Ellie:WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?
I clench my jaw, my teeth screaming in protest under the pressure, as I click my phone off. What am I going to do? She’s a grown woman. I can’t just crash her coffee date.
“Mornin’, Geer,” Daniels interrupts me just as I begin to imaginebumping into Kateat the exact coffee shop she texted me she was going to. “May I?” He nods to the empty seat at my table.
As if my raised eyebrow is answer enough, he takes the seat, coffee in hand. “You ready for the big game tomorrow?”
“It’s a scrimmage,” I correct. Shouldn’t have to. He’s a coach too, but whatever.
The biggame.
The final event of camp before we all leave on Friday. Every year, the coaches and athletes split into teams to have one final brawl before we head back home. From what I was told when I first came to camp, it was meant to be a touch game to limit injuries, but over the years, it’s become the biggest scouting event of the week. If the kids can take down some of their college counterparts, they think they’re proving themselves worthy. The last three years have ended with at least one season-ending injury or suspension—or both. Now they have waivers for everyone to sign at the beginning of camp, releasing the football association from any liability, and it’s because of thisgame, which is really a scrimmage.
I grunt into my coffee mug. I’m less than excited about a potentially brutal game, especially when it almost ended one of my athlete’s careers last year. Garrett Connors has taken an entire year to get back to a place where he feels confident running again, let alone practicing.
“It’s just a pissing contest,” I grumble under my breath.
“Not a morning person, huh?” he asks with a genuine smile on his face, as if he’s actually happy to be awake and sitting across from me, a grumpy bear as some would say. I shrug. Alright, maybe I’m just being a jerk now, but I kind of want to see how far he’ll go with the one-sided conversation.
“Geer just isn’t apersonperson,” Travis Van says from behind me, making it clear that we are not alone.
“Apersonperson?” Devon, who is also behind me, questions Travis’ quip attempt. “He just doesn’t like people…of any kind.”
I look over my shoulder to see most of my team squishing themselves into a booth—a four-seater busting with six large, hungry teenagers. They’re sitting on top of each other as they try to eat from the heaping piles of food they’ve carried over from the buffet.
“It’s nice to see a team spend so much time together. My guy has only been interested in the girls from other schools or playing his Xbox.” Daniels scoffs, sipping his iced coffee. It has whipped topping with caramel and chocolate drizzle down the inside of the cup. This man really has no shame.
Memories of Brennan and the coffee machine his wife mailed to him when we were on tour plow through my mind. He was always concocting different drinks with way too many flavors in them. Different sauces, sprinkles, and way too much whipped cream on top to make theperfectdrink. Some were a hit, and others were better off as tank fuel.
Brennan’s face fades as I focus on Daniels. The similarities between the two are unsettling, and I have to look away to collect myself for a moment.
“Don’t worry. We’re here for the girls too,” Charlie says through a mouthful of food.
The guys all give a variety of responses—whistles, cat-calling, and the like. As ridiculous as they are, I can’t bite back my smile and shrug at Daniels—what’re ya gonna do?
We share a laugh as he finishes off his latte. “So, how’re things on the Stanley front?”
“Dude, put a muzzle on it,” I practically hiss at the man, trying to shut him up, darting my gaze in every direction to make sure no one heard his question.
“What’s up with Coach Stanley?” Garrett, the kid with ultrasonic hearing, pipes in.
If my looks could burn someone to a pile of ash, Daniels would be on the floor being swept up by housekeeping right now. His eyes widen in terror as he whispers, “Shoot, sorry.” He glances over my shoulder and winces. They’re probably burning a hole in the back of my head with their bug eyes right now.
“Nothing, Connors.” I try to roll away the tension crawling up my back and refuse to look at the table behind me. “Eat your food.”
In a blur, chairs tumble, feet scurry, and dishes clank as the guys rush from their table and pile into our table. I refuse to acknowledge what’s about to come, so I pull my cap further down onto my head, shadowing most of them from my site, and stare at the brown ring of coffee grounds at the bottom of my mug.
“What’s up with Stanley?” Charlie asks.
“Is she sick?” Travis asks.
“Nah, she probably got fired,” Ethan adds.
“Dude, shut up. She’ll never get fired,” Devon snaps.
“Is it Coach Sanders?” Garrett whispers to me, but everyone else hears, and the speculation worsens.
“Oh, that’s gotta be it. She was obsessed with him,” Travis says.
