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“Do you know why you’re here?”
“Not really.”
“Let me enlighten you, then.”
I notice his Texas drawl is even more painfully slow when he’s about to deliver a lecture.
“After a quiet evening of enjoying a fine whiskey, finishing a puzzle, and going to bed early, I awoke at the ass-crack of dawn to our PR manger alerting me that one of my so-called professional athletes was involved in an ‘incident’ that required my attention. Do you know which athlete I’m talking about?”
I don’t like the way he’s dangling this accusation in front of me like he expects me to reach out and grab it. If I were still on the East Coast, my coach would just yell at me and get it over with.
“No. Why don’t you tell me?”
“In last night’s social media storm, we discovered multiple photos of you”—he sticks his hand out and puts down one finger for each item on the list—“one, drinking in a bar past curfew; two, not following your diet; three, fraternizing with your nutritionist; and four, acting like a jackass.”
When he’s done, his middle finger is the last one standing.
“So…what does that mean?”
“It means you violated your morality clause on four different counts, and if you don’t give me one good reason not to fire you in the next five seconds, you’ll be out of here like three-alarm chili shooting out of my asshole.”
“Can I be queso instead? I’m more of a spicy cheese guy.”
“Excuse me?”
Coach is not amused. And he shouldn’t be, because I can’t deny anything he’s just said. Sure, I could lie and say the incriminating pictures belong to some other exceptionally fit and ruggedly handsome football player, but I have yet to see anyone in this town who looks like me.
Did I mention how muscular and good-looking I am?
I know I have Izzie’s nutrition advice to thank for that. It pains me to think of leaving her now after everything that’s happened, so I sincerely hope I can talk my way out of this.
“Look, coach,” I begin. “I don’t know what to say. Yes, I went to a bar. Yes, Miss Williams was there. Yes, things got rowdy. But I didn’t start the fight.”
“So, you admit you got in a fight then?”
The twinkle in coach’s eye lets me know I’m in for it now.
I slump my shoulders and bow my head in desperation. Maybe if I’d joined the speech and debate team in high school instead of playing football, I’d know how to retract that statement and defend myself more gracefully.
But the football player in me knows that the only way out of a situation like this is to barrel my way through it with my helmet down, my jockstrap on tight, and my retainer in place.
So I grit my teeth and get ready to charge.
“That’s right,” I tell him. “I fought. Some idiot couldn’t keep his hands away from Miss Williams. I thought it would be too much to ask the bartender to get involved, and in that situation, it would’ve taken way too long to wait for the cops. I wasn’t about to let him treat one of our teammates that way.” I pause, take a deep breath, and prepare to deliver the best defense of my career. “I’d do it again if I had to.”
Coach chuckles. “Oh, I know.”
“What do you mean you know?”
This guy is really hard to understand sometimes.
“Let me break it down for you.”
Coach stands up, grabs a dry erase marker, and heads over to the whiteboard on the wall opposite his desk.
He flips the switch on the wall, pops the cap off the marker, and begins to draw little circles on the board. Inside, he adds my initials, Izzie’s initials, and the numbers of several of my teammates. Around us, he draws several X's.
Finally, he draws an arrow from one circle to mine.
