Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 37344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 187(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 187(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say and sigh. “I just… yeah. I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Of course.”
Holman turns and stalks away, muttering darkly to himself under his breath. He blows his whistle and gathers the team around him, no doubt trying to smooth over what just happened.
My brother not only humiliated me, but he also threw mud on my career. I have to wonder now if Holman or somebody else within the organization is going to ask for a new beat writer to be assigned because of what happened.
What started as a good day has suddenly turned into shit. “Thanks, Eric. Thanks a lot.”
11
BEN
“I appreciate you two coming in on such short notice this morning,” Coach Holman says.
Neither of us says anything and are studiously ignoring each other. I sit in one chair and Eric sits in another on the other side of the room as if we’re putting as much physical distance between us as possible. And as spacious as Coach Holman’s office is, it’s still not nearly big enough. Coach glances at Eric then at me, and sighs.
“What’s going on here, fellas?” he asks.
Again, neither of us speaks. Honestly, this whole thing is so fucking stupid. I don't even know what to say. I haven’t been involved in a dumb ass fight like this since like junior high school. Which seems to fit since sitting in front of Coach’s desk kind of feels like we’ve been called into the principal’s office.
“Really? Nothing to say?” Coach says. “Either of you?”
I glance around the office. Coach has photos, awards, and other memorabilia from his playing days, as well as plenty of photos of his family hanging on the walls. He’s got his spot set up a lot like his office back in Dallas. The wall to my right is made of glass and looks over the practice gym down below. The blinds are drawn, though, keeping us from seeing what’s going on down there.
“Okay, fellas, this is absolute bullshit,” Coach says, his voice stern. “I’ve been expecting you two to be leaders on this team. You’re veterans. I expected the younger guys to be able to look to you as mentors. But you’re acting like little goddamn kids. This is completely unacceptable.”
I cut a hard glance at Eric and immediately feel my blood pressure rising, so I quickly look away and feel the corners of my mouth pulling downward. From the corner of my eye, I see Eric look over at me, but he too remains silent.
“We’re not leaving here until we get this shit sorted out,” Coach says. “What the fuck was all that drama on the court yesterday?”
If we don’t say something, this is going to drag out all day long. And the last thing I want to do is spend my day cooped up in this office with the prick sitting beside me. As they say, the fastest way out is through, so I sit forward and prepare myself to bite the bullet.
“Honestly, you’re going to have to ask him,” I say and jerk my thumb toward Eric. “I was simply talking to the team’s beat writer, and he flipped out.”
“She’s my sister, Coach.”
“I had no idea she was his sister.”
“Then you’re the stupidest motherfucker on the planet,” he sneers. “Didn’t you notice that we’ve got the same last name?”
In hindsight, I should have known. But it wasn’t until I saw them standing side by side yesterday that I noticed how much they looked alike. It’s mostly in the eyes. They’ve got the same eyes. Once I saw that, I noticed the other similar features they shared, and it became one of those “duh” moments. I probably didn’t see it at first simply because I tried to avoid thinking about Eric at all.
“Greene isn't exactly a unique last name,” I say. “So, to answer your question, no, I didn't notice you two shared a last name. Not that it matters.”
Coach Holman looks at me. “Is there something going on between you and his sister?”
“My personal life is private. Who I see or don’t see is nobody’s business. Unless I’m engaged in conduct detrimental to the team, which I am not, nobody has a right to ask me about my personal life. And they certainly don’t have the right to dictate my personal life to me.”
I say the last with a pointed glare at Eric who stares back at me, his face darkening.
Coach holds his hands up, his palms facing me. “Fair enough. You’re right,” he says and turns to Eric. “And if memory serves, Ms. Greene is an adult and free to see or not see anybody she wants to. Or am I incorrect about her age?”
“No, Coach. She’s an adult.”
“And you’re not her parent, right?” Coach presses.
“No,” Eric says through gritted teeth.
“So, is it fair to say she’s old enough to see who she wants without you stepping in and trying to start a fight about it?”