Page 74 of Only in Your Dreams

Yeah. It takes a real fucking prick to start calling for my ass to get fired when I’m only one game into the job. Can’t a guy get some credit around here?

I lean toward my mic, molding the brim of my hat when a couple camera flashes go off. “I’m not expecting blind loyalty, Scottie. What I do expect is the chance to coach a few games before the pitchforks come out.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see our PR coordinator’s shoulders slump. Talking pitchforks was definitely not part of the training she put me through once I got promoted.

Harry takes over the mic. “Three games, to be exact.” I go still in my seat. There’s a simultaneous frown going around the room. “The question was at which point in the season do I consider a coaching shake up. That would be three more games. I need to see a win sometime in the next three weeks.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

Cameras flash. My stomach drops and lands on the floor by my feet. I do my best to smooth my face. Act like my boss hasn’t just dropped a bomb on me in a room full of cameras and salty reporters.

We’ve apparently done enough to piss off the PR coordinator because she steps up to the table. “Alright, looks like we’re at time. Thanks for coming, everyone.”

The second she calls it, I get to my feet. “I gotta get out to practice,” I mutter before Harry can manage to corner me. I’ve had enough of his scathing assessment of the team, as though I don’t spend every waking moment obsessing over it already.

Well,almostevery waking moment.

A week into our new sleeping arrangement, and the corner of my brain normally reserved for thinking about Melody Woods on loop has spread an entire hemisphere. Now that I see her every day. Go to sleep with her at night. Wake up to her in the morning.

Yeah, maybe she only shows up after midnight and leaves before she’s even finished her own cup of coffee, but it’s more of her than I’ve had in a long time.

Apparently, my obsession has turned into full-on hallucinations. Out on the field, my eyes immediately catch a flash of pink on the sideline next to Brooks.

I’ve always been wildly fascinated by Melody’s wardrobe. You meet the girl, take in the snark, the way she makes you work hard just for a two-second glimpse of a half-smile, and you expect to see her dressed head to toe in muted colors. Then she shows up in a yellow terry cloth dress or a bright pink one like today, blonde hair strewn around her shoulders.

In high school, anticipating which blinding color she’d show up wearing that day made it damn hard to dread going to class.

Brooks catches sight of me first, and then Mel twirls around in a way that makes that dress spin around her thighs. She doesn’t smile. Just fixes me with that look where her eyes twinkle as she decides between a simplehelloor a teasing quip.

“You’re forty minutes late to your own practice, Coach,” she says. Mystery solved. “I caught Brooks here trying to stage a coup. Steal this team right out from under you.”

“You know what? He can fucking have it,” I say grimly, ripping my hat off and tossing it down on the bench beside us. I shove my fingers through my hair. “Let’s see how he does knowing the entire town wants you unemployed. Probably even exiled.”

Funny how fast they can turn on you. When I played here, I couldn’t make it down the main strip without getting stopped for a friendly chat every few feet.

“Interviews went well, then?” Brooks says.

Melody turns those massive blue eyes on me. Fucking hell, she’s pretty. Fourteen years in, it still hits me straight in the chest every time I see her.

“Media,” I tell her by way of explanation, and she winces. I don’t need to say more. She grew up in this world with us. Knows exactly how rabid the fans can be.

Brooks gets called over by a player, and Mel eyes the stands behind the bench. It’s Thursday, which means open practice, and the seats are usually pretty well occupied by reporters and students.

I scan the area, looking for signs of Scottie or any of his fellow vultures, but it’s nothing but a couple groups of college kids dotting the stands. I recognize a few girlfriends of some of the players huddled together. There’s also a kid I’ve never seen before sitting a few rows up from them, legs draped onto the seats in front of him like they’re too long for the small space between rows. He adjusts his glasses as he stares down at the textbook in his lap, pausing to stare out onto the field every so often.

“You’re probably wondering why I’ve come to see you outside of sleeping hours,” Mel says. She’s wearing a pair of high-top sneakers a few shades darker than the pink of her dress. She looks like a walking Valentine, and I fucking love it.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, sidestepping her opening. As far as I’m concerned, she could come to me in the middle of a colonoscopy and I’d be thrilled to see her.

“Oh,” she says, looking down at herself. She swings her hips, admiring the way her own dress flutters around her. “Thanks. It’s new, obviously. Considering the entirety of my old wardrobe was fit for a funeral. Connor had very particular taste.”

I really hate that fucking guy.

“I wasn’t talking about the outfit,” I clarify, blatantly checking her out. “Though, to be clear, this dress really does do you justice.”

She wrinkles her nose at the compliment, but the flush in her cheeks betrays her. “Anyway, I actually came to—”

“Heads up, Coach!”

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