I barely open the door when the person barges in, pushing me backward. I stumble, and the weight falls out of my hand as Coach launches his fist into my nose before I can do anything to protect myself. Blood spurts out. I blink several times, trying to orient myself, but it’s no use. Coach lunges for me, grabbing me by the shirt.
I’m seeing stars, shaking off the blurry vision and the pain lancing my face.
“You were like a son to me,” he says. “You were going places.”
I lift up my hands as blood drips down into my mouth, the metallic taste waking me the fuck up. Coach’s face is redder than a ripe tomato, and he’s spitting fire. If I clear my vision some more, I know I’ll find steam coming out of his nose.
He pushes me against a wall, pressing his forearm into my throat, cutting off my airways. “Why, Miller? Why?”
I can’t think. I can’t breathe, and I’m struggling to get Coach off me. He’s using his body weight to keep me pinned in place. So, it’s a losing battle as I force myself forward to pry his arm away.
“I’m sorry about the game.” I say the words, but all that comes out is a garbled mess of nothing.
Apparently, Coach understands parts of what I said because he snarls like an angry bear. “You think I’m here to kill you because of a game?”
The word kill sends shards of fear through me.
Fuck.
He knows about Emily and me.
I make a gurgling sound as the room spins violently.
“Get off him!” Sam shouts, materializing from somewhere as the door slams shut.
Coach doesn’t move, and I’m struggling like a motherfucker to breathe.
Sam wrenches Coach’s arm away from my throat, but he’s no match for him. Where Sam is lean in the chest, Coach is broader and hence stronger.
“Coach Parker, you’re cutting off his oxygen,” Sam says. “I’m pissed at him too, but this isn’t the way to handle it.”
Coach slowly lowers his arm, standing his ground, ready to use me as a punching bag if I make one false move.
Sam steps in between us, facing Coach. “Sir, sit in that chair over there.” Sam points to his high-tech computer chair.
I clutch my throat, coughing and gagging, sucking in as much air as I possibly can.
Sam guides me to sit on the bed.
Coach drops his tense body into the chair.
Sam’s blue eyes are rife with anger, disgust, disappointment, and hurt as he regards me before crossing his arms over his chest.
Silence fills every corner of the dorm room as Coach shakes his head. I’m still coughing and rubbing my throat.
“Well,” Sam says. “Who’s going to talk first?”
I want to laugh at how Sam is playing the moderator when I know he wants to scream at me.
I swish around some saliva to coat the sandpaper feeling in my throat. Then I start. “I’m sorry.” I swing my gaze from Sam to Coach. “To both of you.”
Coach scrubs his hands down his face. “Sorry isn’t going to cut it, Adam.” His hazel eyes drill a hole right through my brain.
“Emily and I were planning on telling you,” I say.
Sam rests against the door, no longer strung tight. But I’m certain I’ll feel his wrath after Coach is done with me.
Coach rears back. “What were you planning on telling me?”
