Page 17 of So This Is War
“Although.” I nervously laugh. “It would be a great life lesson to learn if she sees what kind of hardship it would be to be a struggling artist in a world of capitalism.”
That lightens the scowl in his forehead. Despite the many fights on the ice, that was a pretty impressive comeback if I do say so myself.
“Glad you see it that way.” He clears his throat. “To keep things short, I told her she could have one semester off to prove to me that she could handle making a life for herself as a graphic artist. If she can’t make a life for herself, she must return to school. The caveat is that I’ve cut her off completely, but I told her I’d offer her a job that she’d probably have to take as a graphic artist to pay the bills. She agreed, which leads me back to you. You are the job. You will pay her minimum wage, and you will be demanding.”
“Uh, what now?” I ask, blinking a few times.
“As your assistant, I require you to make her run around town, do illogical tasks, and work at all hours of the day. I want you to make her life a living hell, Posey. Show her that finishing school would be better than being a struggling artist.”
“Wow, that sounds great. Quite the lesson to be learned,” I say, trying to hide the sarcasm from my voice. “But I have to say, I’m not that high-maintenance.”
“Then find a way to be high-maintenance. Have her clean your apartment. Make you meals. Do your shopping, your laundry. For fuck’s sake, make her feed you your dinner because you’re saving your energy for your games. Be respectful, as this is my daughter, but make her life hell.”
“Uh-huh, I see where you’re going with this, and wow, what a great plan.” I slowly clap for him. “But I’m slightly hesitant because I do have a reputation and?—”
“I already have an NDA for her to sign.”
I nod, trying to come up with another reason as to why I don’t want to be an asshole to my coach’s daughter.
“What if I upset her?” I ask. “I don’t want her going to you, and you getting pissed at me.”
“If you upset her, I’ll give you a goddamn bonus. I’ll cover any fines you might incur through the season. I’m asking you to upset her.”
“Yup, I hear that.” I point at my ear. “Just feel uneasy about that aspect of it. I’m a pretty nice dude. Not one to hurt someone’s feelings.”
“Jesus Christ, Posey,” Coach yells. “You beat men up on the ice for a living. I’m asking you to be a little demanding with my daughter. Is that something you really can’t fucking handle?”
I quiver from the anger in his voice.
“No, I can.” I swallow hard. “For sure I can, but you know, there’s also the aspect of paying her. I tend to invest my money, so I’m not sure I can afford?—”
“If you can’t afford to pay my daughter minimum wage for a semester, then we need to talk about your spending habits.”
“Quite right, quite right.” I nod, starting to come up short with excuses. I snap my finger and point at him. “You know, Iactually enjoy the mundane tasks of life, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to give them up. Nothing gives me more joy than picking up a pack of batteries from the corner store because I forgot to write them down on my grocery list. So you know?—”
“For fuck’s sake, Posey. Are you trying to tell me you can’t do me this little favor?” His eyes bore into me, like lasers trying to blow my head off my neck. “Because I would hate to see what happens if you can’t.”
And this is why I should stop sleeping around. This very reason.
Because people hold it against you at the most inopportune time.
Also, I’m pretty sure Coach Wood doesn’t really understand the definition of a favor. It’s a simple ask like, oh hey, can you help me move? Or heck, I have an itch on my back, can you get that for me? Or egad, I forgot my underwear, mind if I grab a pair of yours?
Those are favors. This is . . . this is a chore.
This is a task.
This is an objective.
A mission.
A secret operative.
A goddamn developing nightmare that I want nothing to do with.
But that doesn’t seem like an option for me.
“Uh, no,” I say, tacking on a smile. “I can help you. This won’t be a problem at all.”
