Page 21 of Puck'N Enemy
I stay quiet because Coach is right.
I’d rather Logan live his life without a constant shadow hovering over him.
“Logan has made it clear he doesn’t want to be friends with me,” I say under the weight of Coach’s gaze. “It’s better this way, isn’t it? He plays for the Knights, and I’m with the Bears. The teams hate each other. Staying away from me saves him from extra drama.”
The incident from this evening resurfaces in my mind. Logan’s teammate has nothing personal against me but he beat me up just because I played for the Bears. Without Logan’s interference, he’d have caused me even more damage.
Coach reaches over and places a hand on my head, the way he always did when I was sixteen and shattered. “Don’t lie to yourself about how bad it hurts,” he says.
I nod, taking a moment to simply relax.
“It’s getting late,” Coach says after a while. “You should go and eat your dinner.”
“All right,” I say, getting to my feet. “Are you sure you don’t need me to get you anything?”
He waves a hand and opens his book.
So, I let him go back to his book and head into the kitchen.
My stomach groans, reminding me it’s been hours since I last ate anything. Opening the freezer, I take out a Tupperware full of pasta and put it in the microwave to heat up.
Next, I open the fridge and take out a carton of eggs.
Even though Coach Becker is retired now, he’s anal about me eating enough protein. Since I’m too exhausted to cook meat, I opt for making scrambled eggs.
It’s not long before my meal is ready.
Some people might think it’s weird to pair pasta with scrambled eggs, but when you grow up in foster care, you learn to cherish whatever food comes your way.
I sit down at the small kitchen island and eat a mouthful of hot pasta.
“Mmm,” I moan, enjoying the hot, saucy macaroni.
After a full day at the university and hours of working at the food court, I’ve been starving. I wolf down the eggs, almost impressed by my own genius of adding cheese to my scrambled eggs.
I clean up the kitchen after I’m done and head back to the living room to check up on Coach. A chuckle escapes me when I find him dozing with his book open on his lap. His breaths are soft and steady and the blanket is tucked under his chin.
I’m glad to see him feeling well enough to fall asleep.
I’m about to walk into my room when a sudden knock halts me in my steps.
Glancing at the wall clock instinctively, I see that it’s close to eleven PM.
It’s way too late for deliveries or a calling neighbor. Wondering who it could be, I quietly move to the door and look in through the peephole.
No one’s standing in the hallway.
Opening the door slowly, I look in both directions but the hallway is empty.
About to close the door, I notice a plain white envelope on the worn-out mat at the threshold. There’s no postal stamp or address on it. It just has my name.
DYLAN, in all caps, is written in an all-too-familiar handwriting that sends a chill down my spine. Pushing the door open wider, I recheck the hallway, but no one’s around.
Heart hammering against my chest, I bend down and snatch up the envelope. Shutting the door, I lock it by securing every bolt and latch.
I look toward Coach and find him sleeping with a peaceful look on his face. Moving toward the couch, I sit down by the lamp and turn the envelope over.
There’s no return address on it. The pristine white surface looks crisp and clean. Too clean.
