“Anyway, I just wanted to call and tell you. If I waited until tonight, I might’ve combusted, but I don’t want to keep you any longer.” I dreaded hanging up, but I couldn’t use him as a security blanket forever. “Good luck with your meeting.”
“Thanks.” I heard the smile in his voice. “And Scarlett? For what it’s worth, I think you’ll kill it as Lorena.”
My lips tipped up, but they slowly flattened again after I ended our call.
Asher, Vincent, Yvette, Emma, the showcase, the pain, the threat of the paparazzi…all the loose threads in my life, big and small, swirled inside me. They tangled together and formed a rope in my chest, pulling tighter and tighter until it nearly cut off my supply of oxygen.
Sometimes, merely existing took too much energy, so I closed my eyes and tried to breathe.
At that moment, it was all I could do.
ASHER
I ended my call with Scarlett and tossed my phone in my gym bag right as Adil bounded over to me and Noah, whose locker was next to mine.
“There they are! My fellow Blackcastle baddies!” He clapped one hand on each of our shoulders. “Missed me?”
“Like a toddler misses a rash,” Noah muttered, but he didn’t shake off the midfielder’s greeting.
“So you did miss me.” Adil appeared unfazed by the goalie’s lackluster enthusiasm. “New season, boys. We’re back, and we’re going to crush those Holchester bastards! And everyone else,” he added as an afterthought.
“You got that right.” I bumped my fist against his in agreement, but my mind lingered on Scarlett. She sounded a little off during our call. Perhaps it was her nerves over the Yvette and showcase situation. She had complicated feelings about performing in public again, and the sudden promotion from understudy to lead couldn’t be easy.
I made a note to check in with her again once I was home.
I changed shirts while Adil regaled us with tales of his summer at home. The locker room crackled with the back-to- school energy of a new season, and laughter and teasing banter filled the air as the players caught up with each other for the first time in months.
“I can’t wait to see them on the pitch again.” Adil rubbed his hands. “Bocci better watch his fucking back.”
The mention of my old teammate filled my mouth with the taste of copper. It was the taste for competition. For redemption. For vengeance.
We almost swept the league last season, and this was our chance to vindicate ourselves. Since Vincent and I set aside our differences, there was nothing stopping us from taking the number one title come May.
Coach entered the locker room. “DuBois! Donovan!” he barked. He jerked his head toward his office. “Get in here.”
A chorus of taunting oohs swelled as Vincent and I stopped what we were doing and walked toward him, our expressions identically wary.
“In trouble already? That’s a record,” Samson joked. The Nigerian winger laughed when Vincent gave him a light shove on his way past.
“Next time you want to make a joke, make sure you can complete a forty-five-minute run without heaving like you’re in labor first,” he called over his shoulder.
The first day of preseason was always the toughest as players transitioned from a summer of food and holiday back to work.
Another chorus of oohs mingled with jeers as Samson shook his head. “Low blow, captain!” he yelled after us. “Low blow!”
I smirked, but my amusement quickly faded when we arrived at Coach’s office. He shut the door, and once again, déjà vu permeated my senses as Vincent and I settled into our seats.
Coach sank into his chair opposite us and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.
The clock ticked.
The air-conditioner hummed.
The muffled noises from the locker room emphasized the tension dripping around us.
Vincent and I shifted in our seats.
If Coach was employing some sort of psychological warfare tactic to make us uncomfortable as fuck, it was working.
After what felt like an eternity of interminable silence, his eagle eyes zeroed in on Vincent. “DuBois, your father alright?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Coach leaned forward. “If I ever find out you trumped up a family emergency to get out of something
I assigned to you, I’ll have you running interval sprints until you develop a bloody intimate relationship with the nearest rubbish bin. Understand?”
Vincent swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
My snicker died halfway when Coach turned his attention to me.
“This is a new season. A fresh start,” he said. “I’ll chalk last season’s problems up to growing pains, but your petty antics end here and now. You may not have spent the summer together like I’d planned”-he cast another glare at Vincent, who slid a few inches down in his seat-“but that’s not an excuse for picking up where you left off. I expect you to behave like more than adults; I expect you to behave like champions. If that’s going to be a problem, you need to tell me right bloody now.” His eyes glinted with warning. “Is it going to be a problem?”
“No, sir,” we chorused.
“Donovan and I have come to an understanding,” Vincent added. “So you don’t have to worry about us.”
Coach’s thick brows beetled with skepticism. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” I picked up on Vincent’s thread. “We’ve learned from last season’s mistakes.”
“It won’t happen again,” Vincent said.
“We are fully prepared to work together to destroy-to beat Holchester. And everyone else,” I went on, echoing Adil’s earlier addendum.
Coach’s eyes tapered into suspicious slits. “Good,” he finally said. “I assume this understanding started with the Sport for Hope charity match?”
Our mouths formed identical O’s of surprise. He knew about my long-time involvement with the non-profit, but how did he know about Vincent?
“I read the local papers, and I have spies everywhere.” The curve of Coach’s mouth would’ve resembled a smile if he wasn’t allergic to smiling. “I heard about your brawl with Pessoa and the Greens too.” The curve vanished. “He’s a wanker, but don’t pull any of that shit during one of my matches, or?-“
Someone knocked on the door, interrupting what I was sure would’ve been another flinch-inducing threat.
Vincent and I exchanged glances. Who would dare interrupt one of Coach’s meetings?
Coach’s brows bent further until they formed a single line across his forehead. “Come in,” he snapped.
The door opened, and Greely, our assistant coach, popped his head in like he was afraid Coach would chew off his limbs if he allowed them past the threshold. “Sir, your daughter’s here. She’s waiting in the hall.”
“Tell her I’ll be out in a minute.” Greely left, and Coach glared at us again. He did that a lot. “I have other business to attend to, but I trust you won’t do anything to jeopardize this beautiful, budding friendship of yours.”
We shook our heads in unison even as my unease rattled in my veins.
I was going to take a wild guess and assume dating Vincent’s sister fell under Coach’s “anything” clause.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.