The Hardest Cut, Jamie Bennett [howl and other poems TXT] 📗

had to be one of the Woodsmen.  He was football-sized—no, not the size of the ball, but definitely the height and physique of a player, which we could see because he was in workout clothes.  His sleeveless shirt showed off a lot of tanned skin (unusual after our long Michigan winter) and hard muscle, as did the shorts he wore.  I couldn’t place where he was on the team, but I figured him to be a backup QB behind Davis Blake or maybe a tight end because he was big and tall, but without the bulk of one of the guys on the line.  But he looked only vaguely familiar, and I was sure that I knew all faces on the roster.  I stared at him, wondering who he was.  And also, because he was super handsome.

“You’re not getting in the way of anything,” my new acquaintance purred at him.  “Hi there.  I’m Addison.”

“Ben,” he told her absently.  “Hey, Lyle.  Can I get through here?” he called over our heads.

“Ladies, make a hole for Coach Ben,” Lyle directed.

“I already have one ready for him,” Addison muttered, and I snorted a shocked laugh.

This guy, Coach Ben, turned his head quickly toward me and his dark brown eyes briefly looked into mine.  “Hi,” he said, and I nodded back, opening my mouth to return the hello just as he strode through the space the women had created.

“Who was that?” a voice asked as Coach Roberts’ office door closed behind him, but I had already remembered why his face had rung a bell with me.

“That was Benjamin Matthews, our new quarterbacks coach,” Lyle answered.  “Starting with us this season and we’re all glad to have him.”

Benjamin Matthews, I repeated in my mind.  Ben.  Coach.

“What are the rules about cheerleaders going after coaches?” Addison whispered to me.  “Because damn, I’d like to have a taste of that.  Who is he again?”  She started scrolling around the official Woodsmen football site on her phone.

“His picture isn’t up on the website yet,” I told her.  “The team put out a press release last week about hiring him and he just started here, replacing the old QB coach who retired.”  He had played in college for a while, but he’d quit, I thought.  Or something had happened.  “His brother, Kayden Matthews, used to be the backup quarterback for the Woodsmen and he got the start when Davis Blake was injured a few seasons ago.  When Davis’ knee was healed, Kayden got traded to the Rustlers.”  I also realized why I’d felt a flare of recognition when I’d heard Coach Ben speak: he had laughed in the deep, growly chuckle back in the auditorium when Rylah had invited us to check out how democracy worked in Cuba.  I looked after him, at the closed door of the office.

“How do you know all that stuff about football?” Addison asked me, amazed.

I shrugged, more surprised that she didn’t know it herself.  What had she been doing with her time besides keeping up with the Woodsmen news?  On top of that, cheerleaders were supposed to know all about the football team they were supporting.  “I like the Woodsmen,” I said simply.  They had always been a huge part of my life.

Lyle held up his radio to his ear and nodded at the air as he listened.  “Ok, ladies, it’s time to head back to the main lobby,” he called to us.  “The judges want to talk about who’s moving to the next round.”  He held up his hands when the big crowd surged forward and clamoring voices asked who had gotten through.  “I don’t know what the results are,” he announced loudly, “but you’ll find out soon.  Let’s go.”  He started at a quick pace back through the huge stadium complex and we all followed, nipping at his heels until we reached the cavernous lobby where we had entered that morning.

The woman who had met us back then, the one who had handed out the numbers we had pinned to our bra tops, now stood outside the auditorium doors.  She waited calmly until everyone stopped talking, which didn’t take long.  A nervous hush settled quickly over the crowd.

“First, I’d like to thank you all for coming down here today and putting in the effort.  The panel of judges agreed that you ladies are the strongest group we’ve ever had try out for the squad, and you’re going to give the returning cheerleaders a real run for their money when you dance against them.  Let’s have a round of applause for all of you.”

We clapped, briefly.  We wanted to know.  The group pressed forward, and I saw lots of crossed fingers, closed eyes, and moving lips in prayer.

“I’m going to call out the numbers of the women who will be going on to the next round of auditions, in no particular order.  There are…”  She paused, and looked down at her tablet.  “I’m just counting up how many of you made it through,” she explained, and stuck the microphone under her arm to move the pad of her index finger on the screen.

Come on, I pleaded in my mind.  Come on and tell us!

“Right, yes, there are twenty-two of you who got past the prelims today,” she stated, and pointed at the closed doors to the auditorium behind her.  “If your number is called, please line up here.”

Twenty-two?  Only twenty-two out of over a hundred and fifty women standing here?  Oh, gravy.

She looked back down at her screen.  “Ready?  Ok, here we go,” she said into the microphone, and then she started calling numbers like an auctioneer. “Seventy-six.  One-oh-four.  Lucky thirteen!”

Number thirteen jumped like someone had poked her with a stick, but everyone seemed to be taking the news differently.  Nine squealed, sixty-two grabbed the person next to her so she didn’t fall down, thirty-eight swore (which earned her a frown from the woman announcing the results).  Forty-five sighed, “Hallelujah!” and went dead white.  When Addison’s number got called, she yelled, “Yes!”