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“I arranged for you to work with my daughter, Phillips.”
This time, my swallow is more of a gulp.He didwhat?
“Your daughter goes to Holt?” I ask.
I had no idea Coach had kids, let alone a college-aged one. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring or talk about his personal life. As far as I noticed, he’s never had family members show up at a game—just like me. Honestly, he gives off more bachelor vibes than family man.
I glance at the photos on his desk again.
“She’s a new student, but she’s more than qualified to help you,” he tells me.
I’m betting he wanted to sayoverqualifiedinstead.
And she’s a new student…so a freshman? I’m having a hard time picturing Coach raising a shy geek smart enough to tutor for a senior-level class. But I keep my mouth shut tight this time.
Coach continues talking. “This is serious, Phillips. Any funny business, and you’re off the team. The deal with Professor Carrigan goes away and you’re back to needing to retake the entire course to graduate, which means you won’t graduate on time. And I don’t think I need to talk you through what will happen if I hear you’re treating my daughter with anything less than total respect. Understood?”
I nod so quickly I must look like one of those bobblehead dolls. “Understood, sir.”
“Good. Professor Carrigan will be in touch with you soon about the tutoring schedule. Go study or eat or do something that won’t make me regret helping you.”
I nod again, then stand. Hastily, I head for the door.
Glance back, once my hand is on the handle.
“Thank you, Coach,” I tell him.
He’s already refocused on his binder, probably preparing plays for our next game. But he looks up and nods, hopefully hearing the sincerity in my voice. I close the door behind me, the weight on my chest a lot heavier than when I walked in.
If I had to describe Coach using one word, it would befair.
I respect him a hell of a lot more than my own father. But it’s always been obvious to the entire team that Conor is his guy, understandably so.
Hart wasn’t officially named captain until last season, but he’s always been the unofficial one. The player everyone—including Coach—looks at to lead.
Coach probably would have done this for any guy on his roster.
I’m not used to having faith put in me, though, and certainly not from someoneIrespect.
People expect fun from me, not leadership. Expect me at parties, not to see me studying in the library. Expect a grin from me, not the grim line my mouth is pressed in as I approach Hunter. He’s sitting on the bench in front of his locker, reading a paperback. He doesn’t glance up until I clear my throat—twice.
“Let’s go,” I tell him, heading toward the door connected to the tunnel that leads to the ice and then veering right in the direction of the parking lot.
I need some fresh air. To breathe. To think.
“Slow the fuck down, Phillips,” Hunter calls after me. “It’s not like you can go anywhere without me.”
The reminder chafes.
I need Hart to send me the name of the garage he used as soon as possible so I can get back to having my own mode of transportation. I could walk, I guess, but the weather here is usually cold, raining, or both. Maybe the only thing I miss about living in LA.
“So?” Hunter asks once he’s caught up. We’re outside, crossing the mostly empty parking lot. “What’d Coach want?”
“To tell me I flunked a class last semester.”
“Youwhat?” Hunter’s normally deep voices flies alarmingly high.
“Relax, it’s fine. I can still play. I just have a few tutoring sessions to get through.”
