Edited, and surely not for the last time.
* * * * * * *
Ethan stood, staring at the white marker board cluttered with the red X's and blue O's of the past hour's offensive scheming. His thoughts, however, had drifted some while ago, lost in a vast realm of uncertainty. It happened often anymore.
He wasn't double-minded. Focus, determination, persistence, and ambition were among his chief attributes and for years they had drove him. He believed success was all he needed, and it showed, as many painted him its archetype. But where Ethan struggled to succeed was in answering a lingering question:
Does it matter?
He felt empty.
The shelves of his office were filled with trophies, plaques and accolades of the past. A lifetime of achievements all on display. They once meant something to him, something he measured his worth by -- the scales of recognition and accomplishment. Now, he seen them as nothing more than relics: inflaming his bitterness and reminded him of just how fleeting life is.
What have I really done with my life?
His peers, colleagues and rivals envied him -- never having achieved half of what Ethan had -- but admired and respected him all the same. How could they have known the kind of fortitude required to steel a contender into a champion? The kind of fortitude that forged Ethan into who he was. And yet Ethan seen nothing of himself worthy of recognition or envy.
Something in him had changed. Something in a place of himself that he never knew existed before. The place where he felt the tug of conflict raging inside himself.
Why do I feel like something's missing? Why do I feel like I'm going to be staring at this damn board year after year trying to achieve . . . what? Another trophy? Another title? A legacy?
His thoughts tore at him, chipping into the recesses of his mind. The tension inside him mounted up, spilling over onto the surface. He grit his teeth and clenched his fist around the whistle that dangled about his neck.
Now what? Where do I go from here?
A knock on the door quelled the riot in his mind.
"It's open," he responded. His eyes exchanged glances from the white board in front of him to the form looming in his door frame as it swung open.
It was Tiffany.
"Hey Coach. Got a minute?"
He let out a slow breath. Anxiety passing, he replied, "Yeah, sure. What's up?"
"I wanted to check in with you. See how the guys are shaping up this year. Think you'll take home another one of those?" She nodded at the lowest shelf, lined with championship trophies. His reputation wasn't lost on her, though she was in her first year coaching the Ladies team.
"We'll see." Was all he said. Though he wanted to add, "
If they can keep their heads out of their asses"
but thought better of it.
"So," she took a few steps over to the chair in front of his desk and sat down, "I've noticed lately that you and I keep about the same hours." Ethan had watched her moved and turned around to face her. "I don't know about you, but it would help me out a lot if I could save a buck here or there. So I was wondering if perhaps you would like to carpool." She paused, fidgeting in the chair. "We could give it a test run first, if you want."
Ethan's eye caught the shift in her gaze. Her hand reached for the whistle she had around her neck and pulled on it. The flaccid cord tightened. Ethan realized she had mirrored his posture and that she seemed almost worried or nervous about something. Perhaps she just didn't want to be rejected. Who does?
"Uh, sure. I don't see why not." He shrugged. "At the very least if it doesn't work out, then we could always go back to driving ourselves." He rubbed the back of his neck as he gave it a little more thought, but answered quicker than his mind had time to process.
Her face lit up. "Great! I'll pick you up in the morning and take the first week's shift then. How does seven sound?" She leaned forward and pulled the whistle back and forth like a swinging pendulum around her neck, noticeably displaying her cleavage down the tank top she had worn for practice.
Ethan's breath left him a moment. Caught somewhere between the desire to stare and the will not to. He choked down whatever was in his throat and cleared it a couple times, gaining a brief moment of time and hoping she didn't notice. "Yep. Sounds good."
Satisfied, she let go of the whistle and popped her hands on her thighs as she stood up. She smiled. Her eyes watching him as she left -- a small yet noticeable sway in her hips.
Ethan, once again alone, returned to the white marker board and tried to pick up where he had left off, but the X's and O's seemed to make even less sense than before.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Julianne held her hand to her hip as she stirred the noodles in the big pot on the stove. With the kids grown and out of the house, it seemed quiet. Ethan had not yet made it home and she looked, once again, at the clock on the stove. It seemed that his days were growing later and later, minute by minute.
She picked the pot up from off the heat of the burner and carried it over to the sink, containing a strainer in the middle of it, and strained the water from the noodles. Setting the pot down, she placed her hands on the counter in front of her and lowered her head, taking a deep breath. It didn't help. The knot she felt in her stomach was now growing into her throat. She didn't want to cry.
"Don't cry," she told herself. She had spilled enough tears over the past several years, yet still the tears formed and slipped silently down her cheeks. She couldn't stop them from spilling out.
The sob that had formed in her chest, was heaving out of her breath through the pain that was now growing in her throat. She looked at the clock through tear stained eyes.
