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Chapter 23
Brady
I’ve never had a more satisfying breakfast. I’m still replaying the highlights in my head when I feel a buzzing sensation in the back of my pants.
Excited, I whip my cell out of my pocket. It could be Izzie, sending me a sexy photo of her Lucky Charms. God, I hope so.
When the nameCoach McGoyappears on my screen, however, I can feel myself wilting—physically and emotionally.
If anything could make me lose my breakfast, it’s a text from my coach. I brace myself and click on the alert to open the message.
All he’s written is, “Call me. Now.”
No smiley face. No explanation.
I have a feeling this call will ruin my appetite for lunch, as well.
An angry voice is the last thing I want to hear right now, but I gird my loins and push the button anyway.
Coach picks up on the first ring. “McGoy here.”
“This is Brady. You rang?” I slap on a fake smile and try my best to sound chipper.
I have no idea why he’s calling me so early, but if I pretend everything is normal, maybe he will, too.
“Brady. Where are you right now?”
He sounds like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed—the cold, empty side without a hot lady to warm him. I feel bad for him but not enough to tell him where I am or—more importantly—where I’ve been.
“Oh, I’m out and about. Why?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re in my office. How soon can you get here?”
“Well, that might take a while, you see, because…”
“Let me rephrase that. Stop what you’re doing and come to my office. NOW!”
“I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.” I hang up before he can throw in anything else.
* * *
When I finally arrive in his office, Coach is snoozing in his chair with his feet propped up on the desk and the lights off.
With the help of the morning sunshine filtering through Coach’s half-closed blinds, I can see that he’s wearing fuzzy bedroom slippers instead of the recommended footwear of our official sponsors.
It only gets worse from there. His hair is messy, his shirt is untucked, and even more than usual, he looks like hell.
The chair in front of his desk squeaks a bit when I sit down, and he startles.
“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
“Brady! Where the hell have you…?”
Coach feels around his desk for a light switch. Finding the chain attached to the light bulb on his desk lamp, he pulls it down hard, illuminating our side of the room.
“Here I am,” I announce. “What can I do for you?”
Coach leans in and rests his elbows on the desk, folding his hands just under his chin.
