Rhett: Bring them. I’m great with parents. Plus, I saw your mom sitting behind the bench yesterday. She’s hot.
Me: EW GROSS NO
Rhett: Ahahahaha I wish you were here to see how hard I’m laughing.
Me: I’m glad you’re getting a kick out of this. We can hook up after they’re gone.
Rhett: But that’s literally NEXT YEAR. I’ll be old and frail by then.
Me: Then I’ll pump you full of Viagra and make you get to work. No excuses.
Rhett: Damn, you sound like Coach Jay. Minus the Viagra.
Rhett: But I guess I can wait.
Rhett: You can’t see it, but I’m pouting right now.
Me: I promise to make it up to you when we do find time together :-)
Rhett: You can’t see it, but now I’m smiling.
Rhett: And I have a massive boner. Without any Viagra!
Even though the players had the day between games off, there was a staff meeting scheduled at the arena. I gathered in Coach Jay’s office with three of the assistants, the head of Arena Security, and an Atlanta Police Detective.
“We’re fairly confident it’s an isolated incident,” the detective explained. “Something similar happened to the Falcons last season. A note was left in someone’s office threatening a bomb. Nothing happened, and they never left another threat.”
The head of Arena Security nodded in agreement. “We’ve increased the number of security personnel just in case. They’re at every entrance, and in the security office around the clock. I can’t promise anything, but I’m confident this won’t happen again.”
After the meeting was over, I lingered in Coach Jay’s office. “You don’t look convinced,” I said.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, June? I don’t know what to think.”
“Do you think we should be worried?”
“The only thing I’m worried about is making the playoffs,” he replied. “I don’t have the bandwidth to care about anything outside of my control.”
He glanced up and saw that I was still concerned. His expression softened. “The way I see it? If someone wants to blow up the arena, they don’t leave a note. They just do it. I feel safe here, and so should you.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
Although all the starters had the day off, the five players on the Injured Reserve list came in for their rehab assignments. I alternated between them in the workout room, watching as they walked on the treadmill, spun on the exercise bike, or did some light resistance training.
“Good workout today,” I told one player. “I don’t want to make any promises, but if things go well tomorrow, I think we can take you off the IR list next week.”
His eyes brightened. “Hell yeah. Thanks, June!”
“Now hit the treadmill or elliptical for a cool-down. Thirty minutes.”
There was an echo out in the arena. The booming of someone speaking through the arena sound system. The audio-visual guys were probably testing something. It was easy to forget that there were dozens of other people who worked for the Reapers and had their own practices to do.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” the player on the treadmill said. “I’m just walking. I won’t fall off.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m like a mother hen. I don’t rest until all the baby chicks are back in the coop.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but never a baby chick.”
“First time for everything,” I grinned.
