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“Isn’t it enough that I give one hundred ten percent at practice and on the field?” I’d hoped he’d take my side.
“The team is a family. You’re accountable. I’ve seen guys like you before. What you do behind closed doors is our business.”
“But it’s more a matter of what I didn’t do, sir.” As in I didn’t go through with a dishonest union.
“You broke that girl’s heart.”
“You mean the assistant coach’s daughter? And a fair number of other hearts before hers.” I admit, subtly pointing out that he’s never cared about my antics until now.
“Do you care about this team?”
“Very much, sir. That’s why I couldn’t go through with it.”
He grunts and I’m not sure he’s even listening. “Do you know what this looks like for the Riptide?”
“That I’m not in it for the money. Jayda stands to be a billionaire. She could buy a husband.”
“You’re walking a fine line, McGregor,” Coach Becker warns.
I open my mouth, about to tell him what assistant coach Webster told me about my future, but hesitate. “Sir. I understand. I’ll fix this.”
“It’s that or find a new team next season.”
Or retire, but I don’t say that because it terrifies me.
Harley remains where I left her, lips parted as if shocked by the interaction.
I hang up and shove my phone in my pocket. “I’m in trouble with the team manager and the coach, the assistant coach, my agent said they might drop me from endorsements. Who knew this would have so much fallout? I talked to Brando this morning, and he asked—” Never mind. I won’t finish my thought because when he asked me about the coming attractions or the main feature, the woman standing on the opposite side of the counter kicked her way into my thoughts.
I have to clean up my act or else...or else I retire. But who am I if not the QB of the Miami Riptide?
Some guys work hard and play hard. I play hard and play hard. Now it’s been made public and my playing the game hard is not enough to erase the rumors and potential blemish on a team that’s worked to clean up its act in recent years—we’re no longer on the dirty dozen list. The Boston Bruisers make the top. Now I’m the weak link. It’s not okay.
“So, how about that PR patch-up?” I ask.
Our eyes meet and hold again as if our shared past playstogether on an invisible slide projector screen. I wasn’t always this way. Well, I was always a rascal. I admit that. But I never felt alone and rejected like I do now.
“I’ll pay you,” I offer.
“How about some free advice?” As if unable to remain still under my gaze, Harley starts to clean up in the dining room.
Trailing her, I adjust the chairs and pick up straw wrappers and stray napkins off the floor. “That’s generous.”
“You probably won’t like it.”
I brush my hands together and then point finger guns. “I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”
“Okay, here goes. Do the opposite of whatever you’ve been doing,” Harley says simply.
“What do you mean, what I’ve been doing? I’ve been doing great.”
“They’ve been so great the assistant coach arranged your marriage?” she asks with an air ofI gotcha!
I tip my head from side to side. “I worked hard to get where I am and am not about to go down in a blaze of embarrassment.”
“Then don’t do what you’ve been doing. Obviously, it’s not working.”
As she wipes crumbs into her hand, I notice her cheeks blister pink. I tease her with a grin because apparently, she knows what I’ve been doing even though her frown suggests she’d deny it even under the penalty of jail time.
