“Here goes the ego,” Silas mutters.
“Because you have the fewest experienced foreign players and you can still fucking win.”
“You?” Holt says.
“You. Fuck it. I’m old. I’m not as good as I used to be. But I’m still as fucking good as any of those other nut-buggies who came to play here after they got toldtheyweren’t good enough for the top leagues in the world anymore either. And I can still help youwin. And I can teach you to make our ticket sales the envy of every other team in the league.”
Silas is seething still. “By using my sister.”
“She’s leaving the country, asswipe. She knows what I’m doing, and she’s using me to piss you off because you don’t respect her ability to make her own choices.” I’m probably overstepping.
I don’t give a fuck.
At least, I’m trying not to. Having Goldie mad at me isn’t top of my list of favorite things to do.
“That part’s funny,” Porter mutters.
“Goldie’s fucking brilliant and funny,” Crew agrees.
Pretty obvious based on the way Silas is curling his hands into fists and leaning like he’s gonna try to get around Holt that Goldie’s brother doesn’t agree.
But what’s he gonna do?
Punch me?
“Back off, Collins,” Holt says. “I won’t say this again—your sister’s an adult. Besides, this can’t be fun for her. Look at him. Now get ready for training, all of you. We’ve got a stadium to fill and matches to win.”
“By playing by the rules,” I say.
Oh, good.
More dead silence broken only by the squeak on the floor when Crew shifts his weight and looks at Silas.
Everyone else is looking at Silas without shifting their weight.
“You got something to say, fucker?” Silas growls.
Hell with it. Past time to get this out. “Knock it off with the high tackles and fuckingstand up all the waybefore you grab a fumble.”
The tension is getting thick enough that even the most clueless among us should pick up on it.
“Might want to worry about your own game, old man,” Silas says.
“You might want to think about the fact that most of your teammates need three jobs in the offseason to make ends meet. Winning matters. Bonuses matter. This league fuckingmatters.” I yank my training jersey over my head, then tug it down. “I’m gonna hit the pitch and do my job with my whole damn heart and soul because it’s all I fucking know how to do. If you don’t like it, that’s your problem.”
I shoulder past both Holt and Silas, ignoring the murmurs and mutters as I head down the tunnel toward the pitch.
The old man’s coming to watch today.
Probably gonna watch me get my ass beat by the teammates who likely hate me more now than they did before.
And what difference does it make?
If it doesn’t work with this team, I’ve got a few others to try.
Not like there’ll be anything else in Copper Valley worth staying for in another week or so anyway.
26
