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I went quiet, about ready to hang up.
“In hockey players. Obviously,” he said, but there was an edge to his voice.
“I don’t have time for this.”
“It’s common courtesy, man. If you’re sneaking around talking to my prospects—”
“They’re notyouranything,” I said, my voice low. “It is up to these athletes where they want to end up.”
“Kid from Green Bay? Power forward? He’s in too deep with my program. Lay off him. Kid gets confused easily.”
“I’m not having this conversation.”
“No conversation necessary,” he said. “Why don’t you just drop by tonight. I’m having a little get together. A few kids you might not know yet. Boosters have been generous this year. Happy to spread the wealth. Make good investments.” His meaning couldn’t be more clear.
“I’m not interested.”
“Don’t be like that,” he said with a sloppy laugh.
“Don’t call me again,” I said and hung up the phone.
The whole exchange left me pissed off and uneasy. I didn’t say anything I shouldn’t have. I should report it. But that wouldn’t exactly endear me to any of the other local coaches who might respect him. Or the recruits who just want to play.
When I get back to Portland, I’ll go talk to compliance and see if they think there’s anything I should do.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t gotten the talk about using protection,” Mackenna, our strength trainer, laughs, elbowing Bishop in the ribs.
I don’t really want to know what they’re talking about. The ribbing might be funny at the start of a road stretch, but now, after spending the past two weeks on the scouting trail with these guys, I’m about over it.
Of course, the key difference this off-season is I have someone waiting for me at home. There’s only so much our FaceTime chats can do. Not every night works with my unpredictable schedule, but as often as I can, we chat about our days and then she touches herself the way I tell her to. I get myself off to her falling apart on my small screen.
The nights she’s already asleep or we miss each other, I have a few choice photos and videos she’s let me take. Of course, the one from Vegas when she was wrapped up like a sexy little present is basically a sure thing.
“What’cha got there, Coach?” Bishop says, leaning over the conference room table.
I realize that I’ve unintentionally flipped to that exact photo, my eyes fixed on the wetness—my own release—dripping down her thighs. I shut off the phone and put it face down on the table next to my beer.
“Who’s up first?” I say, ignoring Bishop’s shit-eating grin as he takes a long drag of his beer.
Freddy starts with a list of prospects he’s seen over the past week, ranking them in order of viability. He’s only been with us for a year, and he’s finishing up some credits to earn his bachelor’s degree after leaving the league due to a knee injury, and yet he has better instincts on what makes for a viable recruit than most of the other guys on my staff.
“I really like this kid out of Duluth Central,” he says.
“Yeah, you and every other coach with two brain cells to rub together,” Bishop says, rolling his eyes. “He’s ranked ninth nationally.”
But Freddy shakes his head. “No, not him. Hemsworth.”
“Who?” Bishop frowns and I study the kid’s stats.
He’s just starting his senior year and hasn’t committed yet. But he’s a solid defenseman who can skate faster than even Freddy could in his heyday.
“Are these times for real?” I ask.
“Took them myself,” Freddy says. “Kid’s got great instincts, and I think he’s going to keep being overlooked because he’s undersized.”
“That’s for good reason. He’s only five-ten, one ninety?” Bishop says.
“But he’s smart,” Freddy says.
