Page 85 of The No Try Zone
Shit.
It’s tasty.
Lennox chuckles at the look on my face. “It’s good, innit? Smooth. Like me on the pitch.”
I laugh. “Something like that. It’s…acceptable.”
He lifts his own mug now that it’s done and winks. “Cheers.”
I check my watch. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes I like to go onto the pitch and think. Visualize. That sort of thing.”
I study him with new appreciation. “By yourself?” When he nods in the affirmative, I ask, “What exactly are you visualizing?”
“Depends. But it always involves beating the shit out of the other team.” His mouth curves into the self-assured smirk I’m all too familiar with. Then he looks around furtively before leaning in. “So what’s going on with you and Sam?”
If it’s possible for someone to experience the world coming to a complete standstill, that’s what happens. Except there’s a weird tilt to things. As if the question itself tips me onto my back and leaves me flailing, a turtle with no way to right itself.
“Coach? You okay? Shite. Let’s sit.”
I feel a hand on my elbow as Lennox guides me to the bench that runs alongside a bay of windows overlooking the pitch. He takes my coffee as I sit, plunking the half-empty mug on the table before sitting next to me.
“Did something happen?”
I stare down at the pitch. It’s a beautiful view from up here; I can’t believe that I’ve never seen it from this angle.
“Coach?” Lennox prompts.
I blow out a breath. “I’m an asshole.”
He grunts. “I mean, I might call you that on the pitch sometimes, but no hard feelings,” he jokes. Then he grows serious. “Lay it on me, Coach. You talked to yer sister?”
I shake my head. “I probably should.”
“Aye.”
The words won’t come. It’s not as bad as with Sam last night – that was damn near a panic attack – but it’s not much better.
Lennox waits, patient, sipping his coffee as though he has all the time in the world. He’s close to my age, maybe five years younger, his body just as battered and bruised as mine was when I played in undergrad. I never had the pressure of playing pro, and sometimes I wonder if that’s one of my problems. Then I think that it’s a stupid thing to wonder about, because pressure is pressure. The players are under pressure to perform. I’m under pressure to create the strategy. To talk to the media. To build the team. To win the championship, as Scott likes to frequently remind me.
But Lennox isn’t my friend. He can’t be my friend…can he? In what world do I allow myself to be friends with my players?
Probably the same world where you fall for a woman who turns out to be the sister of one of your players and the team’s physical therapist, asshole.
So I take a breath and look up. Lennox watches me without judgment, his entire body language telling me I’m safe. I don’t know when I got so good at reading my players, but it’s absolutely a skill.
“You ready?” he asks, an understanding smile on his face.
“I fucked up,” I say. “I think I love her, and I fucked up.”
He dips his chin once, then rubs his auburn beard. “Wanna tell me about it?”
“Yeah.”
He gestures at the coffee in my hand. “Need something stronger?”
I huff out a laugh. “Why? You have something?”
