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I don't know what I expected. I knew better than to think he'd come around right away. There was never going to be a moment where the music swelled, and his eyes filled with tears, and we all agreed to go to Harlow's house to make things right.
Still, I expected a little more than this. A little bit of empathy, maybe. Instead, his gaze hardens. “Some things just happen. But you chose again and again to turn your back on what you knew you needed to do. And that goes for all of you, not only Harlow. So I'm sorry if I'm not a fan of any of this.”
“With all due respect,” Ash counters in a low voice, “nobody asked you to be a fan of it.”
Well, damn. I didn't expect that one. He isn't wrong, but I doubt that's going to earn us any points.
Rather than wait for the coach to recover, he keeps talking. “It's nobody's business what happens in our personal lives. We're all consenting adults. This was what we all wanted. And for what it's worth, we went through a lot together. We tried to end it more than once, but it was no use. We've always known there weren't many people who would understand what we're doing, or what led us to this place. And that's fine. Because it's nobody else's business. But that's why we kept it quiet. Because people wouldn't understand.”
“Nobody else's business?” That gets the coach out of his chair. It's what makes him place his palms on the desk and lean in. We've all seen him like this before, and that's usually after a bad loss or a string of them. We certainly went through enough of that last season. “Let's get one thing straight, it is absolutely my business what my players do in their free time. You know why? Because you are supposed to be role models. You're supposed to be shining examples to the kids who come to these games. Kids who dream every single night about being in your position. Do you remember how that felt when you were a kid? Didn't you idolize players? You wanted to make your entire life just like theirs, didn't you? I know I did. And I'm betting you did, too.”
There's no denying it, so why bother? The three of us nod, though it's grudging.
“Exactly. Thank you for not insulting my intelligence further by pretending otherwise.” He slams his palms against the desk hard enough to make us wince. “And even without that, let me remind you of the morals clause in your contracts. The contracts you signed when you agreed to be part of this team. That's not the kind of thing you get to pretend doesn't exist.”
“We've been discreet,” Soren insists. “It's not like we're parading around town, having public gangbangs.”
Oh, I wish he hadn't said that. Coach’s stricken look quickly turns to one of disgust. “Don't ever say that to me again.”
“I'm sorry,” Soren mumbles, “but it's true. You get my point, right? We're not broadcasting this.”
“What happens if it gets out in the public?” the coach counters. “What then? And what happens when it gets out that I knew about it and I allowed it to happen? Do any of you understand exactly what's at stake? Or are you all too busy thinking with your johnsons to see clearly? I have to think about an entire team, not to mention the organization that supports it and the fans who love it. I've got all of that on my shoulders. And all I ask is for my guys to behave themselves and not make my job any harder than it needs to be.”
He drops back into his chair, grunting in disgust. “And you come storming in here like three white knights ready to fight for your lady. It's all I can do to look at you.”
He waves a hand, turning back to his computer. “You need to leave. Now.”
I think it's safe to say that didn't go the way any of us had hoped. We exchange a silent look before doing the only thing we can. We leave in single file and don't stop walking until we're outside the building again. It's only once we’re in the parking lot that my chest loosens enough for me to take a deep breath.
“Did anybody get the plate of the truck that just ran me over?” Ash rolls his head from side to side and shakes out his hands. “Damn. He's been in such a good mood all season, I forgot how bad he can get.”
I didn't forget. I can barely keep my thoughts to myself as we walk back to his car.
“At least we had our say.” Soren doesn't sound as confident as he's trying to, but at least he is trying. I can't give him shit about that.
What I could throw in his face—in both of their faces, in fact—is that I was right. We didn't need to do that. It solved nothing and only confirmed everything the coach already knew. There's no talking our way out of it now. What a waste of time.
We say our brief goodbyes, then go our separate ways. On a night like this, I wish I had an excuse to go out and get wasted and forget about everything for a little while, but I can't. Not when Pete’s waiting for me at home. I might not have a family in the traditional sense, like Max does, but I do have responsibilities.
Responsibilities that couldn't have come at a worse time. The entire way home, one question plays on repeat in my mind, and I'm no closer to an answer by the time I arrive.
Who told him? How did he know?
14
RYDER
There’s something nice about going home and knowing someone will be there waiting for you. Okay, so it’s not exactly the way I’ve imagined it. It’s not Harlow waiting for me at the door wearing something short and see-through. But it’s better than the empty house I’m used to returning to.
Funny, but there was a time not so long ago that I valued solitude. I liked having all the extra space and nobody to fill it. Because it was mine. For once, I didn’t have to cram myself and my stuff into somebody else’s tiny room. For once, I had all the space I could ever want.
Still, there’s something to be said for calling out once I’m inside. “Yo! Where are you?”
There’s no response, but I hear clicking and tapping coming from somewhere downstairs. I follow the noise and as I come closer, I can identify it as a video game controller being used aggressively. I find Pete in the living room near the back of the house, separated from the kitchen by a breakfast bar I’ve never used. He’s wearing a big pair of headphones hooked upto the TV. I can see what’s going on in front of him — he’s being ambushed by about a million zombies, and he’s fighting like hell to mow them down.
One look around the room tells me how he has spent his day: there’s a pizza box, two empty soda bottles, and a couple of boneless wings at the bottom of a cardboard container. I left him playing this same game earlier. On one hand, it’s nice to know he’s not getting into trouble around town.
On the other hand, I’m glad there’s a folder of paperwork in my gym bag. I pull it out now, then step up behind him and tap his shoulder.
