The coach’s voice is low, but it vibrates.
He doesn’t need to shout.
It’s the calm before the storm—the one that’s scariest.
I sit across from him, back straight, jaw clenched, hands clasped on the table to keep from breaking something.
Nate is next to him, standing, arms crossed. He won’t look at me.
And that irritates me more than anything.
“Got anything to say, Becker?”
I breathe.
No.
I don’t want to say a damn thing.
But I do anyway. “I didn’t realize going out for a drink was a crime.”
“Christ, Cohen,” Nate snaps, finally, “we asked you to keep a low profile. And, more importantly, stop hooking up with the fans!”
Fuck you, Nate, I preferred you silent.
A dry smile crosses my face. “She wasn’t a fan.”
“Oh, she wasn’t?” The coach stands up. “Then what was she? A miracle? You were supposed to BE GOOD. Is that so hard?”
Did the coach just tell me I can only hook up with someone who isn't a fan if a miracle happens? Are we serious?
I want to reply that yes, maybe it was a miracle. Though… for a completely different reason than he thinks.
But I don't feel like digging my own grave.
I stay quiet.
I let the anger settle beneath my skin, like a burn.
Nate rubs his face, tired. He’s pale, his eyes lined. Two weeks of hell for him, too, apparently.
“We had to cancel three interviews, two events, and a campaign. The club fined you, and the press is painting you as yet another soccer player who can’t keep his dick in his pants.”
He pauses.
“Tell me at least she wasn’t underage.”
“Christ, Nate!”Fuck, does he really think so little of me?
I jump to my feet.
My chair scrapes against the floor, and the noise echoes in my skull.
“Sit down.” The coach’s voice cuts the air.
It chills me.
I sit.
