Odessa, Texas.
Permian High School.
Home of the Panthers.
The Mojo.
In America, Texas is synonymous with football. And in Texas, football means Permian.
Or at least it once did. But the last seven or eight years have seen the Mojo without their -- well -- mojo.
But that's all changing. Darren Allman, a member of the 1987 Mojo, is now head coach. He's guiding his quarterback, Tate Smith, to return the Mojo to their former glory.
Mojo Rising. That's their mantra now.
* * *
Thirty-five teenagers milled about, moving in and out of the shower room, in various stages of undress. Locker room banter melded into a constant din, echoing off the tiled walls and metal lockers
The stench of grass and dirt and sweat permeated the locker room, amplified by the steam billowing from the showers.
"Smith!" Mr. Faircloth yelled across the locker room. "Get your ass in here!"
Tate hurried from the showers, a small white towel wrapped around his trim waist. He ran to his locker and quickly pulled a pair of boxers over his muscular legs, up his thighs, before hastening toward the coach's office.
"Yes, sir?" he asked, standing in the doorway, water dripping down his well-defined, hairless chest. He brushed errant locks of hair from his eyes, wiping his hands on the damp towel.
"Got a few new things for you, Mr. Smith," Coach Allman intoned in a slow drawl. He was leaning back in his chair, feet propped on the scarred desk.
A conspiratorial smile spread across the senior's face. "Oh, yeah?" he asked. His body relaxed; he had been ready to be dressed down following his poor performance during practice that afternoon.
"Yeah. Mr. Faircloth and I conjured up a few ideas over the last coupla weeks. Actually, some stuff we used to run here years ago, just updated."
Tate's eyes shifted from Coach Allman to the offensive coordinator, Brandon Faircloth. "I'm all ears, Coach."
Coach Allman laughed softly. "I'm sure you are, Tate. I'm sure you are. Tell ya what, though. It's late. It's hot. You had a rough practice. Swing by the house tonight. Pick up the additions to the playbook."
The eagerness on the eighteen-year-old's face was apparent.
"Now, don't go gettin' all excited. We'll start runnin' some of this new stuff tomorrow and see how it works out. No promises. We gotta see if you can make it work." Darren Allman paused and then swung his legs off the desk. "But pick up the pages. Take a look. We'll talk about it in the mornin'."
Always eager, Tate nodded and then retreated to his locker and finished dressing, slipping into a pair of tan cargo shorts and a white polo shirt. On the way out to his pickup truck, he passed by the Permian band practicing the theme song to Hawaii 5-0.
* * *
The August sun was on its downward slide to the west, receding but no less intense for it.
After running a few errands for his mother and getting his truck washed, Tate pulled into the Allmans' driveway and shut the engine off. Pushing the door open, he dropped from the cab and casually made his way toward the front door of the ranch style home. He punched the doorbell as a trickle of sweat rolled down his back.
A few moments later, the door swung open and a gust of cool air surged from behind the screen and caressed his clean-shaven cheeks.
"Hi, Mrs. Allman," he announced with a crooked grin. On the other side of the screen, she stood barefoot with her hips cocked to one side. One hand held the door, the other perched at the top of her hip.
"And hello to you, Mr. Smith," she welcomed him, snow white teeth gleaming from between wet, shiny lips, set off by the healthy tan that highlighted high cheekbones and classic beauty.
"Uh, Coach asked me to stop by and pick up a few inserts for the playbook." Tate swallowed hard. Melanie Allman was a sight to behold; she never failed to bring a lump in his throat. A sleeveless cotton blouse, matching the color of her straight teeth, hung loosely on her torso, but still failed to disguise the ample chest that lie beneath.
"Did he now?" Coach Allman's wife asked rhetorically, a sly smile creeping along the features of her face. She leaned into the screen door and pushed it open, stepping aside to allow the young man to enter. "I think I know just where he left them."
"Um, is he here? Coach Allman, I mean?" The feminine scent of the older woman permeated his nostrils as he squeezed by her. The bicep of one of his arms brushed lightly against a jutting breast; the short blonde hairs along his forearm stood on end and his skin tingled.
"Of course, Tate," she responded, her bright blue eyes showing amusement. "He and Mr. Faircloth are out back finishing the patio. Let me just get the stuff for you from the den and then you can go on out and say hi."
Tate waited in the foyer for Mrs. Allman to return. When she did, she directed him through the kitchen and out a screen door that led to the backyard. Tate stepped outside and found Mr. Faircloth using a wet saw to cut a brick paver in half. Coach Allman knelt a few feet away, gently tapping an already-cut paver into place with a rubber mallet.
"Coach, Mr. Faircloth," he said, announcing his presence.
Both men looked up from their tasks. "How you doin', boy?" Mr. Faircloth asked, tapping the "off" button and raising the protective goggles from his eyes.
"Awright. Just came by to pick up the extra pages for the playbook. Mrs. Allman said y'all were back here workin'. Thought I'd say hi."
Coach Allman stood and shook the boy's hand before calling out to his wife. "Mel, honey, would ya bring the boy a Coke?"
"Sure thing," they all heard from somewhere in the house.
As Coach Allman explained his plans for the patio, Mrs. Allman leaned out the back door. "Need a glass, sweetie?"
"Nah. Can's just fine," he called over his shoulder. Behind him, he heard the screen door clatter shut.
She padded silently across the yard, still barefoot, and handed him the can.
"Thanks, ma'am," he offered, taking the drink from between long, slender fingers painted the same bright red as the can.
