Page 70 of Dirty Pucking Player

This could have absolutely nothing to do with me banging Coach, and I have to walk in there as if it doesn’t.

I drag my head away from the wall and follow after Greer around the corner and into Bob’s office through the door she left open.

Greer sits in one of the chairs facing Bob’s desk, twisting her hands on her lap, unable to control her nervous energy any other way.

Our GM and the man who has been Greer’s biggest advocate and role model her whole career looks up and smiles. “Oh, Bash. Good. Can you close the door behind you?”

Why do we need the door closed?

Because he’s about to ream us out?

I nod and shut the door before slowly lowering myself into the seat next Greer. She glances at me with fear darkening the green of her wide eyes. Not so long ago, she told me she sucked at concealing her emotions, and it seems I’m seeing that in full force right now. If she doesn’t calm down, Bob will certainly know something is wrong if he doesn’t already.

Bob leans forward in his chair and rests his elbows on his desk. He watches us, gaze darting from Greer to me, then making the sweep again.

Ten seconds pass.

Then another ten.

I shift in my seat under his silent assessment.

Another ten.

Greer crosses and uncrosses her legs, still twisting her fingers nervously in her lap.

Another ten.

Bob reclines in his chair and steeples his hands in front of his mouth, his eyes never leaving us.

What the hell is he doing?

I shift again.

Should I ask him why we’re here?

Shit.

No way.

I’m already getting the feeling I’m not going to like what he has to say. There’s no need to move things along and make the inevitable come any sooner.

Finally, after a goddamn eternity of uncomfortable silence, Bob leans forward again. “I wanted to talk to the two of you in private. About what’s been happening in the last few weeks.”

Shit.

Greer tenses next to me, and my entire body goes rigid.

He knows.

Bob shoves up from his seat and walks around to sit on the edge of his desk directly in front of us. “I think the three of us need to have a frank discussion.”

Greer clears her throat nervously. “About what, Bob?”

He raises his bushy gray eyebrows and glances between us. “About the two of you.”

We’re fucked.

Everything Greer and I have worked so hard for our entire lives is going down the drain. All the color drains from Greer’s face. She opens her mouth to speak, but I hold up a hand.

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