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“Wha—she’s going to say that Mackenzie threatened her?” I was half-tempted to look at the floor because my fucking jaw was down there, somewhere. “Are you shi— this is news to me, Coach.”
His eyes narrowed. “Let’s tackle the first issue. I thought the media yesterday was overkill. Did you ask them to come?”
“No!” I snapped, surging forward in my seat.
He waved me back, unaffected by my outburst, relief crossing his face. “I didn’t think so. Now what’s this deal about your girlfriend? From what I know about your girl, she’s the opposite of someone who’d threaten another person.”
Uh, actually. . . I didn’t go that wavelength. “This is a blogger, Coach. And she waited outside of Mac’s class today, getting in her face and asking about Mackenzie’s health and if it’s affecting me. Apparently, she was told by some assface source that my playing is being affected by my girlfriend. Which is total fuc—bulshi—crap. It’s total crap, if for any reason that yesterday was our first day of practice.”
He didn’t respond right away, studying me before commenting, “And yet, it’s our second day of practice and you’re a no-show, and I’m told by your roommates that it has to do with your girlfriend. So, in a way, the source was credible.”
That burned. “Except that’s what the blogger asked me before our practice yesterday as well.”
His head snapped to the side. “You want to run that by me again?”
I did and waited. Our head coach was a hothead, but he was fair and he did not tolerate bullshit, under any circumstances. Chavez told me that I needed to tell Coach yesterday about the blogger’s question, but it’d been day one of practice. I wanted a day, one fucking day, to just play ball.
Coach coughed, looking awkward, before he asked, gentling his tone, “Is there something going on with your girlfriend? Something that I do need to know about?”
Fuck no. I flared up again, but only said, tightly, “No, sir. Mackenzie is fine.”
He continued watching me intently, gauging my response before he gave a nod, his shoulders loosening up. “What else do I need to know about, Jensen?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Coach?”
He rolled his eyes, hit the desk with his hand, and made a ‘come on’ motion with that same hand. “Let’s hear it. I got to know you pretty well last year. You play ball and you have no patience for bullshit. It’s part of the reason why I like you, but I also know you keep so much shit to yourself that I could probably find an entire mountain of shit I need to know about that I’d never be told. It’s normal, somewhat, but you take it to the extreme. Is this blogger going to be a problem? Tell it to me straight.”
Fuck. When he said it like that. . . “Yeah, she’s psychotic. She blackmailed Cris’ girlfriend last year to break up with him while she turned around—” Goddamn! Shit. I’d been about to tell him, and it wasn’t mine to tell. I clamped my mouth shut.
“Fuck’s sakes.” He stood up, went to the door, and hollered, “Chavez. Get your ass in here.”
I started to stand up, but as he went back to his desk, he pointed at me. “You stay put. Your ass isn’t going anywhere.”
He sat and Chavez stepped into the room. “Coach?”
He regarded both of us, almost glowering before he motioned to Cris. “Come in. Shut the door. Sit down.” And as Cris did, he added, “You both are going to tell me goddamn everything, and if you don’t, if I even think you’re holding something back, you’ll be running the bleachers for the next practice, and at the end, if you don’t do a suicide in under twenty seconds, you’re running the bleachers for the next practice. You got me?”
I winced.
“Yes, Coach.”
“Jensen? You copy? You got a problem with how I condition my players?”
I shook my head. “No, Coach. And yes, Coach. Understood.”
Cris stared at me, hard, before something flashed in his eyes. He held up a finger. “Coach?”
“What? Does this have to do with whatever the fucking mess you got us into with this blogger, or you got a problem with running the bleachers?”
“Neither.”
Coach’s eyebrows pulled low, but he didn’t respond.
Cris cleared his throat. “Just a request to maybe call them shuttle runs instead of suicide drills?”
We both waited, seeing how Coach would react to that.
It wasn’t anything typical in our world. We didn’t get to be sensitive or complain. We were basketball players, and this was how we were trained. We got yelled at and cursed at, but Coach made us into better basketball players at the end of the day. This was his house. We were just guests in it.
