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“Did you eat?” she asks, her gaze dropping to my empty hands as if she’ll personally walk me back to the kitchen if I give her the wrong answer.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” She nods once, apparently satisfied. “Coach’s office is the last door on the left. You have a meeting with PR scheduled for nine-thirty, but Rachel already knows you’re with him, so don’t worry about the time.”
I thank her and continue down the hall, passing open offices where conversations carry through doorways before I come to a stop in front of Coach Quinn’s office. He’s sitting behind a broad wooden desk, listening while someone speaks through the phone pressed to his ear. He motions me inside and points toward the chair across from him without interrupting the call.
“No, I understand what you’re asking, but I’m telling you, Monday gives him enough time. The building isn’t going anywhere.”
His eyes lift to mine as he says it, but the sentence doesn’t feel like a performance. He listens for another few seconds, promises to return the call after lunch, and sets his phone beside the mug.
“Sorry about that.”
“No problem.”
“How’s the condo?”
“It works.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
The correction is calm enough that I almost answer with the same polished line, giving him all the details to reassure him I won’t cause problems.
“It’s quiet,” I respond, settling farther into the chair. The ring shifts against my chest when I breathe, and for one second, I’m back in Houston, standing in a house that still smells like the woman who left before I woke up.
Coach Quinn studies me, trying to pull more from the answer than I gave him. “Give the place a chance, just for the weekend. If it still doesn’t feel right Monday, Denise can show you the other places the team keeps available. You don’t have to stay somewhere just because it’s already arranged.”
Most teams wouldn’t care whether I liked the condo. As long as I showed up Monday knowing the playbook and throwing a football the way they expected, the rest is my problem to figure out. And here Coach Quinn is, asking about a place he’ll probably never set eyes on.
“Okay,” I say, because anything more would require admitting I expected him to tell me to deal with it.
“Rachel will walk you through media expectations before the press availability.” He slides the top folder off the stack across the desk. “Once you've finished your physical, you're done for the day.”
“I thought we were doing the facility tour.”
“That can wait till Monday; we’ve got plenty of time.” He folds his hands across the desk. “You moved across the country yesterday, Jubal. Take the weekend and learn how to get from your place to somewhere that isn’t this building.”
Coach Quinn doesn’t fill the silence between us or rush to talk me into accepting the offer. The decision stays where he left it, with me, and I’m not sure what to do with that.
“Monday,” I say, closing the folder.
Coach Quinn pushes to his feet. “Come on, I’ll walk you to Rachel’s office before you have to answer the same six questions every reporter asks after a trade.”
He steps into the hallway before I can argue. Denise looks up as we pass her desk and points toward a paper bag resting beside her keyboard.
“You forgot breakfast, Coach. And before you argue with me, I meant something more than just coffee. That stopped counting when you turned forty.”
He chuckles softly as Denise tosses him breakfast like they’ve played out the same argument a hundred times before. Coach catches it without missing a step, grumbling just enough to satisfy himself before taking another sip of coffee. Nobody slows down or watches to see how he’ll react.
In Houston, the assistants had to quickly learn which version of a coach had walked into the building before they knew how the day was going to go. Denise corrected Coach Quinn without checking if she’d have to pay for it later, and he took the sandwich because she knew he needed it.
“I can tell what you’re thinking. I learned a long time ago that Denise is usually right.” He shifts the sandwich under his mug so he can open the next door. “Admitting it keeps the building running.”
The hallway opens toward a row of meeting rooms on one side and the glass wall of the indoor field on the other. A few players are scattered across the turf, working through drills that have nothing to do with the organized team activities still weeks away.
“Most of them aren’t supposed to be here.” Coach Quinn slows near the glass. “I stopped trying to keep football players out of football buildings years ago.”
One of them looks toward us before saying something to the man beside him, and both of them head for the sideline. The first man through the door is built like he was assembled out of spare offensive linemen. His gray T-shirt is stretched across his shoulders, and his dark beard is damp from the workout. The younger player behind him is leaner, with the loose-limbed confidence of someone who hasn’t been around long enough to know what his body will eventually charge him for.
