Page 108 of The No Try Zone
I follow them in. The buffet line is short, and the women peel off to an empty table by themselves once their plates are filled. I don’t miss the server approaching to take their drink order, and I don’t miss the glass of wine he sets in front of Sam a few minutes later.
“Coach? Did you hear me?” Ryan prompts.
I nod. “I’ve got an appointment tomorrow, so you two enjoy the golf without me.”
“I thought you liked golfing?” Elliott says.
I choke back a laugh. “Since when? My man, I have never liked it.”
“But –”
“It’s a life skill, and one I knew I needed to learn. Just because I can swing a golf club doesn’t mean I like it.”
He shrugs, letting the topic go. “What appointment?”
I grunt. He’s not getting that info. Too many people know as it is.
Brenson weaves through the tables, angling our way. He gets too close, forcing me to move back and look up. “Mind if I say a few words?” The question is entirely performative, because he slaps his hand on my shoulder and calls the room to attention before I can react.
I push my chair back and rise, not about to let this asshole pull whatever dick move he’s trying with me sitting down.
“We’re so excited to welcome the Granite to our city,” he begins, a politician’s smile on his face.
“Happy to be here,” I interject. “And grateful for the snazzy rooms – right, guys?”
A rumble of laughter in response.
I keep going, well aware of the attention that sharp-eyed Adams is paying. “This might be my first year as head coach of a pro team, but it’s not my first time as head coach. In fact,” I slap my hand onto Brenson’s shoulder just a little too hard, “I’ve been one longer than Coach Brenson here. By about, oh, five years. Give or take a season. Right, Coach?” I grin at him, reveling in the murderous look he’s giving me.
“It’s funny,” I continue, “how small the rugby community is. Have you noticed? Even with the incredible international talent we’ve managed to secure, the U.S. rugby world is small. No chance of secrets around here, huh?” I shake his shoulder good-naturedly, then drop my hand. “Anyway, we’re looking forward to the match tomorrow, aren’t we, guys?”
The Granite pound the tables and give a round of “hoo hoo hoo” as I look back at Brenson. “Anything you want to add?”
He glares at me before giving a tight-lipped smile to the room. “See you on the pitch.”
The men clap, then conversation takes back over. Brenson leaves my side without another word, and I tuck back into my meal.Fuck that guy.I learned to trust my instincts decades ago, and I won’t stop now.
The dinner breaks up fairly quickly after that. It’s not that late, barely past eight o’clock, and I know plenty of the guys will spend the next few hours roaming the Strip before curfew. I will not be one of them.
Sam and Neesha stand to leave, but they’re caught by table after table of guys. As I expected, they’ve been the only women in here, and the looks they get as they extricate themselves from one table only to be caught at another is unmistakable. It’s only the other team stopping them, which doesn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is how Sam and Neesha allow it to happen, table after table, despite Sam’s obvious rising irritation and Neesha’s exhaustion.
“I’m on it,” Lennox murmurs from behind me.
I turn, sipping the same vodka tonic I’ve been nursing the entire time. “She can handle herself.”
“She shouldn’t have to,” Lennox counters. “And they’re two small women in a room full of feckin’ huge men.”
I grunt, conceding his point and hating that I hadn’t thought of it that way first. “You’re right. I’ll take care of it.”
His eyes gleam. “Aye, go on, then.”
But when we turn, they’re nearly out the door, Ollie right behind them.
Lennox huffs in something that sounds like he’s pleased, then asks, “When’s your appointment?”
“None of your business.”
“Tomorrow morning,” Ansel offers.
