Page 80 of All Signs Point to Malibu

Shit.

I swerve quickly, cutting off traffic on the outside lane as I pull the Jeep to the side of the road. Horns sound and a driver flips me off as they pass. I wave an apology as I climb out. I leave the Jeep running and the door open as I approach the teens.

They turn my way and a couple back away. One calls out, “Hey, Mitchell! What’s up, bro?”

I ignore him as I approach Marcus. He looks guilty as shit when he sees me. Then defiance appears on his face. He puffs up slightly, but the edge I feel from him is all show for his friends.

“A word,” I say.

“I’m uh, hanging with my friends right now, Coach.”

I fight for patience. “We could do this here in front of them. Your call.”

“Ooooh. Marcus is in trouble,” a voice among the group taunts.

“This dude your daddy?” another teen says.

Marcus shoots his friends a look. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Marcus? We doing this here or...?”

He sighs and walks off toward the Jeep. I follow him and my mind races a million miles an hour as I try to recall all the stuff I learned in the sports psychology course about dealing with teenage athletes.

They’re hormonal, their frontal lobe hasn’t quite developed yet resulting in poor decision making and oh, yeah, they hate to be told what to do.

Fantastic.

“I saw the drugs,” I say evenly. Not accusing, just stating a fact.

He shrugs. “They’re not mine.”

“If they’re not yours, don’t have them on you. Simple.”

He shoves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and glares at me. “Look, I told you, I’m not using. Why are you riding my ass?”

“Why am I...?” Is this kid for real? Calm breath in and out. The evening with Liam already has me in a shitty mood. I need to cool it. Not take it out on him. Still... “You know, you’re right. Why am I riding your ass when you’re clearly intent on sabotaging your football career?” Okay, so maybe not exactly cool and calm, but the kid’s killing me.

“What career, man?” he asks. “Chances of getting scouted are a million to one.” He stares at the ground.

I bend at the knees and move closer to look him in the eyes. “For others—absolutely. Not for you.”

Marcus scoffs.

Damn, this kid’s refusal to believe in himself is destroying me. I’m desperate to take a softer, more encouraging approach with Marcus—the complete opposite of the intimidating, ultimatum-filled way my father coached my career—but I’ve been trying that, and I haven’t gotten through to him.

I step closer and touch his shoulder.

He shrugs me off. His buddies are watching.

I shove my hands into my pockets. “Destroy the drugs.”

His head snaps up. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Coach, this is...”

“I don’t want to hear it.” My voice is stern and steady, but inside I’m a mess. Marcus isn’t going to understand how serious I am about all of this, how serious I want him to be, until he’s faced with a choice. “I’ve been clear about the rules of being on the team.”

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