Page 73 of Catching the Coach
I’m beginning to hate away games. I don’t like leaving Lucy, everytime I leave it gets a little harder. The bright side to it is I’ve uncovered Lucy’s naughty side. Getting to video chat with her at night had been an experience. But when we’re not video chatting, I’m texting her every chance I get. I just can’t seem to get enough of her.
I bought more of the books she likes by Amelia Morgan and have been reading them in my spare time and texting her about them. It seems to make her happy that I’m actually showing interest in one of her hobbies, something I’m sure she’s never experienced before.
Me
I caught Brent nose deep in my book today after morning warm ups.
Lucy
*eyes emoji* what part did he read?
Me
Judging by his reaction… THE part.
Lucy
*shocked face emoji* NO!
Me
Haha Oh yeah. He screamed like a girl and threw the book like it was on fire when I asked him what he was reading. I thought he was having a stroke with how red his face was.
Lucy
Oh, poor Brent. Should we send him a ‘get well’ basket?
Me
I think I need to get him a therapy appt. He still hasn’t looked me in the eye.
Lucy
*laughing cry face emoji* Oh, no, poor Brent.
I spot Reese and Brent coming up the stairs and shoot one last text off to Lucy.
Me
Here he comes, let’s see if he sits with us cool kids. Love you Coach.
Lucy
Kessler Davis be nice. Love you too. Good luck today *kiss lips emoji*
I pocket my phone and look up at Reese and Brent making their way down the aisle. Reese tips his chin in greeting and sits down next to me. “Sup man? How’s your girl this morning?”
A wide grin spreads across my face. “She’s perfect, man.”
Grinning back at me, he claps my shoulder. “Yeah yeah, rub it in.” He looks at me and tips his head towards Brent who is sitting in the seat behind us, silent for once, and gives me a wide grin. I match it and we both turn in our seats, poking our heads over the backs.
“So Brent, Kessler told me something interesting happened in the locker room this morning.”
Brent’s face turns red and his eyes shoot up to Reese’s face. “Fuck off, Reese,” Brent says grumpily.
I raise my eyebrows at the grumpiness in Brent’s tone. “Now now, Brent. That’s no way to talk to your elders,” I tease. Brent’s 27, almost ten years my junior, and eight Reese’s. He’s like our little brother and we treat him as such, including busting his balls.
“Do we need to have a talk about the birds and the bees?” Reese asks.
