Page 14 of Wrong Pucking Player

He’s about to start coaching season, and this is his break from the medical field and all that pressure put on his shoulders in such a demanding field.

Don’t need to worry about little old me.

“I’m fine,” I assure them with my hands up in defense. The thought of him telling Wyatt makes me narrow my eyes. “And don’t tell your jerk-ass son.”

That ignites a smile from him as he folds up his newspaper.

“I’ll mind my business,” he assures me. “For now.”

“Thank you, Coach.”

That’s fair.

I know he’ll keep his end of the bargain.

“Everett,” he reminds.

“Everett, Coach Cyrus, Sir, Cyrus... they’re all the same,” I conclude and pick the envelope that has somehow managed to create this tense situation.

Lifting it up to look at it, I can’t help but grin as I wonder what it could possibly be. For some odd reason, it reminds me of that movie I watched in the theater once on a trip sponsored by the government. Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. This envelope could contain some golden ticket that would change my life for the better and finally make things easier for me.

To finally not worry about money and checking my bank account daily? Sign me up.

“If this is a check for millions, I thank you in advance.”

“Bitch, you pucking wish!” Mikayla hollers.

She knows I’m trying to ease her nerves—as well as my own—but we can’t prolong this any longer.

We have to open it and find out what’s inside.

Instead of being gentle with the envelope, like I’m sure Mikayla will be from her past experiences, I rip the thing open out of impatience.

If it’s going to be bad news, just give it to me. Prolonging it will only give me chest pain from all the heart palpitations I’d experience between those few short seconds.

Let’s get this fucking over w… What?

My eyes scan the folded document faster than my mind can process what I’m doing. By the time I’m re-reading it a second time, my eyes are massive as my heart pounds wildly against my chest.

No way.

This can’t be right.

I don’t even register leaving the kitchen.

In fact, I don’t recall heading to the living room, sitting on the couch, crossing my legs, and staring at the significant piece of paper that just revealed my future.

That confirmed the last three years working my ass off was actually worth every blood, sweat, and tear.

My blurry vision only kindles droplets that fall onto the letter before me, making it impossible to read the words that set all these emotions into motion.

“Congratulations, Alexandra Mackenzie Andrews.”

I can’t even get past that sentence a third time because I know every word that comes after and the importance this letter brings to my future.

I got the internship.

“Would it be weird for me to be the first to congratulate you?”

---