Page 114 of Coach
“How long did it take to get all these foam tiles up?” I asked, angling my head up to pretend to admire him, but I was carefully tracking him in my periphery.
“The tiles didn’t take too long. It was the rubber inserts and plywood that took a long time. I never really worked with tools before. I’ve always admired how good you were with them.”
From all the times you watched me without knowing, you freaking creep.
“My grandfather taught me.”
I hated even allowing him to know anything about that good, sweet, loving man. But whatever it took to keep him from suspecting that I was just looking for any opportunity to escape.
“My grandfather was a drunk.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We used to watch the game together.”
“Soccer?”
To that, he snorted. “No, he said that wasn’t a man’s sport. I had to watch that in private.”
“That’s a shame. Some of the best athletes have been soccer players.”
“He never saw that. Did yours?”
“He was at every one of my games.”
“Not at college.”
“He passed away.”
“Oh.” Coach Dover looked uncomfortable at that, like I’d ruined the mood. Not the whole kidnapping and binding me thing, but talking about my grandfather passing.
“Did your parents approve of you playing soccer?”
“Oh, no. I never played. Not as a sport anyway.”
“Really? I never would have guessed.”
“I was pushed into football. I had the frame for it.”
“Basketball would have worked too. You’re tall,” I added. It was a fact. Judging by the way he puffed up at it, though, he clearly took it as a compliment.
“It always worked in my favor,” he agreed.
“Did you play in college?”
“Yeah. I didn’t get a scholarship, though.”
“What’d you get your degree in?”
“Sports science.”
“But you’re not working as a coach anymore?”
“No. No, I have more important things to do.”
Like build an actual prison.
“You’re not working now?”
