Page 175 of So This Is War
“I, uh . . . you know?—”
“My office, now,” he says before turning away and walking to his office.
Fuck.
Me.
When he’s out of earshot, Silas says, “That doesn’t sound good.”
“You think?” I shout. “Christ, here I was in a good mood?—”
“Because of the dick sucking,” OC says.
“Because I was just in a good mood, for fuck’s sake,” I yell. “And you guys ruined it.”
I put my pants back on and then slip my feet into my slides before I head to Coach Wood’s office.
I swear, if he heard anything about the assistant talk, I’m going to murder all my friends.Sorry, Agitator fans, your starting lineup is now deceased.
I walk past an assistant coach and give him a head nod before I knock on Coach Wood’s office door.
“Get in here,” he yells.
Great, he seems like he’s in a good mood.
I let myself in and take a seat, not even waiting for him to tell me to do so.
Studying me, he leans back in his chair and says, “You fucking my daughter?”
Dear God in heaven.
Sweat creeps up the back of my neck as I try to remain calm and not give away anything. “No,” I say. “Why would you think that?”
“What was Silas saying, then?”
I feel tempted to shift, to fidget, to do anything to help dispel my nerves, but I remain calm instead and try to relax the shake in my bones.
“He was being an idiot. All of them were. I arrive in a good mood, and they think that I had sex with someone.”
“Did you?”
“No,” I say, the lie flying out of my mouth before I can even think about it.
“So you’re not doing anything with my daughter?”
“With all due respect, sir, I’m trying to avoid her as much as possible. I really don’t think traveling with her and having her stay in my room was a good idea.”
“Why?” he asks, his scowl growing.
“Because I was a goddamn nervous wreck the whole time, and I wasn’t able to focus on my gameplay.” Semi true. “I need my space and time to, you know . . . take care of myself, and having her there is not helping.”
He slowly nods, still studying me. “You have been off your game lately.”
“This whole arrangement has been stressful,” I say. “Maybe we should, I don’t know, call it quits.”
“Not happening,” he says. “Just apply pressure in other ways. Make her rewrite more books, make her repaint your place, decide you don’t like the color and repaint it again.”
I run my hand over my brow. “Isn’t there something I can get her involved with here at the stadium? Like a charity or something? Maybe I can have her talk with Penny or Blakely, get her involved in a way that focuses more on the business side of things so she gets a taste of that, rather than making her do menial tasks.” I clear my throat. “I think . . . I think she doesn’t care about the work I’m giving her. She still finds time to do her art it seems. So maybe you’re going about this the wrong way. Maybe you need to show her what a corporate job could be like. That it’s not boring, that she could have fun with it.”
