Page 49 of His Hungry Wolf

Driving back to my place, I held my breath.

“It isn’t much,” I said as I let him in.

He scanned my one-bedroom, apartment, not saying anything.

“What I learned when I got the job was that assistant coaches don’t make a lot,” I admitted.

It wasn’t that my apartment was bad or messy. It was just small and still unfurnished. It had the necessities—a comfortable couch, a 60-inch TV, and a PlayStation. But when it came to the things that made my apartment look like a gay guy lived there, it was lacking.

Claude sat on the couch.

“Comfortable,” he confirmed, patting the gray cushions.

“It’s also pretty wide. I’ve slept on it a lot. When I do, I sleep through the night. It’s not bad.”

“Cool,” he said mutedly.

I looked around my space for the first time with fresh eyes. It really was pretty drab. My ex had referred to it as my dorm room. More specifically, he said that it looked like a child lived here. And I would have taken offense to that if I hadn’t been eating cereal over the sink with a plastic fork when he said it.

“I haven’t gotten the chance to finish furnishing it yet.”

“How long have you been living here?”

“About a year,” I admitted. “But you know how it is during football season. I’m on the road half of the time. Then, when I’m here, all I want to do is fall asleep on the couch playing PlayStation.”

“I guess some things never change,” he said with a smile.

“I guess not,” I said, relaxing.

Putting down his travel bag, we headed back out to get something to eat. This was going to be my first chance to convince him not to leave me forever. I had to choose precisely the right place.

“Is this a Tennessee-themed bar?” Claude asked, scanning the decorations lining the walls.

“Bluegrass Bourbons,” I said proudly. “It’s a whiskey bar. Doesn’t it make you feel at home?”

Claude looked around at everything from the vanity license plate that read ‘TN2STEP’ to the miniaturized whiskey barrels in the lit glass case.

“It makes me feel something,” Claude said hesitantly.

“Everything’s fried here. It’s amazing.”

“Do they have a salad?”

“A fried salad! But you should try the catfish. It’s so good,” I said enthusiastically.

“When’s my workout?”

“I’m sure it’s not for a few days,” I said, reaching for my phone. Reading the message from Papa, I said, “It’s tomorrow morning at 9 AM.”

“Wow, that’s quick,” Claude responded nervously.

“It is,” I admitted, hearing the deafening footsteps as the end of our friendship approached. “Maybe this isn’t the best place. We’ll come here for our celebratory dinner after you make the team,” I said, further building his expectations.

Leaving there, we found the healthiest restaurant we could. Claude ordered two skinless chicken breasts over lettuce while I ate something with flavor. An hour after that, we headed to the park to loosen him up.

There was no point in doing drills past throwing the ball around. He wasn’t going to gain anything from one practice 18 hours before the workout. The best we could hope for was for him to get a good night’s sleep. So, that’s what we did.

Getting back to my place before dark, I set Claude up with sheets and one of my pillows, and then headed to bed. I desperately needed sleep, and again it didn’t come. By the time the sun shone in through my window, I felt like I was going insane.

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