Page 24 of Roughing the Player
Chapter 7
Brock
I’MSCARFING DOWN MY BREAKFAST on Thursday, when one of the assistant coaches grabs my shoulder, squeezing it lightly. “Coach Grohowski wants to see you. Stop by his office, will you?”
I’ve been at camp for a week and a half now. Done everything they’ve asked me to do. But even though it can’t possibly be bad news, my heart skips a beat. I’ve been on the losing end of a talk with the head coach before. Been told they no longer need my services. Well, if it is bad news, might as well get it over with. I wolf down what remains of my food and head toward Coach’s office.
Coach Grohowski is a huge guy. Six four. At least two seventy-five. He’s seated in a massive executive chair, squinting at something on the computer. As soon as I walk in, he tosses his computer glasses on his desk and leans back in his seat. He doesn’t look like he’ll be dealing out any bad news. But what do I know?
I nod. “Coach. You wanted to see me?”
“Yeah. Take a seat.” He points to the armchair across the desk from him. The thing’s so big it doesn’t even squeak when I park my ass on it.
“How are you settling in? Any issues you want to discuss?” he asks.
Yeah, like I’d be stupid enough to tell him I have a problem. “No.” I grin like the Outlaws’ training camp is the happiest place on earth. “Everything’s great.”
“Good. Got a place to live?”
He wants to talk about my living arrangements? Ookay. “Yes. Furniture’s on its way. Should be here by the end of the week.” Or so I’ve been told.
“Great. We like to have our players settled, preferably married. Any fiancée? Or steady girlfriend?” There’s a hopeful tone to his voice.
Where are these questions coming from? He had to know everything there was to know about me before the trade. “Nope.”
Leaning forward, he drops his elbows on the desk. “What about your date at the dinner? Eleanor Adams, was it? She seemed very nice.”
Ahhh. Things are starting to get clear. Wish I could tell him Ellie and I are a thing. But we’re not. Saturday night at the hotel proved that. “An old friend. Ran into her at the airport. We exchanged phone numbers. When the team dinner came up, I rang her up.” I’m not lying. Everything I’m saying is true.
“Good. Good.”
“Anything else, Coach?” I thumb toward the door. “I need to report to rehab.”
“Nothing hurting, I hope.”
“No. Like I said, everything’s great.”
“Good to know.” He stands up and shakes my hand. When he does, he holds on to it. “A word of advice, Brock. We’re very appreciative of you being here. Very appreciative. You have a great arm and you’re smart. If there’s anything you need, you let us know. You hear me.”
“Will do, sir.”
He releases my hand, but apparently, he’s not done with me yet. “Now, I don’t expect you to live the life of a saint. But we’d only like to see your name in the news when it relates to football. You get my drift?”
So, the purpose of this strange conversation is now apparent. He’d hoped to hear that Ellie and I were, at the very least, dating. When I didn’t confirm that, I got my own personal warning. No wild parties. No sex scandals. “Loud and clear, Coach.”
I walk out, quietly seething. Just how many damn lectures do I have to have? I’m a grown ass adult, for fuck’s sake. I kept my nose clean in San Diego, didn’t I? Well, except for that photo that got plastered all over social media. But nobody got hurt. The women in my bed were more than old enough. I have half a mind to walk right back into Coach’s office and quit.
Yeah, that’s not happening.
I want this job. I need this job. The Outlaws are a class organization. There’s a reason they won the Super Bowl last year, and it wasn’t only about skill. They truly think of themselves as family. San Diego didn’t have that. It was pretty much every one out for themselves. But this team is different. They truly think of themselves as one big tribe. Not that I’ll become one of them. I’ll be on the outside looking in. Pretty much the way I’ve been my whole life.
As I leave the office, somebody approaches. A kid who looks like he’s all of twelve, although I’m sure he’s much older. “Mr. Parker.”
“Yes.”
“A package arrived for you.”
“Thanks.” I take the Priority Mail box with my sports agency’s return address. When I open it up, a set of keys fall out, a tag attached to them with my new place’s address, along with a notification that my furniture had arrived. I’d like to go check out the condo, but the team’s not too keen on releasing a player during training camp, not even for a couple of hours. Thing is, as hard as I’ve worked I’ve earned a favor or two. And there’s no harm in asking. I walk to the Director of Player Relations office and knock on his door.
