Page 89 of The Hearts We Fumble
“Kinnick, get your ass in my office. Now!”
The moment our head coach, Coach Frye, hollers across the locker room, every muscle in my body tenses, instinctively bracing for impact.
Well, we knew this was coming.
I grunt, pushing myself to my feet. Colter watches me closely like he’s gauging whether I’m about to explode or hold my shit together.
“Good luck,” Hayes mutters.
“Yeah, you’re gonna need it,” Reed adds.
I toss my towel onto my gym bag. I haven’t even had a chance to change into my practice gear, and Coach is already on my ass.
When I step into his office, he doesn’t even look up. Just waves a hand toward the door. “Shut it.”
The door clicks shut behind me, and he exhales sharply, dropping into his chair like just seeing me is a goddamn headache.
“Today is my thirtieth wedding anniversary.”
I blink, caught off guard by the direction of this conversation.
“I woke up planning to take my wife to breakfast before dragging my ass in here,” he continues, his voice sharp and clipped. “But do you wanna know what I did instead?”
I press my lips into a thin line. I already know.
“Coach, you don’t understand—”
He holds up a hand, cutting me off. “I saw the videos, Kinnick. I don’t give a damn what your excuse is. You don’t throw punches. You don’t put this team in the middle of your personal drama, and you sure as hell don’t let some asshole get under your skin and cost me a goddamn headache.”
His glare is sharp enough to cut glass, and I force myself to meet it.
“I’m sorry, Coach,” I say, my voice steady. “The last thing I’d ever want is to be a distraction or take focus off the team. But he made me think it had something to do with Myla. That’s how this started.”
Well, that’s only part of it. It really started when I saw Wyatt walking out of that fucker’s house wearing his shirt, then had to stand there at the bar a few nights later, watching him hit on her like I wasn’t even in the room. But I don’t say that.
Coach narrows his eyes. “And I’m guessing that hit he put on you last weekend had nothing to do with it?”
I clench my jaw. “He’s a dirty player. He knew what he was doing. He just made it look like an accident.”
Coach exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. His fingers tap against his desk, a silent warning that he’s already thought through every possible consequence.
“You have any idea how bad this looks?” he finally asks. “This shit is everywhere, Kinnick. You handed every damn reporter in the country a headline on a silver platter.”
I wince. I haven’t even checked my phone yet, and I already know he’s right.
“What’s my punishment?” I ask. “Am I suspended?”
His jaw ticks. “Haven’t figured that out yet. I wanted to talk to you first. But I’ll tell you this—you better pray I don’t decide to bench you because we need you next week, and I can’t afford to have one of my best players being a damn idiot.”
“I understand, sir,” I say without hesitation. “Whatever you feel I deserve, I’ll take it. It won’t happen again.”
“You’re damn right it won’t,” he mutters. “You’re one of my leaders, Kinnick. Start acting like it.”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
Coach levels me with one last look, then jerks his chin toward the door. “Now get your ass to practice.”
I push out of his office, rolling my shoulders like I can physically shake off the tension.
