"That's fucked," Kovy says.
"What's fucked is paying for a lawyer who can't win." Petey stabs his potato. "Sorry, Mac. Not trying to scare you. Your situation's different."
"Mac wouldn't know," Benny interrupts, looking at his phone. "He's too busy checking his texts during team meetings. Coach noticed, by the way."
I look up sharply. "When?"
"In our last meeting. You were staring at your phone when he was talking about the neutral zone adjustments."
Fuck. I hadn't even realized.
"Just saying," Benny shrugs, "Coach sees everything."
The conversation shifts to tomorrow's game plan, but I'm only half-listening. By the time we get back to the hotel, after signing some autographs for fans in the lobby, my head is full from overthinking Tyler's meltdown.
Back in my room, I FaceTime Reese. Her face fills the screen, hair in that messy bun, but there's tension around her eyes.
"Hey stranger," she says.
"That's my shirt." I tease.
She's wearing my Northwestern shirt, glitter stains on the collar.
"Looks better on you." I prop the phone against the lamp. "Rough day?"
"Parent conference from hell." She shifts, the shirt sliding off one shoulder so I can see the top of her chest.
"The mom thinks I'm 'too young and inexperienced' to properly assess her son's reading level. Apparently, twenty-six is the new sixteen."
"Want me to call her? Explain that you're extremely experienced?"
"At teaching, Logan."
"That's what I meant."
She laughs, but it's tired. "The worst part? She might request a transfer to Mrs. Henderson's class. I've had Kevin all year."
The screen freezes, her face caught mid-word. The connection stutters back.
"—and then my ex texted about getting his stuff from my apartment," she's saying. "Six months later and suddenly he needs his college sweatshirt."
"Your ex?"
"Not important." She waves it off, but I catch the tightness in her jaw. "Show me your room."
I pan the phone across the sterile space—oversized bed, floor-to-ceiling windows, excessive pillows.
"Looks lonely," she says when I flip back.
"It is. Too quiet."
"Poor baby. All alone in that big bed." She bites her lip, shifts again. The jersey rides up, showing a strip of her taut stomach. "I graded papers in the spot where we?—"
The screen freezes again. When it returns, she's laughing.
"This is frustrating," she says. "Technology's supposed to make distance easier."
"Nothing makes this easier." I watch as she lazily pulls up the the jersey hem showing more of her belly. "I already messed up. Forgot to call Tyler earlier."
