Page 16 of So This Is War
I’m in trouble.
Is this a baby mama situation?
Please no, please no baby mamas. I’m not ready for diapers and bottles. I’m still as immature as a twelve-year-old.
On a shaky breath, I walk into his office and find him sitting in his chair, leaning back, hands crossed over his stomach.
I nervously lift my hand at him in a wave.
“Sit,” he says tersely, so I quickly take a seat and look him in the eyes. If I know one thing about Coach Wood, he doesn’t like squirrely men. He likes confident players, so even though my innards shiver in fear, I’ll still pay him the respect he demands. “Do you remember the time I saved you from making a grave mistake in Washington?”
Ehhh . . . what?
I mean, yes, I do, but that is not the first sentence I expected him to say.
I shift in my chair. “Uh, with that one girl at the bar?” I ask.
He nods. “She was an undercover reporter, and you had no idea. You were about to take her up to your room, and I stopped you.”
I nod. “Yes, you really did me a solid there,” I say, unsure of where this is going since that was over a year ago.
“I’m glad you see it that way.” He leans forward and places his hands on his desk. Looking me dead in the eyes, he says, “I’m going to need you to return the favor.”
“Uhh . . . you want me to stop you from taking an undercover reporter up to your room?”
“No, you moron.” He sighs with irritation. “I need you to do me a favor.”
“Oh.” I nervously chuckle. “Well, that I can do.”
“Good.” He clasps his hands together. “I need you to teach my daughter a lesson.”
“You have a daughter? When did that happen?”
“Twenty-two years ago.”
“Huh, interesting.”He has a daughter?How many years has he been our coach? How the hell did we not know he had a daughter? I cross one leg over the other and casually say, “You know, we don’t get to talk much. What is she like? Are you close with her? Do you?—”
“Can you shut the fuck up?”
I uncross my leg and sit up straight. “Yup, of course. So . . . you were saying . . .”
“I need you to teach my daughter a lesson.”
Confused, I tilt my head to the side and say, “Uh, what kind of lesson, sir? Because I’ll be honest with you, education and school really weren’t my strong suit. Wasn’t really into the whole learning thing or tutoring. Although I do excel at meddling. Perhaps I can offer you some help in that regard.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly growing increasingly more frustrated with me by the second. Too bad for him, I grow more irritating the more nervous I am. “Not an actual lesson. Jesus fuck, Posey, you need to stop getting into fights on the ice.” He picks up a pen and clicks it a few times. “I need you to hire my daughter as your personal assistant. I know you don’t have one, correct?”
“Correct,” I answer. “But how is me hiring your daughter as my personal assistant going to teach her a lesson?”
“Glad you asked.” He leans back in his chair now, looking more like a manipulating mastermind than the scary coach who screams at me daily. “My daughter, Wylie, has recently told me she wants to quit school, even though she has one year left in her master’s program. She’s been taking business classes, settingherself up for a great future, but instead wants to pursue graphic art.”
“Ah.” I nod, not quite understanding. “And that is a . . . bad thing?”
“Yes, it’s a bad thing. Do you really think I want my daughter to be a struggling artist?”
“Well, to be fair,” I say, “she does have you as a father, so would she really be struggling?”
His eyes narrow, and I realize that maybe I don’t debate him on the welfare of his child but instead go along with whatever plan he has in mind.
