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“So, you see, my number four said he saw you and Izzie talking to the culprit here”—he circles theXnext to Izzie—“and that you asked him several times to leave her alone.”
From there, Coach McGoy gives me the rest of the play-by-play, using arrows to indicate who did what and where.
“Number twenty-six saw the other guy take the first swing. He said you ducked and tried to lead Izzie out of the fray.”
“But he wouldn’t let me.”
“That’s what number eight said. According to him, the other guy was so pumped up at this point that he was bumping into everyone and everything, which is how the whole bar got turned upside down.”
“That’s true. By the time I jumped in, it was a matter of self-defense.”
Satisfied with his drawing, coach returns to his chair and pulls a stack of papers out of his desk. “You’re an idiot, a drunkard, and a pretty boy, but you’re a damn good football player. And it turns out you’re a loyal teammate, too.”
I hold my breath, waiting for the final verdict. He’s pointed out several of my flaws, but there were some compliments in there, too. I think.
“Brady, against my better judgment, I’m going to keep you on the team.” He pats the stack of papers in front of him. “The photos were posted from all different time zones, so I can argue that you may or may not have been out past curfew.”
“I was.”
“I appreciate the honesty. But with that violation out of the way, we can drop all the others as well, because in a crowded bar like that, everyone is standing too close to everyone else, and no one knows whose nachos are whose.”
All my nachos are Izzie’s nachos. I want to tell him that, but I know I shouldn’t.
He’s about to save me from yet another trade to another team in another city. There was a time when I thought I’d rather be anywhere but Texas. Now I’d give anything to stay.
“Thanks, coach. I won’t let you down.”
“You’d better not.”
