A small gust of relief washes over me. “You mean that?” I say gruffly.
“Always say what I mean,” is the equally gruff response. He slaps a hand on my arm and adds, “Coach’s waiting for you.”
I watch Ty leave the locker room. He might look exactly like his brother, but he’s way more easygoing and less into being the center of attention. And, from the girls I’ve seen him hanging out with, my guess is that he’s not a virgin like his brother was—holding out for the one, which was the biggest load of bullshit that Knox Masters enjoyed shoveling into the locker room. My one is football, not a girl.
Shrugging out of my thoughts, I duck into the hall and make my way to Coach Johnson’s office. It’s a huge space with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the practice field. So much natural light streams in that he doesn’t even have to flick on the overhead lights.
“Hey, Coach. You wanted to see me?” I shift awkwardly, because in my experience, a visit to my coach’s office usually means I’ve fucked up.
“Have a seat, JR.”
I lower myself onto one of the plush chairs in front of his huge, mahogany desk. Coach sits down, too, clasping both hands on the desktop.
“How’s it going?” he asks, studying my face. “Anyone giving you trouble?”
I wrinkle my forehead. “You mean the other guys?”
He nods.
“Oh. Ah, no, sir. They’ve been very welcoming.” Well, that’s not entirely true. All through summer camp, they were cordial but guarded. Today’s the first day that none of them looked at me with suspicion, and it bugs me that their sudden warming up had more to do with Bryant and her damned cookies than me.
“Good, good to hear.” He’s nodding some more. “Let me know if that changes. I brought you in because these guys need a leader.”
I shift in discomfort again. A leader? I’m not a leader. My plan for this year is just to keep my head down.
“And I had a good feeling about you,” he continues.
I can’t help but offer a dry look. “Yeah? You sure you don’t have amnesia? I mean, you know what happened with my old team.”
After winning two national championships for Western State, my coach decided the starting job would be given to some untested and unproven freshman. I was to move to another position—either wide receiver or defensive back. If I didn’t, then I was in danger of riding the bench all season long. It was a humiliating comedown, and when I was offered the opportunity to transfer, I jumped at it.
“You made some bad decisions,” Coach Johnson agrees. “But the fault wasn’t entirely yours. I’m not one to question another coach’s methods, but I don’t think Coach Lowe correctly handled that situation.”
No shit. That bastard was so pissed I hooked up with his daughter, Stella, that he lit a match to my football career and sent it up in flames.
“I’m not as strict when it comes to that,” Johnson goes on. He leans back in his chair and changes the subject. “I heard you’re meeting Bryant for brunch?”
It’s difficult to keep my jaw closed.
Okay. What in the fucking fuck is up with this school? I’ve got teammates high-fiving each other because I hooked up with a jock chaser (which, at any other school, is such a common occurrence that nobody would even bat an eye), and now I’ve got my coach telling me he knows about my brunch plans? The brunch plans I didn’t even agree to?
“Sir?” I say stupidly, because it’s all I can think to say.
His brow furrows. “Did I get it wrong? I thought she mentioned she was meeting you at ten thirty?”
Where is an emergency exit when you need one? Well, I guess that’d be the door. Would he ream me out if I just got up and left? I’m tempted, because…because I don’t know what in the hell is happening right now.
“No, it’s ten thirty,” I find myself replying.
“Ah, I thought so.” He gives another nod. “I just wanted you to know that I’m aware of it—”
Of what? Brunch?
“—and that I have no objections.”
To what? Brunch?
“Oh.” I shove a hand through my hair. “Okay.”
“I’ve noticed a change in you through the duration of camp,” he says. “You’re more mature than the kid I met at the beginning of the summer. But while Bryant can hold her own, I’d be a bad dad if I didn’t give you the fatherly warning.”
Wait. What?
“I think my daughter’ll be good for you, Ace.” He smiles. “She knows football and football players. You’re going to have to learn to say no, though.”
Panic races through me at each word he utters. My brain is only capable of producing a flurry of short, increasingly horrifying thoughts.
His daughter.
“She sometimes has a tendency to steamroll over folks, and, like her momma, she thinks food solves everything. Try not to eat everything she cooks for you.”
Bryant is Coach’s daughter?
“She keeps thinking that everyone runs like those string beans we call wide receivers. You quarterbacks don’t run around as much. We want you to stay around two twenty-five, two thirty. No more. I’ve told her that, but she doesn’t listen to me.”
Bryant is Coach’s daughter.
I fucked my coach’s daughter.
“My office door is always open if you need to talk or unload some baked goods, you hear?”