Page 37 of Our Bender

She bit her lip, trying to tamper down a chuckle. “You can call me Josie,” she said with a warm, genuine smile. She looked way less guarded and more comfortable than she had in the classroom and at the rink, which I guess made sense, those were her workplaces. My eyes skimmed over her outfit– socks with slides on, soft gray sweatpants, and a cut-off t-shirt that exposed a thin sliver of her skin. I liked her comfy look. I honestly never would’ve guessed she dressed this way after seeing her put together teacher outfit earlier.

I slowly sat up, holding my head. Seeing our amazing food spewed all over the ground made me want to cry like a damn baby. And that’s when a laugh bubbled out of her.

“I’m sorry!” she said, covering her mouth. “I’m so sorry! It’s just… I can’t believe…”

“Why do females always laugh at my pain?” I groaned to myself, which just made her laugh harder. And I’m not gonna lie, it was suddenly hard to keep a straight face.

“Honey?” a gruff voice yelled from behind her door. “Everything okay?”

My neck whipped around to her. I stared wide-eyed. Because Iknewthat fucking voice. I eyed her door. What the fuck was going on here? Coach was amarried man. Was she some kind of sugar baby? Was Coach hersugar daddy?

Oh my God.

I needed to get the hell out of here, but my head was still fucking spinning.

“Is that… Is that…?” In my state of shock, I couldn’t seem to find the words.

Her eyes widened in concern, and she knelt back down by my side in a second. She grabbed my chin with her dainty hand, and with a surprising amount of force, pulled my face to hers. “Are you okay? You’re stuttering. How many fingers am I holding up?”

But I wasn’t looking at her anymore, because a second later, Coach was looming over us, scratching his salt and pepper, close-cropped hair.

“Jettersen, what the hell happened to you, son?”

I licked my cracked lips, and my eyes darted between them. What the fuck was happening here? “I uh.. Stairs, Miss Josie… Food.”

Josie cringed and dropped my chin. “I hit him with the door. Pretty hard. Isn’t this the one with the concussion?”

I sat there rubbing my forehead, and there was her twinkling laughter again.

“Wait, what’re you doing here?” she asked suddenly.

“Uh…” I looked at her confusedly. Wasn’t it obvious? “I live here.”

“You… you live here?” she questioned. Her tone was now laced with… accusation? Her jaw angled out to the side, and that guarded look was right back on her face.

I looked to Coach for guidance… and he looked… caught?

“How many of you players live here?” she asked with disdain. She stood up now. I immediately missed her warm presence by my side.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Coach frowning, giving me a small negative head shake.

“I live with two guys on the fourth floor. Hassik and Garcia,” I responded, trying to avoid answering directly.

Her jaw clamped shut and she was now looking furious with Coach. “Just three of you?” she demanded in a clipped tone.

“Uh…” It was really hard to lie to her, despite Coach practically boring holes into me with warning eyes.

“How many, Mr. Jettersen? The truth, please,” she demanded in a low tone.

“Shit…” I rubbed my head.

“Language!” she snapped.

What the fuck? She was just concerned for me a minute ago, now she was yelling at me with that damn teacher voice again?

I was about to protest, but she cut me a look– one that basically worked like a fucking truth serum because I found myself spewing everything out. “Fine, there’s…” I mentally tallied everyone up. There were us three in the penthouse, and then Duke, Campbell, TJ, Reggie, and Whitty also lived here with their girls. “There’s eight of us players living here.”

“Eight?!” she practically shrieked at Coach.

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