Page 97 of Worth the Try
Mark smiles back. “Being interim coach not a big enough spotlight for you, man? I thought that check I cut you was plenty.”
“No one wants this over with more than me,” I tell him. “What’s going on? I know you’re not just here to shoot the breeze.”
He shrugs. “Honestly? Wanted to check on you. See how you were doing. How’s your daughter?”
The question is an emotional tackle, and it feels like Mark just took me down a yard from the try line. I force away the tightness in my throat and answer, “Good. Doesn’t really know what’s going on, which is good.”
With a nod, he taps his ring on the doorframe. “You’ve got a lot of people in your corner, Coach. See you later.”
He disappears down the hall, and I stare after him, not quite sure what to make of the visit, but grateful nonetheless.
Kari and her boss, Frank, appear right before the press conference. Frank leads the way, shark-like as ever in a fittedthree-piece suit. His bald head gleams beneath the fluorescent lights as he takes one look at me and barks, “Are you ready?”
I stiffen. I really don’t like this man. It’s obvious that Kari is the real brains and workhorse of the operation, but Frank operates as though he’s going to get all the glory. So, screw him.
“I am. No thanks to you.”
He stares at me, expressionless. Behind him, Kari’s eyes go wide with shock.
But Frank doesn’t seem fazed. “I’ve been busy ensuring our team sponsors don’t bail on us thanks to your inability to keep your dick in your pants. Thenanny, Ansel? Really?”
Kari inhales sharply.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” I bite out, rising from the desk and closing the distance between me and the smarmy asshole.
Frank rolls his eyes. “Whatever, bucko. My job is to protect the organization, not you. If you can’t handle it, then you shouldn’t have said yes to the job. All you are is one more athlete falling prey to pussy. Twice, if I’m not mistaken.”
I square my stance and am seconds from punching him when Kari clears her throat.
I glare at Frank. “You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?”
He shrugs and picks a piece of invisible lint off his jacket. “Yeah, well, I’m a fucking asshole who’s seen just about everything and covered most of it up. So, if you’re ready to do what you’ve been told, then we can get this over with.”
Chest heaving, I look past him to where Kari stands, iPad clutched against her chest. “Shall we?”
She nods stiffly, her eyes darting at both of us before she pivots and leads us to the press room down the hall. She slows as we approach, turning and opening her mouth to say something. Frank brushes me without even so much as looking at Kari, and her mouth clamps shut as tiny dots of red appear on her cheeks.
“Would you believe it if I told you that was pretty mild?” Kari says.
“Wouldyoubelieve it if I told you I was prepared to beat him to a bloody pulp?” I counter, shaking my head and blowing air out of my mouth, needing to re-focus on the task at hand.
The room is a pretty standard conference room, with rows of chairs for the press set up to face a long, thin table set up on a raised dais. In the center of the table sit about twenty microphones, all turned on and ready to capture everything I say. All the camera operators stand about halfway back from the dais, and the quality of those cameras depends on the news outlets covering the story. Sometimes, the “camera” is simply someone aiming an iPhone.
There are two entrances into the room: through the rows of double doors at the back of the room, or through the single door that’s hidden behind a well-placed column. That’s where we stand now as Frank calls the room to order.
I take another deep breath and exhale, using these final moments to center myself and brace for the worst.
“You’ll do great,” Kari murmurs.
“Tell that to my sweaty palms,” I say back, my voice low.
She chuckles. “Being nervous means you care,” she assures me. “Just picture all of them naked.”
I snort a soft laugh. “Most of them are fat and hairy, Kari. I’ll do no such thing.” With that, I step into the room.
Cameras immediately start flashing, reporters calling out questions. Frank turns to me, a gleaming smile on his face as he gestures to the center chair. I take a seat as he slithers off.
I’ve been in the room plenty of times, but never like this. Never as the coach—interim or otherwise. Never as the one the meeting has been called for. And as the cameras keep flashing, the questions still coming, all I can do is remind myself why I’m here.
