Chapter 2
Two
The glass on Coach’s personal MVP award shines with my own reflection.
At the moment, a smudge on the thing is making it look as if I have half a handlebar mustache.
“Coach,” I say into the empty office, right into that smudge.
“I bought a cabin.” I wrinkle my nose and shift one inch to the side of that smear, cutting that half-mustache off completely.
With more assertiveness, I try again. “Coach. I have purchased a cabin.”
“You’ve done what?” Jet Jacobson says. My Red Tails coach stands in the doorway of his office, his usual pleasant expression in a tight scowl.
I swallow down my nerves. I am Roman Graves—the Graveyard. I don’t cower. “Hey, Coach. I was just waiting for you. To talk.”
“I see. Because you’ve purchased what?” Jacobson’s brows hitch high on his head.
He crosses his arms, looming in the doorway of his office.
He isn’t a scary man, and I’m not a fearful human.
And yet … something inside of me says I should lie or chicken out of this conversation completely. It’s not going to end in my favor.
But then, I’ve never listened to the fearful side of my brain—which is why I broke my arm cliff jumping at sixteen.
But it’s also why Mary Kim accepted my invitation to the prom.
She was in college. And out of my league.
So, I square my shoulders and look Jacobson dead in the eyes. “Coach, I bought a cabin.”
Jacobson walks by me and that smudged MVP award. He rounds his desk and sits behind it. Leaning back in his office chair, he motions for me to sit in the seat opposite him. But I prefer to stand.
“Why?” he asks.
I clear my throat. That isn’t the response I expected. I’m ready for a fight, for an argument. I’ve done the deed, ready to ask forgiveness, not permission. But why?
I cinch my brows. “Because I want my own place.” I’m only three years away from thirty. Why wouldn’t I want my own place? Do I really need to explain myself to Jacobson, or anyone?
“Where is this cabin?”
“Near Ravensong Lake,” I say, though I’m not sure why it matters. Why is housing or this conversation important to my job anyway? I’m good at my job. That should be the end of the story.
“That’s remote,” Coach says. “Extremely remote. You already spend your personal time alone. You need the wilderness too?”
“I do,” I say. Because how much does this man really need to know about me, other than the fact that I have the best ball control on the team?
“Well, that’s too bad. You signed a contract. Baxter wants all of his team living at the Lakeview Apartments. You knew that when you signed on.”
I clench my jaw, not ready to give in. “But I already bought the place.”
“Then sell it,” Jacobson says.
Fisting my hands at my side, I stop myself from snarling. “Devon doesn’t live in Lakeview.”
“Devon’s married. With a daughter and another on the way.”
This, I can argue. “So, there are exceptions.” I press my fist into the top of his desk.
But Jacobson isn’t ruffled by my claims. “You know there are. You signed the same contract Devon did.”
“Then couldn’t this be an exception? I need my space, Coach.” I exhale a rumbling breath.
“You need your team, Roman. Soccer is a team sport. You remember that?”
I grind my teeth and swallow down the very real desire to ream out my coach. “Of course I do.”
“And yet, you don’t know your teammates. You’re good, Graves. But you could be great if you knew them.”
I shake my head. He’s got it all wrong. “I do know them. I know that Whitaker’s got a wicked left foot, Cruz isn’t going to allow the ball to go past him, and Hayes stays focused under pressure.”
Jacobson’s nod is slow and calculated. “All true. Did you know Callum’s getting married over break? Do you know the date? Are you attending?”
I blink, my brow wrinkling. I know the man’s got a girlfriend.
How could I not? Lucca Cruz made Callum’s girl a team affair.
Still, I don’t know about any event or a specific date.
But then, Callum passed an envelope along to me more than a month ago.
It’s sitting sealed up on my counter with the rest of my junk mail.
Jacobson takes my silence as an answer. “Do you even know the woman’s name?”
“Franny,” I snap. How could I not know when Lucca bellows the woman’s name at the beginning of every game?
Coach gives me a smug grin. But I am certain I’m right. I know it. “Yes, Fran,” he says. “She’s a nice person. She’s good for him.”
I don’t really care what Callum’s girlfriend is—it’s not my concern. But then, is he saying what I think he’s saying?
“Wait—is Whitaker moving out, then?”
His head dips in a single nod. “He and Fran have plans to leave Lakeview, yes.”
I scoff. “You see how unfair this is, right?”
“Baxter pays you well, Graves. You may be in the minor league, but he’s made sure that you don’t have to have two jobs.
The fans in Reno and Tesoro love you. He’s provided you with a dream situation.
With a few mere stipulations, one being that you live at Lakeview.
It’s not unheard of. Plenty of teams, major and minor, live in the same building. ”
I pace once in front of Coach’s desk. “But I’ve already bought the cabin. I signed the papers this morning.”
“Do you have wedding plans I don’t know about?”
“Maybe I do,” I bark, but swallow down my temper. We both know I don’t have any such plans.
Jacobson laughs, curt and short, at my small outburst. “I’ll tell you what, Roman. You go the next two weeks without getting a card, and I’ll consider talking to Baxter about your cabin.”
We have four games in the next two weeks. Four. Surely, I can go four games without getting carded. Not every foul is a card, just the more severe ones. I can handle that.
As if reading my mind, Jacobson smirks. “When was the last time you finished a match without a yellow?”
“I thought you appreciated my aggressive play,” I say, mostly because I don’t have an answer for him. I can’t remember my last clean game.
“Oh, I do. But we both know it’s hard for you to get the job done without the risk of a red.”
I am silent. Sure, two fouls warranting yellow cards equal a red. And a red card means ejection from the game and suspension from the next. The problem is, Jacobson and I are also both very aware that I’ve missed my share of games due to red cards.
“That’s what I thought.” He nods and peers down at the playbook on his desk. “Maybe we don’t need to start the holidays with you getting ejected from the game this year?”
Christmas is two months away. The few weeks around the holiday are the only real break we soccer players get. And last year, I ended our season being ejected from the game and asked to leave the field. Yes, I know exactly what Jacobson is referring to.
But for my cabin … for my solitude …
“I can do that.” I hold a hand across Jacobson’s desk, lifting his gaze to mine.
His right brow quirks up in question.
“If I go the next two weeks without a card, then you’ll talk to Baxter about changing the housing portion of my contract.”
Coach heaves out a weary sigh, standing, slapping his hand into mine. “Sure, Graves. You go the next four games without getting a card, and I’ll talk to Baxter.”