Page 2 of Change Your Play

Thomas Sullender, the last interview, just ten minutes ago.

I blinked. “I’m sorry? I didn’t—”

“What thefuckdo you get from coming at me like that?” Sullender’s face was beet red. Pure anger twisted his features.

The coffees were ready and I hurried to grab them, putting myself together in the process. My mom taught me an important lesson about clients. Youneverlet them see your cards. And you never let them see how much you want to see theirs.

With a slow breath, I nodded. “We appreciate you taking the time. Coach Lawson wants to thank you personally—”

“That’s bullshit.”

I schooled my face, not letting it betray the fact that he was completely correct. “If you were unsatisfied with today’s proceedings, I’m sure we could reschedule—”

“No, it’syouthat I have the problem with.” Sullender leered over me.

It’d been almost three years working with the Romans and I was so used to snapping my fingers at everybody to fall in line, I’d completely forgotten that the football players were often twice as big as me. For the first time in a long time, I realized how small I was up against the athletes.

Next to Sullender, I never felt smaller.

Don’t show your cards.

“I apologize—”

“Why did you bring up thepracticethrow?”

A barista pushed off my last drink and I hurried to stack them in a tray. No one offered anything. Not help, not a distraction, nothing. Which meant…the questions I’d brought up in Sullender’s interview were valid about how well he could work with others.

Spoiler alert—he can’t.

My family joked that we had a gift to read people. I knew I’d been right to push it.

“We think it’s best to showcase all the players—”

“No,youbrought that up. Nobody even mentioned it!”

I set my jaw. Nobody mentioned it and it was myjobto remind the coaches about things they hadn’t considered yet.

“Again,” I repeated. “I’m sorry—”

“Oh, yeah, I bet you are.”

Striding towards the door, I tried to exit. “I’m sure we could reschedule.”

“Just for you to fuck up my time again?”

“Sullender,” a new voice entered our one-sided sparring match.

Now, that’s a voice.

With one word, the voice laid down the law, requiring the football player’s attention instead of asking for it.

It certainly held mine.

Miles Locke.

Pulling out the headphones I hadn’t noticed before, Miles rested a hand on Sullender’s shoulder, just to be shrugged off. Nothing crossed Miles’s face though, and he kept a cool watch over the two of us.

Finally, the distraction I’d been looking for.

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