Page 11 of Just for the Cameras
My leg bounces as Iwait outside my coach’s office.
We’re not in season yet, given that it’s July, but we are about to start training camp soon, which means I don’t have time to dedicate two to three days a week to fucking flamingos. There has to have been a mistake, because this won’t work for me, and my coach is about to hear about it.
A pair of heels clicks across the hall, pulling my attention, and when I see Gretchen head in my direction in a red power suit, I groan out loud.
Jesus.
Christ.
What the hell is she doing here?
“Well, if it isn’t my least favorite player. So glad I was called into your stadium on a day that I should be working in my office.”
“I didn’t call you in here,” I say.
“Yes, but I apparently have to be present for whatever you’re about to whine to your coach about.”
The door flies open, and Coach Keenan gives me a disgusted once-over before offering a smile to Gretchen. “Shall we?”
“I think we shall.” She walks in, and I lift from my chair with a grunt before entering the large room covered in accolades…from when he was coaching other teams.
Gretchen sits in one of the chairs across from his desk while I choose to stand and lean against the far wall, crossing my arms indignantly.
Coach Keenan’s bald head reflects the light from the window behind him as he leans back in his chair and picks up a pen. Whenever you have a conversation with him, the man always needs to fidget with something. A pen, pieces of paper…his underwear. Yeah, I was present once when he picked a wedgie from the depths of his ass.
Incredibly unpleasant experience.
“Care to explain why you called this emergency meeting about your new assignment?” he asks.
“How do you know it’s about the assignment?” I ask.
“Because you were just assigned it yesterday, and you immediately asked for a meeting. I’m intelligent,Saint. I can put two and two together.”
“Don’t call me that,” I say through a clenched jaw.
He fucking knows not to call me that.
That there is only one person on this earth who is allowed to call me that.
And yet, he likes to push my goddamn buttons the minute I get into his office.
He shrugs. “Oops.”
The smile that tugs at his lips shows me that he’s nothing but an indignant fuck who doesn’t want the best for his players but rather plays politics to keep his job. It’s one of the top reasons I hate him.
Not wanting to stay here any longer than I have to, I say, “I can’t dedicate the time they need for me to be there at the zoo with training camp coming up soon.”
“Training camp isn’t for three weeks,” Coach Keenan counters. “That gives you plenty of time to help out at the zoo.”
I attempt not to crack my teeth from how irritated I am. “You know I have a training schedule I follow to get ready for camp. I’m not going to show up not in top physical form and let my boys down.”
“Pretty sure your training sessions aren’t all day, and if they are, I need to speak to the training staff because maybe your fatigue is one of the reasons we can’t win a game.”
This…mother…fucker.
The only reason we’re not annihilated out on the field is because of my defensive line and the pressure we apply on the opposing team’s quarterback.
Then again, he’s always been a cocksure asshole who thinks his game play is the only way to play the game. Seems like our record has a different opinion.
