It's going to be a long drive.
“Emery!” Connor waves me over. “I saved you a seat!”
“You didn’t ask,” Theo says dryly as he steps on behind us.
“I didn’t need to.” Connor flashes a grin. “We vibe.”
I roll my eyes before glancing at where Coach is seated.
“Thank you, Connor, but I’m actually sitting near the front.”
“Coward,” Marco calls.
“Professional,” I correct, dropping into the seat behind Coach.
He glances back at me and nods once in approval before he adjusts his cap and settles deeper into his seat. I watch as he taps something into the cracked screen of his tablet.
“Good call,” he says without looking up. “If you sat back there, you’d be inhaling protein farts and ego the entire drive.”
I shudder.
“I can handle ego,” I reply.
“Not theirs. Madsen alone could power a city block.”
“Hey!” Connor yells from behind us. “I heard that!”
Coach snorts. “Good. Maybe he’ll take it to heart.”
I suppress a smile, tugging my jacket tighter around me.
“So: what should I expect tonight?”
“At the game?” He scratches his jaw. “Noise. Beer. Bad reffing. The usual.”
“And from the team?”
“Depends. They’re dialled in. Red River's a dirty team, and the refs let them get away with murder. The boys will be running hot.”
“And you’re okay with me being there?” I press gently. “On the bench?”
“‘Course,” he says honestly. “These boys like you already, which is a good start, but they need to trust you. You don’t build that by hiding in the back hallway.”
That hits somewhere soft, and I nod.
“I’ll do my best.”
“Don’t do your best.” Coach finally cracks a grin. “Do your job. The rest follows.”
The peace is suddenly disturbed as Gordo practically sprints up the steps and barrels down the aisle yelling, “SHOTGUN!”—which is meaningless on a bus, and even more meaningless given that he’s heading straight for the back row.
“Jesus Christ,” Coach mutters, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
The bus is filling quickly now, not just with players, but with staff. One of the athletic trainers hauls a rolling medical case down the aisle, the backup medic wedges herself into a seat near the front, earbuds already in, and a video analyst argues quietly with the equipment guy about camera batteries while someone else wrestles a garment bag into the overhead rack.
I watch discreetly as Beau pockets his phone and moves down the aisle toward the middle of the bus, choosing a seat that gives him space without isolating him. Theo shifts smoothly into the seat across from him, long legs folding with practiced ease, while Connor drags Dylan into the row behind them,talking far too loudly about something that sounds deeply unimportant.
Marco, Benny, and Gordo have now claimed the back half of the bus and are already bickering over what appears to be a philosophical debate about who smells worse after practice.
