We find him just finishing his breakfast, alone in a corner in the sunshine. He watches us approach, his wrinkled face kept carefully blank.
Coach Allen is an old man. Trey exaggerated when he said he was a hundred, but there’s a reason he threw out that number; that’s about how old he legitimately looks. His head is completely bald and wrinkled, his face sags with heavy jowls, and the skin on his hands has that thin, papery look that the elderly get, their bones protruding prominently through the surface in an almost disconcerting way. But while his body is showing more wear than his years should allow, his mind is sharp as a knife. I can see it in his eyes, in the way he watches me sit down across from him and his breakfast.
Hollis pulls my chair out for me, a show of manners that makes me cringe a little inside knowing the entire room saw it, but I let him do it because Coach Allen is old school. He doesn’t subscribe to the new thinking of men and women being equal. He thinks a man should be a gentleman and a woman should be a lady, so I remind myself to watch my fucking mouth.
“Coach Allen,” I greet him with a cordial smile.
He nods to me. “Ms. Ashford. Hollis. I’m not surprised to see you two. I hear I met with two of your guys already.”
Hollis smiles proudly. “Three if you count Larkin.”
“He’s a good player,” Allen replies vaguely. “Is he why you’re here or are we talking about one of the others?”
I turn to Hollis, waiting for him to take the lead. He’s the senior agent, and while I know Coach Allen socially, Hollis has worked with him before. It’s better if he’s the one to present the initial package.
He sits forward on the table, folding his hands together. “Actually, Coach, I’d like to talk to you about Kurtis Matthews.”
Coach Allen’s eyes show his excitement for all of .3 seconds. A blip on the screen is all it is, but it’s there. It’s exactly what we were looking for and it’s all we need.
“What about him?” he asks calmly.
“How would you like to get him back in California?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Come on, Coach,” Hollis scolds. “We both know you regret giving him up.”
“I regret that I had to give him up, but it had to happen.”
“He’s ready to come back.”
Coach Allen narrows his eyes at Hollis. “Do you know why he left?”
“I do. And he has it under control.”
“In Montana.”
“Where he’s unhappy and misused. He can control it here. He’s older now. Wiser. It’s been two years. He’s ready to come home.”
“You’ve talked to him about this?”
“Not what we’re proposing specifically, but I’ve talked to him about getting out of Montana almost every day for the last year. He says he’d go anywhere, and if I tell him he’s got a shot at playing for you again, he’d be on the next plane out.”
Allen ponders Hollis’ words, his eyes never leaving the younger man’s face. I sit motionless while they size each other up until finally the coach shoves his plate to the side, reaching for his coffee.
“Talk to me about what you’re thinking.”
“I want to get you Trey Domata,” I tell the coach confidently.
He chuckles dryly. “First you tell me I can have Matthews back, now you’re offering me Domata? What’s next? A first round Draft pick?”
“Yes.”
He quiets as it occurs to him that I’m serious. He takes a sobering sip of his coffee. “How?”
“Trade with Montana for their number four pick as well as Kurtis Matthews. You can take Trey in the first round and get the quarterback you need as well as the tight end you never should have been without.”
“And what would I have to give up to get all of this?”
“Duncan Walker.”
Coach sets his cup down heavily. “You want me to trade away a super star for a first round draft pick and a tight end who has barely touched toe to field in the last year?”
“Yes,” I reply, undaunted by his minimization of the benefits. It’s a tactic, not the truth, and we all know it. “With Matthews you know what you’re getting. A star almost as bright as Walker. He shined in your program, but the Miners don’t know how to use him. He’s dying in there, his talents completely wasted. He could be just as valuable to you as Walker once he’s up and running again. And the first round pick gets you Trey Domata, a quarterback with a cannon that we all know you desperately need. There’s no way he’ll still be around by the time your second round pick comes up. Your only shot at him is in the first, and all you have to give up is a thorn in your side and your program is flush again.”
“Except I’ll be short a running back.”
“Pick up a new one in the second round. You’ll still have your pick.”
He chews on that for a minute, leveling me in that startling blue stare of his. Finally he stands. Hollis and I stand with him.
“I’ll think about it,” he promises vaguely. “You get Kurtis on the horn and confirm for me that he wants to come back to California, and I’ll give it some real thought.”