I stand behind my usual seat across from his desk and wait. Fitch leans back in his chair and looks at me for a long moment. He takes his cap off. Puts it back on. A man composing himself. “Jamie.” He sighs from somewhere deep. “I’m balding. Did you know that? I’m balding and my doctor says my blood pressure is elevated and I have a seven year old at home who just discovered the word why.” He points at me. “You. You used to make my life easier. What happened?”
“Coach—”
"That was a rhetorical question. Sit."
I sit and he looks at me for a long moment.
"I have nothing new to say to you," he continues. "You know what you did. You know what happens next time. You know what happens if this doesn’t get resolved." He folds his hands. "What I need from you today is simple. You're going to get to know this team. Really know them. And you're going to figure out whatever is happening between you and Callahan and you're going to fix it. Not for me. Not for the captaincy." He holds my gaze. "For yourself. Because the person who walked into that coffee shop yesterday is not someone I recognize and I don't think you do either."
Silence.
"Yes, Coach."
"Good." He opens a drawer. More antacids. "Get out."
I get up.
"Jamie."
I stop.
"Be better than him, this isn’t you," he says.
I don't ask which him he means. We both know. I nod once and walk out before he can see what that does to my face.
Chapter 20
Rhys
“Blake.”
Silence from the other room.
“Blake, I’m having a bad morning.”
More silence. The bratty kind.
I stare at the ceiling of my bedroom and consider my options. “Okay, fine. But if I don’t get pancakes I’m going to be a moody little bitch all day. And I don’t have class. So I’ll just be here. All day.”
My door flies open. Blake stands in the doorway holding a spatula, hair still messy, staring at me with the expression of a man calculating whether I’m worth the murder charge.
I stare back, daring him.
He crosses the room and launches himself onto my bed.
We wrestle like absolute idiots for thirty seconds and I feel marginally better by the time we’re both lying there out of breath, staring at opposite walls. He holds the spatula up between us. “Fine. Pancakes. But you clean up after.”
“Absolutely not. Look how sad I am.”
“Then no pancakes.”
I glare at him. He stares back, completely unmoved. Blake has gotten to know me well enough to know all my angles and is immune to every single one of them. I hate him sometimes.
“Fine,” I mutter.
He points the spatula at me. “And you tell me why you came home soaking wet last night with your face looking like that.”
I groan into the pillow.
