Chapter 12
Ethan
The mood in the change rooms at half time is surprisingly upbeat, despite the one-all score.
Kincaid and Bentley are the only two players who aren’t smiling or joking around, but I put it down to the BHU centre-mid getting the drop on them early in the game.
Peters is tucked away in the corner, his arm in a sling to protect his broken collarbone.
Andy is noticeably absent, so I clap my hands together to get the boys’ attention.
“Alright, boys, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. That was a good first half against a quality opposition, but we still have another forty-five minutes to play.”
Theo snorts a laugh. “No worries, Coach. Dyl’s doing a good job of making things easy for us.”
“Don’t get too cocky. There are still ten other players out on the pitch.”
“Not according to Dyl.”
Luca slaps Theo on the back of the head. “Focus.”
The room falls quiet, all eyes on me, and I take a second before I continue. “Look, I won’t pretend this one’s not personal, but if we let one player get inside our heads, then they’ve already won. Let’s focus on playing our game and working together as a team. Tight. Smart. Disciplined.”
A few heads nod.
“We pressure them high, force mistakes, and we finish. That final ball needs to be sharper.”
“Yeah.” The room fills with their collective shout.
I address our centre back. “Bentley, talk to your teammates. If you want a chance at leading the team next year, I need you to step up your communication out there.”
His jaw clenches, and he throws a murderous look at Kincaid before giving me a tight nod.
I don’t know what’s going on between the two of them, but they need to get their shit together.
We can’t win a game if there’s discord in our defence, and when the other boys graduate in three months, they’ll be the leaders of the next group of boys coming up.
Andy slips into the room, and I nod at Luca as I make my way over to my assistant coach. The players gather around their captain, and I arch a brow at my mate.
“Where have you been?”
Andy glances around, not quite meeting my eye. “Had to take a call.”
“A call?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. Personal stuff. Sorry.”
“Everything okay?”
“Fine. All good. Let’s go out and win this game.” He moves past me, clapping Walters on the shoulder as Luca finishes up a motivational speech to his teammates.
I frown, wondering what’s going on with Andy, but before I can press him further, the ref’s whistle blows from the tunnel—three short blasts. Time’s up.
The players bounce up and down on their toes, hyping each other up as Luca shouts, “Beckford on three.”
“One, two, three—Beckford!”
Andy and I follow the boys back out onto the pitch. When we reach the bench, I stand next to him and murmur so we’re not overheard. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”
“Yep. No problems.”
“If you’re in trouble—”
He barks out a laugh, clapping me on the shoulder. “Focus on the game, Coach. We can talk about it afterwards.”
The whistle blows for the second half, and I push it to the back of my mind until after the game.
We win the game three-two, but the win is bittersweet as I watch my son storm off the pitch after playing one of the worst games I’ve seen him play.
There’s nothing I can do about it until he’s showered and out of the opposing team’s change rooms, so I brush it off and follow my boys into our rooms, where the mood is euphoric.
Shit. I don’t need to be thinking about what else could be euphoric if I allowed myself to go there tonight. Mentally face palming myself, I push any thoughts of a tempting little devil to the side.
Despite being proud of the way the boys played, it’s hard not to notice the growing tension between my centre back and my new keeper, and I make a note to follow up with them later.
Tonight’s not the night. Let them celebrate their win, and we’ll knuckle down at training this week to iron out the kinks.
After a quick debrief with the boys, I leave them in Andy’s capable hands and head off to find Dylan.
I lean against the wall just outside the visitor’s change rooms, arms folded. It’s a little unorthodox, being the opposition coach, but I’ve got my father hat on now.
The BHU door finally creaks open, and one of their midfielders steps out. He stops short when he sees me standing there.
“You looking for someone?”
“Yeah. Dylan.”
He tilts his head to the side, assessing me in my Beckford U uniform before jerking his thumb back towards the room. “He’s still in there. I’ll tell him.”
“Thanks.”
The door swings shut behind him and I fight the urge to pace as I wait. I don’t know when it happened, but some time over the last four years, my son drifted away from me, and I don’t know how to rebuild the relationship we once had.
Less than a minute later, it cracks open again. Dylan stands in the doorway, his boots off, socks rolled down, and his jersey half untucked. He brushes his sweat-damp hair off his face as he fixes me with a glare.
“You here to gloat?”
My brow furrows. “Dyl—”
He steps out of the change room, letting the door slam shut behind him. “Go ahead. Say it.”
“I’m not here to say anything.”
Dylan scoffs. “Really? Everyone else already has.”
“I’m not everyone else.”
“I played like trash,” he says bitterly.
“It wasn’t your best game,” I admit, pushing off the wall and taking a couple of steps towards him. “You looked like you were trying to prove something out there, but you didn’t need to. I think you just let the pressure of playing against your old teammates get the better of you.”
His jaw tightens. “What do you know?”
“I know what it looks like when a player lets the noise get in his head, and I know you’re better than what you showed today.”
Dylan’s shoulders hunch and he exhales deeply. “I’ve got to go shower before the bus leaves.”
My brows lift. “You’re not staying? I thought you’d want to hang out, grab a beer—”
“You thought wrong.”
He turns to walk away, but I grab his arm. “Dyl—”
My son shakes me off. “I’ll talk to you during the week, Dad. Go celebrate with your team.”
His words cut deep as the door slams shut behind him. The need to comfort my son burns from within my soul, but there’s nothing I can do if he wants to shut me out. I’ll just have to give him space to lick his wounds.
With a sigh, I turn and walk back to our change rooms. I take a moment outside to shove down my concern for Dylan and force a smile on my face before pushing open the door.
Most of the players are still there, showering and celebrating their win—we’re sitting top of the ladder, and if we don’t drop a game, we’ll win the championship.
Not going to lie, it’ll be challenging without Whitford, but we have the depth in our list to cover him. I scan the room until I find him horsing around with Walters. The kid has no idea his life is about to change.
As the players leave the rooms, I make my way over to Andy, who’s busying himself packing up the equipment.
“How was Dyl?” he asks, avoiding my gaze.
“Pretty disappointed in his game.”
He nods. “It wasn’t his best. I’m sure he’ll drown his sorrows with his mates and some Banshees. I wouldn’t wait up for him.”
“He’s going back on the team bus.”
He looks up in surprise. “Huh.”
“Yeah.”
“So I guess you’re looking for a bit of a distraction?”
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Depends on how forgiving you’re feeling.”
My stomach drops. “What did you do?”
“I’m going to preface this with… I’m doing this with your best interests at heart.”
“Get to the point, Andy.”
“You really should change your phone password from Dylan’s birthday. It’s very easy for anyone who knows you to guess.”
A low warning growl emits from my throat. “Andy—”
His next words rush out so fast I’m sure I heard him wrong.
“I booked you a room at Euphoria tonight.”
“You what?” My voice echoes through the empty room.
He winces.
“I used my credit card.”
As if that’s the point here.
“You’re unbelievable,” I snap at him. “You can’t just do shit like this without telling me. How’d you even know I was a member?”
“I saw you checking the app on the bus the other week. But you’re one to talk about doing shit without telling anyone. When were you going to tell me you resigned?”
I drop my head into my hands, guilt settling deep in my stomach. “You’re right. I should have told you.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Good question. Why didn’t I?
Andy and I have been mates since we met at Sydney University twenty-one years ago.
He was there when Vanessa got pregnant, and he helped us through some of the tough times as young parents when Dylan was little.
Vanessa and I moved to Beckford when I got the position here as a history professor fourteen years ago.
When I took on the coaching role at the university six years ago, he made the move, taking on the role as my assistant coach while also putting his literature degree to use.
I guess over time, I’ve taken his presence in my life for granted, and I just assumed he’d be happy to step into the coach’s role.
With my life unravelling over the past couple of years, he’s never judged me; he supported me through the divorce and keeps trying to help me move on with my life. I’ve been pretty fucking selfish.
“My life’s a bit of a mess,” I admit. “There’s so much fucking baggage I need to sort through, and I guess I thought it was time to figure it all out.”
“I get that,” he says, clapping me on the back. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”
“Sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“Make it up to me by joining me at the club tonight.”
I groan. “I don’t think sex with a stranger is what I need.”
“What about sex with the naughty little devil you’ve been chatting to?”
What the fuck? My eyes snap up to meet his, my hands fisting as a renewed sense of anger and frustration bubbles inside of me.
“You read my fucking messages?”
“Woah. Hell no. I’m not that fucking stupid.” He holds his hands up in defence. “I saw her name in your DM list and sent her the request. I didn’t open the messages.”
“Sometimes I wonder why I’m friends with you.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Why would you do this?”
“If you’re going to leave town, then why not have a bit of fun before you do?”
“You’re messing with things you don’t understand.” The poor girl is probably wondering why I’m requesting a room with her when I haven’t replied to her messages after our last… interaction.
“C’mon, Ethan. Have a little fun before you run off on your little Eat, Pray, Love expedition.
You wouldn’t have bought a membership if you weren’t a little curious, you kinky fuck.
” I glare at him, but he only holds his hands up and laughs.
“One night. It’s a bit of fun, not a commitment. What’s the worst that can happen?”
Running a hand through my hair, I consider his words. He’s right. The playful little devil is young; maybe she’s just looking for some fun with an older man. Why can’t I indulge this one time, and throw caution to the wind? What is the worst that can happen?