Taste of Commitment (Whisky and Risky #2)

8. Knox

Knox

Taylor’s body continues to get smaller and smaller in the distance, but I couldn’t peel my eyes away if I wanted. My view is unfortunately interrupted by a much uglier face of a man who is twice my age and then some.

“Careful buddy, you stare any harder, she’s gonna know you like her.”

“Just enjoying the view,” I quip.

“Mhmm,” Coach Campbell extends his hand to me, and I look down at it, slightly offended. “I know it’s a little pale and freckly, but goddamn, it’s not that bad.”

I bypass his handshake and pull him into me. He returns my hug with a pacifying back slap that makes me grin.

“Alright, there, there.”

I smile at his lack of affection and pull back.

“It’s good to see you, Coach. How’ve you been?”

“Same as I ever was,” he says, putting his hands on his hips.

“Good. So, what’s up? I heard you were looking for me.”

“Well, I need a little help down at the pitch, and I was hoping if you’re going to be around a while, you might be interested.”

I don’t know what I expected him to say, but if I had to have made a guess, that wouldn’t have even cracked the top ten reasons why he was seeking me out.

“What kind of help?”

“Gardening,” he deadpans. “Coachin’, of course.”

“Coach, I’m—” I move my hand in front of me, searching for the words, but revealing nothing. “I’m flattered, but just because I know how to play doesn’t mean I know anything about coaching a team. Or… kids, for that matter.” I think I just physically recoiled.

“First of all, don’t flatter yourself. I need help, and I was going to ask Sophie, but she’s got that wedding of hers coming up.” I hide my laugh. I’m not trying to give him any false encouragement. “And second, don’t say ‘kids’ like that. They’re teenagers. They aren’t running around with peanut butter on their faces.”

He’s serious.

I rub my hand across my mouth, trying to make sense of what he’s asking of me. Coaching was never on my radar, but the more I think about it, that’s likely what I’d be doing if I get the chance to go back to my old team in London.

“I can see you’re hesitant,” he says.

“It’s just that I’m not sure how long I’ll be back for.” His eyebrow quirks up, and it’s clear that he was under a different impression. “I mean, I’m doing my physical therapy in town, which locks me down for at least a few weeks. After that, I don’t know.” I leave the rest unsaid.

“I understand, but while you’re healing, might as well give yourself something else to focus on, huh?”

“I think recovery is going to take pretty much all of my attention. ”

“Maybe.” He crosses his arms at his chest and looks around. “But you already lost yourself in this sport once. You plan on doing it again?”

My head rears back just slightly. I’m not sure what he knows or how he even knows anything in the first place, about how much I’ve given up over the years, but I shouldn’t be surprised. My absence in town has apparently not gone unnoticed, and now I’m back, alone and with nothing—if his intention was to give me a little kick in the ass, I think it worked. The problem is this sport is who I am. Rugby is an extension of me and without it, I don’t even know who Knox Browning is. That is the main reason that I’ve been so lost over these past few weeks. All I’ve ever focused on was rugby. Training, preparing, and making it big. Even if I wanted to focus on something else, I don’t think I remember how to.

“You really think that I could coach just because I played well?”

“You didn’t just play well, Knox. You were a goddamn all-star. But—” His thick brows furrow as he looks down at the ground. When he tilts his head back up to meet my eyes, I see an understanding there. “Sometimes it’s not all about the drills.”

I’ve never actually been a coach, but it seems like that’s exactly what it would be about. “As a coach, I’ve learned just as much from these lads as I’ve taught some of them. If not

more.”

Classic Coach Campbell, speaking in riddles. Although, this is one riddle I don’t think I care to solve. The corner of his lip pulls up in a tight-lipped smile, but by the way his posture drops, it’s clear he thinks his efforts to sway me were in vain. His weathered hand pats my shoulder to signify the end of the conversation, and he begins to make his way back toward his truck.

I stand, unmoving, even as the wind picks up enough to bring me back to reality, and the branches of willow trees sway in the breeze. I feel crazy saying I heard encouragement dancing in the whispers of a gust of wind, so I blame it on my loyalty to my old coach when I turn around and lift my good arm over my head.

“I’ll think about it!” I call out.

He pauses, his hand on the door. He dips his head with a knowing smile. “Good lad. I’ll need an answer by Monday. Otherwise, I’ll be visiting Miss Sophie with the same pitch.”

He climbs up into his truck and puts off down the hill, and miraculously the wind tapers off into a peaceful silence.

I rush back up to the main house as soon as I can, hoping to run into Taylor again. I pause at the bottom of the stairs, one arm on the banister, before I swing over it and decide to scope out the kitchen first. I stand at the swinging door, looking for the source of the noise I thought I heard a moment ago, but the room appears to be empty of people.

“Looking for someone?”

“Jesus, Mum.” I bring my hand to my chest, whirling around. “What are you doing hiding in the corner like that?”

“I’m not hiding, I was trying to get this dish out but it’s got too much heavy stuff on it.” Her shaky hand points to the hutch in the corner. I move toward the old piece of furniture. My hand looks like a bear's paw compared to the delicate, original brass handles on the navy blue cabinets. I start pulling out large glass bowls and the other ‘heavy stuff’ that my mum was struggling with. “So you going to tell me who you were looking for? ”

I peer up at my mom and point to an old hand-painted ceramic casserole dish.

“This the one you were looking for?”

She raises a hand to her face, sheiling a guilty smile and I only now notice that her knuckles seem to be rather swollen. I carry the dish to the sink and wash it off before setting it on the counter for her.

“When’s your first physical therapy?”

“A few days,” I shrug.

“Have you met Riley yet?”

“Riley?”

“She took over for Old—” Her eyes go wide but she recovers quickly. “Walter Murphy. She's a wonderful girl. Really funny, too.”

“I haven’t met her yet, but Liam seems like he might very well throw himself down a flight of stairs to break his leg just to have a date with her.”

“That boy.” My mum's soft laughter fills the kitchen, and something squeezes in my chest. It’s been years since I’ve been in the kitchen alongside her—more than half my lifetime ago, but it still feels like only yesterday when my mini grubby hands were reaching for things on this same butcher counter.

“Yeah, I—” I freeze, watching her scrub potatoes. “Wait, how do you know Riley?”

“I saw her for a short while after my surgery,” she says like it’s no big deal. Like it’s common knowledge. My heart rate accelerates and my molars grind together because I’m definitely only hearing it for the first time.

“What surgery?” She ignores me, shimmying herself between me and the counter, politely shoving me back. “Mum. ”

“I had a minor surgery on my hands last year. It was supposed to help with the arthritis.”

“And did it?”

Her brown curly hair falls in her face as she continues dicing her potatoes and vegetables. “For a while. It didn’t make me the bionic woman by any means. But yeah, I have days now where I can do more than I was able to before the surgery.”

It feels like the room trudges to a halt, like a train on a track, running out of steam. Those same hands that used to guide my small fingers around the kitchen seem to cut and dice in agonizing slow motion, those once perfect hands now swollen and aged. I’m trying to wrap my mind around what she's telling me, but I’m thrown off by how casually she says it. I know I’ve been gone for a while but, what the fuck? How did no one think to pick up the phone and call me?

“Mum, why don’t you hire someone full-time to help you in here?” I catch the hint of panic laced through my voice.

“I’ve looked into it,” she says, bringing her chopped vegetables over to a large pot on the stove. I never would have thought twice about a fucking pot before, but now I’m concerned with how it got there and if she hurt herself in the process. “Liv helps most days when she can, and eventually, I will hire someone full-time, but I just… I just can’t hire anyone to take over my kitchen.”

I wrap my arm around her shoulders, and she slumps into my side and lets out a long breath. This kitchen has been my mum's baby since before she had babies. She started working here after secondary school, when she and my father started dating, and a handful of years later she took over from my dad’s mum. Things have changed over the decades—like the chef's stove that she had installed and smaller items here and there. But for the most part, the kitchen has remained the same. I understand—probably better than most—what she’s feeling at the thought of giving it up.

I swallow the lump in my throat and pull her in a little tighter.

“I wish you would have told me about your surgery,” I say.

“Oh honey, you were busy and it was nothing for you to worry over.” That stings almost as bad as not knowing. My family and friends have always been so supportive, but at what cost? I’m gutted that she thought she couldn’t call me because it would have inconvenienced me. I want to be upset with her, but the truth is, my attitude and my actions are the sole reason she thought she couldn’t.

We season the meat together in silence, side-by-side. Even though I’ll be leaving again eventually, I vow to myself right here and now, that I will never allow anything to consume my life again to the point that I no longer know what’s going on in my own family’s lives.