Page 32 of Triple Pucked
Out of habit, I smooth through my curls, flattening them. Then I adjust my cufflinks ritualistically three times.
No matter how hard I try, coach always says that I look amess.
Shay rests his hand on my shoulder, and it steadies me.
Robyn leans forward before I can and firmly knocks.
I’ve suffered for coach. Dedicated my life to his team. Taken every hardass insult and still been devoted to him.
My therapist has helped me to see that the abuse in the discipline school conditioned me to appease both parental and authority figures.
Coach saw that need in me when I was a young, self-destructive player on my last chance.
He used it.
I know that now; it fucking hurts.
He won’t use me any longer.
More than that, I won’t let him use Shay or any of the other players.
I won’t let him hurt his own daughter.
“Get your ass in here, Jude,” Coach yells.
I wince.
Shay squeezes my shoulder.
“He’s not a morning person.” Robyn drops her hand to the door handle. “Actually, he’s not an afternoon, evening, or… Perhaps, he’s just not a people person.”
She shoves open the door and strolls into the room first before I can.
I’ve never had anyone in my life before Robyn who acts like my protector.
My sister, Maria, at least fought to get me out of the discipline school and then allowed me to crash on her couch afterward. Yet she’s much older than I am; we didn’t grow up together.
We exchange Christmas cards still, but outside that, we’re strangers.
I’ve always wondered how much Maria saving me from the school was more about her Catholic sense of duty and morality, rather than about me at all.
Maria never asked about what had happened to me in the school. She could barely meet my eye.
I felt like a burden.
I worked hard to earn the college scholarship and stop causing her trouble as soon as possible.
Robyn never acts like I’m a burden or trouble, however, even when I’m the one causing her headaches with PR disasters.
Instead, she truly protects me, as much as I protect her.
I swagger after Robyn into coach’s room. Shay follows me, swinging the door shut behind him.
Coach is leaning against the wall next to the window. The arctic blue drapes are open. Drizzle is tearing down the glass.
“You’re two minutes late.” Coach glares at his watch, as if he’s attempting to set it alight. “And you look a mess, Jude. You could at least have brushed your hair. Have you been drinking?”
“Sadly not,” I reply smoothly, despite my hammering heart. “Are you offering? This feels like it’ll be a whiskey neat type of meeting.”
