Logan
You know my stats
Logan
But also…since January
Frankie
Maybe sexting orgasms are good for your game
Logan
Best science
I wait for him to ask me to come. My stomach twists in on itself, nervous about how that would go, trying to reason with myself that it would be fine.
But he doesn’t ask.
And I tell myself that’s better, that I can cheer him on from afar. I can give him orgasms and moral support from a safe cross-continent distance.
CHAPTER 57
LOGAN
The last game of the regular season is a bit of a wash. We’ve made the playoffs, and we can’t improve our position with a win tonight.
So our morning meetings are not as much about tonight’s opponent as the two teams that are jockeying for position to play against us in the first series of the playoffs. After that, the coaching staff pulls individual players in to dig deeper into specific feedback.
So it’s not completely out of left field for Wilson to summon me to his office, but I realize as I stride in that I’ve only been in here twice before. He has always handed me off to the assistant coaches.
Today’s level of frosty reception, though, is a new level of cold indifference. He’s standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, artificially still.
“Close the door,” he says without turning around.
I do, but I don’t sit. Whatever this is, I’m not settling in for it.
When he finally turns to face me, there’s something in his expression that puts me on high alert.
“Congratulations? Is that what you say to a newlywed if the wedding is a mistake?”
My blood goes cold.
I don’t say anything. Just wait.
“New Year’s Eve.” He shakes his head. “The irony. I told you to make good choices that night, didn’t I? And you stumbled across my mess of a daughter of all people.” He crosses to his desk, an explosion of violent energy. He grabs a folder and flings it angrily in my direction, papers going flying. “Logan James Granger married Francesca Susan Wilson at the Little Chapel of Hearts at one thirty in the morning.”
The bastard had me investigated. Actually paid someone to search marriage records.
I force myself to stay calm. To not react. “How long have you known?”
“Long enough.”
“It’s private.”
“You’re a fool.” He grabs a remote control off his desk. “Did you know the wedding chapel records all the ceremonies?”
No.
