Page 110 of Whistle

I miss the brat.

“Emmett?” Philip’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts, and I cleared my throat.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

He laughed under his breath. “You sure you don’t need that coffee?”

“Coffee would be great.” I agreed even though it wasn’t coffee I wanted.

The dean picked up a phone and spoke into the receiver. “Could you please bring some coffee in for myself and Coach Resch?”

His assistant must have replied because he thanked her and then hung up.

“You look a little tired,” Philip observed.

“It’s been a little stressful getting the team ready for the first meet next week. You know the first couple weeks of a new season are trying.”

He hummed. “That I do. But you always do a good job. It’s why Elite is the best team on the East Coast.”

“You know I’m very committed to my job.”

He hummed again, watching me with an enigmatic stare. Something about it made the back of my neck prickle.

“Is there a problem?” I asked point blank because I really was not in the mood to kowtow to the dean just because he was my boss.

The double doors leading into his office shuddered a bit when his assistant—a middle-aged woman in a flowered dress—came in with a small cart topped with two mugs of coffee, cream, and sugar.

“Here we are, gentlemen,” she said, parking it nearby.

“Thank you,” Philip said, and I echoed the sentiment.

When she was gone, he pushed from his large desk chair and came around to add some cream and sugar to his mug.

“Help yourself,” he instructed when I just sat there, so I got up and added some cream to the dark brew, skipping the sugar.

I took a sip and sighed in appreciation.

Philip laughed. “I knew you needed it.”

Rueful, I said, “I think my machine at home is broken. Either that or I’m just shit at making it.”

“I’m shit at making it too. That’s why my wife does it.”

I didn’t know why, but that genial comment reminded me there was a line drawn in the sand between us and we were not the same.

I sat down, and Philip continued to stand over the cart and stare.

“Is there something you’d like to say?” I finally asked, sipping at the brew. It was better than anything I could make.

Might be time for a new coffeemaker. And some furniture.

“I won’t mince words,” he said, voice brusquer than before.

“I would appreciate that.”

“There’s been some rumors.”

I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but that hadn’t even been close.

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