Page 336 of Bad Prince
“Not in here.”
He means—not in front of staff or trainers, not with the season this close—not with the kind of headlines this would make if somebody filmed it.
I know what he means.
Doesn’t improve my mood.
An assistant strength coach steps into the room.
A trainer looks up from taping somebody’s ankle.
The whole place has that awful suspended feeling institutions get when they’re one bad choice from paperwork.
“What’s going on?” the coach asks.
Nobody answers.
Of course not.
No one’s snitching.
Not basketball.
Not football.
Not even the golf team.
We all know the rules.
Kane lifts both hands slightly.
“Nothing.”
The lie is insulting.
The coach takes it anyway because the alternative is a disaster.
Slowly, I force my hand open.
One finger at a time.
Travers takes one step back when his guy pulls harder on his shoulder.
Then another.
But his eyes stay on mine the whole time.
Still challenging.
Still pissed.
Still acting like I’m exactly the kind of rich-boy asshole he’s spent his whole life wanting to put through drywall.
Maybe I am.
He points once on his way backward.
“This isn’t over, Vale.”
