The Coach's Wife

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She would sit in the stands like she always did and cheer her man on. Her voice would be loudest, yelling, "Let's go, CARD-INALS, Hold 'em, Hold 'em, Hold 'em!" The sweltering Texas sun and the freezing November air wouldn't stop her from standing when the cheerleaders or football players waved their arms up and down. She knew all of the cheers, all of the plays, all of the players. She was their biggest fan; she was as reliable as the game clock; she was sturdy and steadfast and proud. Her name was Miranda Sutton. She was a coach's wife.

The season was just into November, and the Logan Christian Academy Cardinals had yet to win a single Varsity game. But Miranda had been to every home game, cheered and stomped and yelled her voice hoarse. For tonight's game against the Tuberville Trojans, the Cardinals' last home game, her husband had told her to be sure to wear her red sweatshirt. She came alone into the stadium that Friday night (Kylie and Peyton, her kids, were at home with a babysitter), and after her usual greeting to Tracy, the official ticket-taker, she set up her stadium seat and waited for everyone to arrive. However, her stomach churned with anxiety as she watched the entrance ramp out of the corner of her eye. There was always the one, albeit small possibility that he might show up. Even though she had yet to see him.

Sometimes Miranda felt alone up in the stands, but she convinced herself she really wasn't. She knew plenty of the players' families, the other huddled popsicles around her, their breath puffing white before them. She had friends from high school and college who would visit her at games, and relatives of her husband who would join her. And the other coaches' wives were there, too, of course, even if she didn't always see them. They were a community of believers, and Miranda was one of the most cherished, the most caring, the most faithful (until recently, but no one knew about that). Maybe her teeth were a little crooked, and her drawl gave away her humble beginnings, but she was blonde and perky and her voice was just loud enough to be heard, and not hated. She kept to herself so that most people didn't know her name, but they knew her husband was out there on the field, so she was one of them.

When the crowds had filled the bleachers, and the game had begun, she watched the cheerleaders and, as always, thought back with nostalgia to her volleyball days in high school. She was an All-District setter in the tiny town of Sand Springs, Texas -- always had the knack of knowing when someone else needed her -- and had continued to play until her sophomore year in college, when she and Kenny had gotten married. Sure, now she found time even with kids to make it up to the YMCA for her Yoga and Spinning classes, but there was something about the excitement of the high-school game that she missed, that tension in the air, like there was tonight. Miranda's kids were home schooled (they couldn't afford LCA tuition, even with the discount), and she taught physical education to kindergartners with the local Home School Organization twice a week. She thought it was ironic how, in a way, she was a coach, too, even if it was just teaching little girls the rules of kickball. Her husband didn't really think of it that way, either. She never saw him much as it was, what with middle-school games on Thursdays and high school games on Fridays, strategic film-watching sessions on Saturdays, and practice well into the evenings. He joked that, "I only have to work on nights that end in y's." It was better that way, not to make a big deal of it. But on nights when she didn't have the company of family or friends, she felt corralled, surrounded by so many fans, as tonight, and she did feel alone. But she loved watching her husband's back, his hulking movement from one end of the line of players to the other. She felt like she was really in the game, watching him, that she was a major player; she wasn't just another cow in the herd of supporters. And she wasn't a tramp, she told herself -- her past infidelity could be forgiven with the zeroes on each new game clock.

*

His name was Eric Johnson. He was a single father, and his son, Jake, was six, Peyton's age. She should have known by the way his dark hair was perfectly disheveled, the way he wore a bright blue tie over his striped shirt in a way that was at once retro and casual, that she would be attracted to him. He planned parties for big companies, and had that rebellious air about him that she had loved in other men she had dated before getting married. Eric was just so damned interesting, the way he would come to the home-school parties and talk about his parties, all-night fetes with sangria and paella and mojitos, words that rolled around in his mouth before they left his lips. She couldn't stop staring at his mouth.

*

Miranda turns around when she hears her name in the stands, her first name, and she almost doesn't recognize it spoken aloud in this setting. It is Susan Jacobson, the head football coach's wife and elementary-school teacher at LCA. Susan has two older twin girls who have just gone off to UC-Irvine to play basketball, and a younger son who paints his entire body red for each game. She had wiped tears from her eyes during the game last month when two toddlers in tiny LCA cheerleader outfits had walked by. As the cheerleading sponsor for LCA, Susan usually sits up front, but tonight she is standing in the midst of a bunch of people, relatives maybe, about halfway back up the risers toward the press box.

"Hey girl," Susan yells, seated behind Miranda.

Miranda turns and smiles, relieved. "Hey, Susan," she yells back. "How are you?"

"I've been trying to get your attention all night. I was thinking about you," Susan answers. Miranda looks up at her quizzically.

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