Page 22 of The Way We Fight

Once we were there, I mustered enough strength to push her away, not wanting her to think I cared more than I did. Because I didn’t.

“Ahhhh,” she yelled as she righted herself against the door to her room. “Should I say thanks?”

We were around a small corner, out of the eyes of anyone walking by, so I got closer to her and leaned in. “Yeah, you owe me one.”

“I don't owe you shit,” she laughed. “You didn't have to do that; I would have made it without you.”

“Not without a few more beers to the head.”

“I like beer,” she sneered, while simultaneously making a joke.

“I didn't like how they were talking to you,” I confessed without meaning to. So, to make sure I was coming across correctly, I added. “No one talks to you that way but me. If you’re a bitch, I’ll tell you, if you’re a cunt, I’ll let you know. But that is not their place, it's mine!”

I slapped the door above her head on the last word, then turned and stomped off. Some part of me felt like a kid throwing a tantrum. None of it made sense to anyone but me and if someone forced my hand, I wouldn't be able to explain myself.

Instead of heading to my office, I went straight to the post-game press conference where I knew I was about to field questions about everything from Ty being absent to the penalty I got on the sideline to helping the ref off the field. I didn’t know what I was going to say about any of it, but the interview was part of my job and I hoped I came up with something.

I took the podium and wasted no time pointing to reporters who had their hands raised. I didn’t need to speak first, I needed to get the hell out of there.

“Coach? Where is Tyson Black?”

“He is taking care of some personal business and will be back soon.”

“Coach? What did you say to get the flag thrown at you in the last minute of the game?”

“Wow,” I laughed with a fakeness I was scared they could see through. “Straight for the jugular. I just didn't agree with the call and told the ref I didn't, and she threw the flag.”

“Do you feel it was warranted?”

“Do we ever?”

“That wasn't the question, Coach.”

I tapped the side of the podium and looked around, thinking quickly about what I wanted to say. “We say a lot of things in the heat of the moment. I will have to go back and review the tape, check out the play, try to remember what I said, and make corrections accordingly so that something like that doesn’t cost us in the regular season.”

He was getting ready to ask about me helping her off the field, I could see it in his eyes. But everything I had just said summed up the game and that was all I wanted to say, so instead of waiting for any more questions, I left the stage and walked straight to my office.

I paced a few times, waiting for everyone to leave so I didn't have to face the world. Then I got in my car and called Rhys, thankful he had made it back from Miami already.

“Meet me at the gym, I need something to hit.”

“What the fuck, man?” he said, although I wasn't sure what he meant. The gym, the game, the referee? I had already filled him in on Ty.

“Just get over there. I feel like I’m going to explode.”

“You may need a therapist. I am seriously starting to worry about you.”

“You have no idea how much pressure I’m under. I don't need a therapist; I need an outlet.”

His laugh was gruff, and I could envision him rolling his eyes. “Sex is way less damaging to your face.”

It was my turn to roll my eyes, I just wished he could see me. I tried that, with the chick at the bar–didn't work. If I was being honest, boxing wasn’t even helping. Made even worse when I realized Charleigh was a part of that as well.

“Seriously,” Rhys laughed again, “You need to get laid.”

“Shut the fuck up and meet me at the gym,” I laughed, so he knew I was joking and not that unhinged. “You can be my punching bag today.”

“Oh joy,” he groaned. But I knew he would be there. He knew I needed it and even though Rhys wasn’t much of a people pleaser, he would do anything for his big brother.

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