Page 105 of The No Try Zone
“Thanks.” She pulls a card from her back pocket and smiles. “You should call me sometime. You’re new to Atlanta, right? I’ll show you all the good places. The ones that are super private.” With a wink, she shoves the card into my hand and pivots away, leaving the gate area as quickly as she appeared.
Ansel laughs. “The look on your face is priceless. Has that never happened?”
I shake my head. “No. Why would it?”
He just laughs even more. “So happy I was here for that woman to pop your cherry.” Then he grows more serious as he steps closer. “But seriously. Don’t call her. She’s a pro.”
My eyes widen. “A pro?”
“She’s after your money, honey.” Lennox delivers the line in a ghastly imitation of a Southern woman, wrapping his arms around our shoulders and pulling us in for a one-two shake. “And lucky you, both Adams and Sam saw that entire exchange.”
I groan and extract myself from Lennox’s grip, straightening my jacket and finding Sam’s gaze on me. She looks down at her phone, but her cheeks are flushed. I want nothing more than to run over and explain, but I can’t. Not with Sullivan Adams making his way over to me with Frank. “Remind me to make you both run stadiums on Monday,” I mutter to Ansel and Lennox.
“Coach Thicke.” Adams sticks his hand out for a shake that I have no choice but to take. “Thanks again for inviting me on this trip. Really excited for the interview.”
I look at Frank, who’s about as subtle as a snake. He grins back at me, his expression unreadable. To the journalist, I say, “Sure thing. Will you excuse me for a moment? Need to check something with Frank.”
I pivot away without waiting for an answer, heading to the shop across the walkway to grab a bottle of water. After pulling a bottle from the refrigerated section, I turn to face Frank. “Mind explaining that to me?”
“The exclusive interview that’s going to put you on the map of the rugby world?”
“The reporter ambush you didn’t give me the courtesy of a heads-up about,” I correct.
Frank plucks the bottle out of my hand and takes it to the counter, making a show of pulling a crisp hundred-dollar bill out of his money clip to pay. It’s a shitty thing to do to the man working the counter, especially since the water is less than five bucks. When the transaction is complete, he begins a slow walk out of the store. “Do you know what’s interesting, Coach?”
“Do tell,” I drawl, my dislike for Frank growing by the minute.
“How absolutely squeaky-clean you are,” he answers. “I looked back at your collegiate career, and you’ve been a fucking Boy Scout.”
“I’m well aware.”
He stops in the middle of the causeway, oblivious to the curses of the people moving around us to get to their gates. “I find it interesting. Because no one stays a Boy Scout forever. And I’m positive that you have something to hide. And my job,Coach,” he spits the word as though it disgusts him, “is to get ahead of these things. So that the press doesn’t get wind of it. Or if they do, that it stays as contained as possible. Deny, dismiss, redirect.”
“Do you have a point?” I press, an irritated buzz of heat beginning to pulse through me.
“I’m watching you.”
I lower my voice and lean in. “I want to be very clear about something. I’m the head fucking coach of this team, Frank. I’m the one in the media. I’m the one who’s maintained that ‘squeaky-clean image’ you’re so dismissive of. And I’ve done that in spite of snakes like you, repeatedly trying to get me to do things I shouldn’t. Whatever game you’re attempting to play, stop. It won’t work. And don’t worry: I’ll do your little exclusive interview with Sullivan Adams. But if you ever try that kind of shit with me again, it’ll be the last thing you do on behalf of the Granite. Am I clear?”
He smirks. “You bet,Coach.”
It takes everything I have not to punch his smarmy face right there, consequences be damned. Instead, I watch him go with a passive look on my face, keenly aware of the number of eyes on me.
By the time we land in Las Vegas a couple of hours later, Lennox has led the entire plane in a rousing round of the tamest rugby drinking songs, and Sullivan has eaten it up. I don’t know if Lennox did it on purpose, but I don’t care: the man is a saint. Granted, the clutch of old ladies who are heading to Sin City for a round of gambling might have objected to the songs, but once Lennox convinced them to have a shot of Scotch – on him, of course – they seemed perfectly content to clap their hands and go along with things.
Ansel leans over from his place across the aisle and holds his phone up, then types.
I feel the incoming buzz and pull my phone out, unsure why Ansel feels the need for secrecy.
Elodie told me what’s going on. Are you really getting a divorce?
I curse.
Beside me, Ryan doesn’t wake, the light snores continuing even as I stab out a response.
It’s none of your business.
Elodie’s begging me for information.
