to make the Titans into winners, thereby luring another college coaching offer? Or—God forbid—did she have her sights set on the pros? Was Tyler merely a stepping-stone to Pam Casals?

      Patrick ran a hand through his windblown hair. She was a hard one to call. She looked so feminine, so young. Yet watching the boys, he had to admit they were listening to her, following her instructions. The smart remarks and clowning had stopped. For nearly a week now, he’d come by for a few minutes every day, just to check on her methods and the team’s progress. It wasn’t sensational, but it wasn’t shabby, either.

      He’d stayed mostly out of sight, seeing that she was too occupied to notice his brief visits. A couple of the guys had glanced up, but they hadn’t come over. He’d noted that she was tough on discipline, something he tried to instill in his basketball team as well. He’d checked with several of the fellows off campus about how they were getting along, and except for the usual grumblings about workouts and diet, none had really complained about Pam specifically.

      Patrick watched her toss down her clipboard and leap into the air to catch a stray ball, her movements clean and sure, yet gracefully feminine. She was cute rather than beautiful. Not that he was here because of Pam as a woman. He owed it to his boys to keep an eye on their new coach, that was all. Leaning against the back bleacher, he saw her call them into a loose huddle and wondered what she was saying.

      * * *

      “THAT LAST PLAY was lousy,” Pam said, hands on her hips, eyes on her players. “Where’d you learn to hand off like that, B.J.?”

      “From Coach McCormick.”

      Pam turned aside thoughtfully. This had come up before and she’d ignored it. No more, she decided as she paced a short distance and returned to address them. “I told you from the start that we would learn to play football all over and that we’d be winners. I want you to forget everything else you’ve been told—no matter who told it to you—and do things my way. I’m not saying I’m always right. But doing plays the old way, you wound up near the cellar in the standings. Let’s try the new way and see if it works. If it doesn’t, I’ll bow out. Is that fair?”

      Exchanging uneasy and skeptical glances, the boys nodded.

      “Okay, then. Let’s run that play over again. On three, B.J., and I want to see some blocking, defense.” She jogged off the field and turned to watch them move into formation.

      Pam was hunched down observing, so deeply absorbed she didn’t hear anyone approach. The play went off beautifully, and B.J.’s receiver, Todd, caught the throw and ran clear. “That’s more like it,” she shouted out.

      “Where’d you learn that play?” Patrick asked from behind her.

      Startled, she nearly fell over from her awkward position. Rising, she glared at him. “What are you doing, sneaking up on me?”

      “I didn’t sneak. I walked around the field in plain view. I repeat, where’d you learn that play?”

      Pam wiped her damp palms on her sweatpants. “What difference does it make? It works and that’s what’s important.”

      “The plays Dale and I taught them last year worked, too, and most of the team know them backward and forward.”

      “If they worked so well, why did the team wind up in sixth place in a field of eight?”

      Patrick made a dismissing gesture. “Couldn’t be helped. We had a lot of injuries, our best running back moved out of town halfway