Chapter Sixteen

Tami stands in the sparsely populated bleachers of Franklin Academy for the Deaf. Her light suede jacket is zipped tight against the cool fall wind. No marching band thunders across the field for this home game, but one can hear the occasional sound of a horn from both the visitor and home side. The visitor's cheerleaders chant and yell, while the home side motivates its players with silent but graceful routines.

Gracie stands next to her cousin and his friend Cindy, whom Liam has invited to the homecoming dance that will follow the game. Gracie translates for them as they talk, and Tami wonders what their evening will be like without their little Cyrano de Bergerac to go between them. Eric said the boy's been teaching himself swing dance moves and that the body has a language of its own. "Besides," her husband reasoned, "A guy doesn't have to talk. He just has to listen."

Tami snorted when he said that.

"Hey, I'm a good listener."

"You are a good listener, babe. Some of the time. But you know, I like our conversations too." There's nothing more relaxing to her after a long week of interviews and paperwork than sitting out on the back deck with him, a bottle of wine on the table between them, the flames of the tiki candles dancing in the night air, just talking. She does do most of the talking, admittedly, but it wouldn't be nearly as fun without his feedback, his occasional sarcastic jab, and the intermittent not-so-subtle compliments that are laying the ground work for another union later.

Eric shrugged off the communication problem. "Kids today don't talk to each other anyway. They text. Even if they're sitting right next to each other."

"You're quite Liam's cheerleader, hon," Tami said with a wry smile.

"Well, he's my boy. He's watched my smooth moves for almost a year now. I don't see how he can fail."

This got more than a chuckle for Tami, but it also got a kiss and a tug on the hand to the bedroom.

This afternoon, though, Eric's bravado has vanished. His hand is dug deep in his thick hair, and the strands look like their screaming up through his fingers. His eyes are that wild wide they get when everything is down to the wire, and yet the game's barely started. He keeps looking to his assistant coaches—he only has two. And half the time he chews on his bottom lip.

Eric steps fast down the sidelines, shouts, and then stops mid-shout. He signs to the cardholders on the sideline, and they flash their color-coded signals. He gets a little overwhelmed and mixed up for a moment. Tami thinks that he looks almost like he's in the middle of performing a Charlie Chaplin routine, and she smiles sympathetically, but then she remembers that even if his players can't hear, he can. "Goooo, Coach Taylor!" she shouts.

He looks up a moment at the stands. His face flushes red and he gives her a look that says, "Damn, woman, what are you doing? I'm working here." But then he laughs, almost as if against his own will. He returns his attention to the game, and things gradually improve.

The Falcons don't win, but they lose by fourteen fewer points than they did to the same team last year. As they head back to the locker room, Eric slaps his players on the shoulders, pushes them by the heads, and otherwise tells them with violent love how proud he is of them.

Gracie asks if she can go home with a friend from her private classical school, whose older sister is deaf and a member of the Franklin cheerleading squad. The common bond of a deaf relative brought the girls close together their first week of school, as did their mutual love for Greek mythology. "She wants me to spend the night," Gracie says. "Can I? Can I please?"

Tami is more than happy to agree. With Gracie out of the house and Liam at the homecoming dance until midnight, she and Eric can have some much needed time to themselves. She works out the details with Gracie's friend's mom and then awaits her husband in the nearly cleared parking lot.

Tami leans back against the SUV, her thumbs hooked through her belt loops. Her golden brown cowgirl boots are crossed over each other, and she flashes her bright southern smile as Eric approaches, duffle bag in hand.

He drops the bag on the gravel lot, leans in, and kisses her. "I survived," he sighs.

"You more than survived," she assures him.

He smirks, kisses her cheek, and then nibbles at her earlobe. "Well, I got my own private cheerleader you know," he whispers.

His breath tickles, and she chuckles, soft and low.

"What say we go home and you, uh…show me some of your other moves?"

She grabs the lapel of his unsnapped jacket and tugs him around to the other side of the SUV. "At least be a gentleman and open my door for me first."

"Yes, ma'am." He does, and he even hands her up and shuts it for her.

When he's inside and starts the car, she puts a hand lightly on his thigh and squeezes. "Good game, hon. You'll win the next one."

He slides an arm around her shoulders, guides the steering wheel with one hand, and says, "I think I've already got the best prize a man could ask for."

"That's right, honey, I'm your prize Guernsey."

"Old material," he says. "Old material."

"Don't worry. I've got plenty of new material planned for tonight."

He licks his smiling lips, swerves a little, and then jerks his arm off her shoulders and clasps the steering wheel with both hands.

"You just have to get us home alive." She leans her head back against the head rest and thinks how far her family's come since Liam first walked silently into their house and shut himself up in their room. In two months, the whole clan, along with Julie and Matt, will be together for Thanksgiving. How much will have changed by then? Maybe the Falcons will have made it to the playoffs. Maybe she'll be Vice President of Braemore College. Who knows? Unlikely things have always happened to the Taylors. Why stop dreaming now?

THE END