Page 115 of The No Try Zone
I wakeup before my alarm, so early that the pale light of the morning hasn’t begun to seep through the edges of the blackout curtains. For the first time in months, I slept all the way through the night. And now, despite not hearing from Sam last night, I feel a deep sense of calm.
It’s just after five, so I swing out of bed and throw on my shoes to get a run in. My plan is to hold the press conference at the Vegas Lights’ Stadium at nine, give Adams the exclusive, then head to the courthouse to meet Sam.
Do I want the divorce? Hell no. But it’s what I promised Sam, and I won’t let her down any longer. I send my sister a text to watch the rugby news today, knowing she’s already awake, but don’t answer the questions that ping my phone in response.
Sullivan’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline as I meet him in front of the stadium a couple of hours later. “Awfully dressed up, Coach.”
I look down at the suit and tie, picking an invisible piece of lint off. “This isn’t my only stop,” I say.
“Care to expand on that?”
I laugh. “Not yet. You’ll get your scoop.”
We head into a room set deep within the stadium. It’s set up like most press rooms, with a logo-covered backdrop set up behind a raised dais and tables, a bank of microphones angling toward the empty chairs. The room isn’t packed by any means, which is fine with me.
“It’s a small crowd,” Adam admits, clocking my glance around the room. “I only have so many contacts in my phone, and I half expected Frank to have been working them to keep them from coming.”
I frown. It didn’t occur to me that Frank would do something like that, but it should have. He’s petty enough to make that sort of effort. Not that it matters. I’ll explain the details to Scott after the press conference.
I clap him on the back. “Thanks for setting this up. And for everything else.”
He shrugs off the reference to last night. “It’s easy to do the right thing, Coach.”
I blink at him, letting that sink into me. His words shouldn’t hit me as hard as they do.
Shaking it off, I head to the front and step onto the dais, squinting into the lights that come on as I do. I pull out the sheet of paper from my suit jacket and take a seat, looking out at the small crowd.
Here goes nothing.
I draw in a breath to center myself and begin. “I’m betting none of you expected to be here so early, especially after a night in Las Vegas, so thanks for showing up.”
A chuckle rises from the small crowd.
“Last night, a member of the Vegas Lights harassed our head physical therapist. When she refused his advances at our combined team dinner, he tried again at one of the hotel bars. She refused again, then left the table. He followed her and cornered her. That was when I showed up and punched him.”
“Fuck yes you did,” comes one of the female reporter’s voices.
I lock eyes with her. “Fuck yes I did, Amy.” Then I look back to the broader audience. “Any additional information about that story will come from her, if and when she chooses to share it with you. I fully support and stand by whatever steps she chooses to take. But that isn’t why I asked you to be here. She isn’t just the head physical therapist.” I inhale, then exhale. “She’s my wife.”
I expect a flurry of questions, but none come. They all wait.
I huff a laugh. “You aren’t taking this as the bombshell I thought it would be.”
“What’s her name?” That’s from Adams, and I’m grateful for the softball.
“Her name is Samantha Nash,” I answer. “And we’ve kept our marriage secret –I’vekept our marriage secret – because we actually met and married here, in Las Vegas.”
Amy’s hand shoots into the air.
I nod. “Yes, Amy?”
“Can you explain a bit more?” She grins. “I mean, unless you two met and married on the same night, then –”
“We did,” I interrupt.
And the reaction I’d been expecting this whole time finally happens. A collective intake of breath, followed by questions being hurled at me with no rhyme or reason.
I hold my hands up to quiet them, and notice that Amy’s hand is poised over her notepad, waiting. “Amy?”
