Honey:I confirmed the enrollment. September 3rd. I'll explain everything when I see you. I'm getting off the ship soon.
Olivia:CONFIRMED???? Honey. Get your butt back to Atlanta because I need to hug you and I also need to know everything!
Honey:Soon. My flight to you is this afternoon. Will be there by dinner.
Olivia:Love you, Honey.
Honey:Love you too.
Mike:Full disclosure: we have a houseguest arriving this evening. I’m informing you now to avoid a repeat of your last... emotional response.
Zach:I know.
Mike: You know?Who told you? We played Rock, Paper, Scissors in the group chat and I lost.
Zach:She did.
Mike:She did? As in Olivia?
Zach:No. Honey.
Mike typing...
Mike:Wait, are you guys talking again?
Zach:We never stopped.
Mike:So what does this mean for me? Are mom and dad back together?
Zach:We aren’t mom and dad; that’s you and Olivia. In approximately four weeks, to be precise.
Mike:As cute as it is that you remember the soon-to-be birth of my child, you still haven’t answered my question.
I let out a low laugh, knowing full well I can't get away with anything when it comes to him.
“Evans!” Coach Masters yells so loudly that the entire locker room goes still. I stop typing and slowly pull my gaze to Coach, who's standing at the entrance door, tapping his foot impatiently.
“Yes, Coach?” I say, unbothered. He’s an asshole, but the team can’t know I hate the guy.
He lifts his clipboard and stalks through the locker room. “With me. Now.”
The rest of the room is silent as I stuff my phone in my bag, grab my helmet and follow him out to the tunnel that leads to the stadium.
The team watches me go, a few whispering ‘good luck’ as I pass them. If the last few days have taught me anything, it’s that Coach likes to rant, and apparently, I get the brunt of them because I’m ‘his quarterback.’
Still, better he yell at me than someone else who can’t handle it.
My gaze drifts to Owen Wilfork, our defensive captain, who’s sitting on the bench, not making eye contact with anyone. I’ve only known the guy for a few days, but it’s obvious he’s not taking the criticism well. Who would? Coach Masters has been yelling at him for two years straight. That’s got to take its toll on anyone and affect their performance.
“What's up, Coach?” I ask as I approach him in the tunnel.
He’s looking through his handwritten notes with his brows furrowed. “Zach,” he says calmly. “We need to talk.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Look, you had a good session on Tuesday. Your reads were good, and your ball placement was sharp,” he says, focused on his notes.
“Thank you, Coach,” I say, nodding, surprised to hear anything positive out of that man’s mouth.
