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I give him a sidelong glance. “Don’t be.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. His broad shoulders slump a little. “That wasn’t my best work.”
I don’t reply because I won’t lie. It was bad and we both know it.
“So, uh, let’s talk about anything else. Like that text. Can I assume you want to talk to me about my crotch?” he asks hopefully.
I smack him on the shoulder, then wince. “Ouch. That hurt me more than it hurt you. Everything hurts this morning.”
“Sorry for your day. Been there, done that.” He nods sympathetically. “Glad to be on the sober path.”
“I bet. And no, I have nothing to say about your crotch. Jerk. Your coach. I need to talk to you about your coach. I wanted to tell you that your father called me last night and he found out some terrible things about Coach Hartley.”
Mason’s lips slam into a thin line and his eyes narrow. When he doesn’t say anything, I forge ahead.
“Apparently, he has been behind all of this crapola with your mother, Lexi, and even Amanda. He’s been trying to divide the team because he was getting sacked ...” Mason does not look surprised. “You were the easy target.”
Mason is nodding in agreement.
“Why are you not looking surprised?” I ask.
“Because my father told me all of this already.”
I run my fingers through my hair, squinting at him blearily. “I don’t understand. After the game?”
“Before the game. Part of the reason I played so badly. I was mad as hell. It took everything I had not to pound the coach’s face in. Hartley doesn’t know that I know yet. I’m just trying to decide what to do about it.” He nods to himself. “Probably pound his face in. Yeah, I like that plan.”
“Wait,” I protest, lifting both hands. “Your father made this big crazy deal about how I had to call you and there was no way you’d listen to him about it, and that you probably wouldn’t even believe it coming from him, because you were mad at him or something ...”
Mason is shaking his head in puzzlement. “Nope. I’m not mad at my father at all. Why would he say that?”
I close my eyes, trying to stave off the headache from hades.
“I’m asking myself the same question,” I groan.
“We discussed it thoroughly, he asked what I was going to do, I told him I was going to shove my hockey stick up Coach Hartley’s ass, he suggested I not do that, et cetera and so on. I did end up agreeing that would be a terrible thing to do to my hockey stick ... oh, man.” Now he’s chuckling to himself.
“What? And no, please don’t get yourself arrested.”
Mason smiles. “My father lied to you so that you’d have to text me and I’d come over here. He likes you a lot.”
“Ahhh ...” The light dawns on me. I would have figured it out a lot faster if I weren’t so hung over.
“There’s more,” he continues. “I should have told you this from the beginning, but I can never think clearly when my mother’s around. She, uh, she pulled a real number on me at our meeting, had me thinking that everything was actually sunshine and roses—I know,” he says wryly, seeing the look on my face. “I actually believed that. She spun this whole story about her sad childhood, which it turns out was a total lie. She had me pitying her. I’m the worst kind of idiot.”
Anger surges, momentarily blinding me from the pounding in my head. What a piece of work his uterus landlord turned out to be. It’s not fair for any child to have to live with a parent that sucks as bad as she does.
“No, that’s not it at all. Every kid loves their parents, even parents who don’t deserve it. You wanted to believe the best of her.” I shake my head vigorously. “She’s an absolute word that rhymes with witch. I’m sorry she did that to you.”
“Well, at least I finally found out why she was back in town. Coach Hartley knows how much having her here messes with my head, so I’m sure he was paying for her to stay in a hotel. And it turned out she was working with Amanda and had hired a private investigator to follow us to get pictures of me and you.”
I gasp. “W… what?”
He sucks on his teeth for a moment, peering at me as though he’s trying to determine where my mental state is at the moment. I look down at my state of dress and realize I probably look extra unhinged. I try not to squirm under his perusal, but it’s no use. Thankfully, he doesn’t comment and continues on with the deets.
“The PI got a picture of us together in front of my apartment building, kissing. Which was stupid of me. Not kissing you, of course—that’s always amazing.” He looks at me. “She sent the pictures of us to Amanda.”
That cockroach.
