Page 12 of Off Sides

Sitting down at his desk, he motions for me to take a seat in one of the chairs by the large window that looks out at the locker room, so he can keep an eye on us while he’s in here. I sit, but my entire body is rigid as I wait for what he’s going to say.

Is he going to tell me I’m off the team? That I shouldn’t have come back? I don’t know. I can say that’s what I want all I like, but it’s not true. Jonah has me pegged—I love the sport. I love to play. But I hate the other players.

“I’m glad you came back,” he says, as if to confirm what he told me earlier. But that can’t be right. As much as I hate Adler and Shields, they weren’t wrong. Anyone else would have been off the team.

And despite what Coach said at the beginning of practice and what he’s saying now, I still expect to be kicked off the team. For him to continue with a but you can’t be here.

That’s not what happens. He’s silently staring at me, waiting for a reply. “You’re really going to let me back on the team?”

He pushes his hand through his hair before taking a deep breath and releasing it, propping his elbows up on his desk as he faces me. “I should have told you about Jonah coming on as QB1. I should have given all of you a heads-up and an explanation.”

That’s . . . no. He’s Coach. He’s just supposed to yell and tell me that it’s his way or the highway. That he can make any decision he wants for the team and our job is to comply.

But that’s not Coach Zimmerman.

“I’m sorry.” He says it effortlessly. I know he means it.

But I shake my head anyway. “You’re not supposed to be apologizing to me. I’m the one who left practice. I’m the asshole.”

“You were taken off guard, and you thought I betrayed you.”

I shake my head again in disbelief. I had to listen all through dinner last night about the pansy new coach and how, back in my grandfather and father’s day, the coaches were hard-asses, and didn’t put their little brothers on the team. And on and on and on about back in the day. How men were men and things that had nothing to do with what happened. I just ate my mom’s pot roast and sat there silently as they bitched about me not being on the team anymore, but my grandfather slapped me on the shoulder and told me he would have done the same thing. That Coach was lucky to have another Duke on the team. Like we run this town.

No way he would have put up with that bullshit, he said. But as I look at Coach, I realize how stupid I was to walk off. Because he is the coach, and he had every right to add his brother to the roster if he wanted to. He doesn’t owe me shit.

“I shouldn’t have walked off like that,” I say.

He just shrugs, letting his hands fall so his palms are flat on the desk. “It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you came back. We need you.” I can see the hurt in his eyes and all over his face as he looks over at me, his voice lowering. “I love my brother, and he needed a place to stay. And it’s probably true that I would have given him a spot on the team, no matter what.”

I open my mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to explain anything to me when he holds up one hand and shakes his head to stop me.

“But I wouldn’t have put him in the QB1 position if he hadn’t already earned it out on the field—not ours—but I’ve seen him play. He’s talented. I promise you.”

And I know he is. I could see it today in practice. The guy is a natural. There’s no doubt about it. Everything about him is sleek and sure. I try like hell not to think too much about Jonah—the way his arm muscles tighten and pop as he throws the ball through the air with precision that comes with years of practice. The way his high cheekbones shimmered in the sun . . .

I clear my throat and lick my dry lips, trying to shake off all thoughts of Jonah—Coach’s little brother. “I understand,” I stutter. “I believe you.”

With that, he smiles and looks so relieved, it’s almost heartbreaking. “Good. You two looked good together out there today.”

My heart kicks up, and my eyes widen in his direction. Together? I nearly trip over my damn feet as I stand up and start toward the door, thinking about that. We looked good together. He says it so casually, but somehow, it scrambled my brain. “Uh . . .” I reach the door. “Yeah, sure.” I look back over at Coach, who tilts his head to the side, his eyes narrowed as he watches me closely.

And why wouldn’t he be? I’m acting insane. “See you tomorrow?”

I nod at that a little exuberantly, way over-the-top, if I’m being honest, my mind still on Jonah and me looking good together. “Yeah. Sure. Of course.” I stumble over the words and listen to Coach’s light chuckle as I walk out his door and make it to my locker on shaky legs, no doubt in my mind that he’s shaking his head at me as he laughs because again—insane.

But there was no cruelty there. No malice. He’s nothing like the last coach, the one Curtis and my father and grandfather liked because he wasn’t a pussy. To them, Coach Zimmerman is soft because he doesn’t spend the entire practice turning bright red from screaming the whole time and kicking our asses.

The locker room is nearly cleared out except for Jonah, who has a white linen bag, walking around and picking up sweaty clothes the rowdy pigs left behind. His eyes meet mine nervously, and I want to lay into him.

Tell him not to look at me. Tell him I don’t need him to defend me, but instead, I just pull my sweaty cutoff T-shirt over my head and toss it into my gym bag before removing the rest of my clothes and heading to the shower. Not saying another word to him.

His hair was wet though, and he was dressed in what looked like clean shorts and a new T-shirt, so at least I don’t have to worry about him joining me. I don’t think I could take it.

Jonah is too pretty. There’s no other way to describe him, and if I’m honest with myself—which I’m not by the way, not ever—he’s exactly my type. Tall and lean with just a bit of muscle. A beautiful face with eyes that reveal he’s seen way too much in his eighteen years on the planet, but that he still, somehow, has hope.

I hate it.

I scrub myself raw with the shower soap and think about just how much I hate it the whole time. Because it’s dangerous to think of anything else. I rinse off and grab a towel, drying as much as I can before I wrap the thing around my waist and stalk to my locker.