Chapter 7
Colin
I’M BEGINNING TO think my lucky quarter has run its course.
Exhibit A: the moving company I hired showed up a day late, then took twice as long to get my stuff from Burlington to Atlanta.
The house I’m renting is stupid big and a little more than I’m comfortable spending, but silly me decided to trust the real estate agent that the team pointed me to, and the rental agreement I signed is ironclad.
The second day there, I tripped over my own two feet and fell in my new living room, narrowly avoiding a nasty hit when my head barely missed the coffee table.
And now the barista is telling me they’re out of oat milk.
Who runs out of oat milk?
“Just make it black, then,” I sigh.
He smiles brightly, punching the order in. “Sure thing, man. You like the Granite, huh?” He nods at my shirt, a new polo courtesy of the marketing department.
That, at least, gets a grin out of me. “Yeah. I’m the new head coach.”
“Gonna win the championship?”
“Sure hope so,” I tell him, a little surprised that the random barista at my neighborhood coffee shop knows enough about rugby to identify the city’s pro team and know we’re focused on the championship.
Maybe my luck hasn’t run out after all.
I grab my drink and head out to my car, which got a flat on the way down, thus giving me the absolute pleasure of changing a tire on I-85 in Virginia.
In the rain. After unlocking the door, I lean in to put my coffee in the console and straighten back out, just in time to feel something hit the top of my head.
It’s…wet.
I look up. Not a cloud in the sky. But there is a trio of birds in the tree I parked beneath.
Fuck.
I walk around to the passenger side of my car and open the door to grab the spare napkins I keep stashed in the glove compartment. A gentle pat and inspection later, my worst fear is confirmed: I’ve been shat on by a bird.
“I get it,” I mutter up to the sky. “I promise. I truly, honestly get it.” I don’t know when the universe plans to stop punishing me for Vegas, but that night wasn’t supposed to happen. It was completely out of character for me, and I blame Sam’s eyes for everything. And her smile. And her laugh.
I do my best to get the bird shit out of my hair and double back to the coffee shop, aiming straight for the bathroom to wash it out, muttering the entire time.
Of course I get shit on by a bird. Of course I do.
I spend my entire life in control. One night – one night – I allow myself to have a little fun, and my worst nightmare happens.
That’s what I get, I suppose.
I look down at my bare ring finger. I pulled the ring off as soon as I left the room, but it wasn’t until I’d gone through security that I realized I still wore the necklace.
The necklace that was incredibly important to Sam.
The one that she’d almost certainly looked everywhere for, and didn’t find.
It’s been three weeks. Three weeks of waking up feeling guilty as hell for bailing.
Three weeks of waiting with bated breath to see if the real paperwork is going to come from Vegas, and being relieved every day when it doesn’t show up.
I’m beginning to think that maybe I – maybe we – dodged a bullet.
But I can’t be certain, and since I can’t be certain, I have to keep proceeding like I’m married.
Married.
The word is terrifying. I have enough responsibility for my family as it is.
Adding a wife to the mix? Impossible. Growing up, I knew the way my dad treated my mom was wrong.
He was an alcoholic, she was his only target.
I saw the way he dismissed and belittled her, kept her so tightly controlled that she had nothing for herself – no friends, no family, nothing but me, my sister, and my dad.
From the outside, people thought we were the perfect little family.
He died when I was fifteen from a massive heart attack, and while that was a blessing in a way, it threw us into a new world of hell, because my mom couldn’t function.
She didn’t have a job, didn’t know how to pay the bills, could barely survive if she wasn’t being told what to do.
The first year after he passed was bleak.
And while Mom eventually found her footing as a receptionist, she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis my sophomore year of high school.
It came on hard, and it was one more wrench we weren’t prepared for.
Rugby was the one thing I counted on. The one time where I could simply be me, no matter what I was going through at home.
The coaches always seemed to know what was going on at home, and while I never asked, it’s likely they did.
Burlington was a pretty small town, all things considered, and in the end, the discipline of rugby changed my life even before my dad died.
The game offered precision and rules, with clear cause and effect.
It’s no wonder I leaned into a game that allowed me to focus my anger and frustration into something productive.
But once it was just the three of us, we were never what I would call safe.
Always one emergency away from having to move out of the latest roach-infested apartment in the dead of night.
We would never have been in that position if it weren’t for my dad.
For the way he treated Mom, hiding behind the facade and safety of the rings on their fingers.
So, no. Marriage doesn’t help anyone. If anything, it’s a trap.
I shove all those thoughts and memories into the back of my head as I pull into the Granite’s parking lot.
It’s a little surreal, if I’m being honest: two decades of keeping my head down, focusing on moving to the next step, following all the rules, being the guy that everyone knew would handle whatever got thrown at him, and it’s finally resulted in me being here.
Five years as a head coach in the collegiate sphere, ten years as an assistant coach before that, and five years of full-on grunt work doing whatever was needed before that.
But I made it. Now, I just need to keep my life from imploding from a certain Vegas wedding.
Because if I can do that, then I can help my mom and finally give my sister Erin a break.
Maybe even move Mom down here, set her up in a little house that she can call her own.
It’s only now that I’m making the kind of salary that even allows me to dream like this.
Being head coach at the University of Vermont was wonderful, sure, but I wasn’t exactly rolling in the dough.
I’m still not, but there’s a big enough difference in my income that it puts so much more of my dreams within reach.
My phone pings as I throw the engine into Park, so I fish it out of the cup holder and look down. Speak of the devil.
ERIN
Good luck on your first day of work, big brother!
I grin as I type back.
Hey thanks, sis. How’s things? How’s Mom?
ERIN
We’re good. She’s pretty stiff in the mornings these days, but she’s in good spirits.
Mom can’t work anymore so she lives with Erin.
And while Erin swears she doesn’t mind it, I still feel bad that she’s the one doing it instead of me.
We’d shared responsibility for years, which was easy when we were in the same town.
Both of us were single by choice, too, making things even more simple.
But now that I’m down here, the only thing I can do is send money and hope Erin takes it.
Does she still complain about the dogs?
ERIN
Of course! She loves them. They’re absolute menaces.
She sends me a picture of Mom asleep in the recliner, two mini dachshunds, one dappled and one black, curled up on her lap. Pangs of homesickness spike in my chest. It might be the most peaceful I have ever seen her.
Thank you. You’re an angel.
ERIN
Only because I’m banking on you to hit millionaire status any day now and take us along for the ride. Truly expected you were gonna make it big on your solo trip to Vegas, tbh.
I suck in a hiss. Yeah, that’s…not what happened. Not that I’m telling her about it. I type out a quick goodbye and walk inside, making my way up to the top floor where the offices are and finding Neesha, the head of HR.
“Morning,” I say, giving two raps on the door as I poke my head in. “Ready for me?”
Neesha smiles broadly, big earrings swinging as she rises. Her head is mostly shaved, except for a small amount on the top that’s dyed the same teal blue as the team’s. She’s in a teal suit with a black Granite tee, and she sports matching Nikes. “Welcome to your first day, Coach!”
“Thanks.” I return the smile, and I mean it.
Neesha walks me to my new office, and I nearly weep.
No lie. How is this my real life? It’s a massive corner office that could easily have held the entirety of offices from my last gig.
Sunlight streams in through the open window shades and bathes the open space in warm light, drawing my attention to the plush gray couch and chairs in one half of the room.
A substantial wooden desk occupies the other portion of the room, with two chairs in front of it and an empty bookshelf to its right.
“Plenty of space for you to personalize it, of course,” Neesha tells me. “Ansel walked you around the meeting rooms, showed you the media room, training room, all the things?”
I’m still a little speechless, so I manage a nod.
I’d seen the office on my last visit, but suddenly everything is incredibly real.
I did it. I made it to the pinnacle of my career: head coach for a professional rugby team.
Everything I’d worked for, all the sacrifices and rules and rigidity had paid off.
It’s mine to lose.
And I might lose it.
No. That thought isn’t allowed to take root.
“Coach?”
Clearing my throat, I smile and answer. “Sorry. Yes, he did. Great guy.”
Neesha beams. “He is.”
Ansel Miles is captain of the team and a hell of an exciting fly half to watch.
He’d acted as interim coach for some bizarre reason that I still don’t really understand, but I’ve spoken with Scott enough times that I’ve already learned the man goes with his gut.
In my conversations with Ansel, it was clear that he didn’t ask for the job and that he had no desire to remain head coach.
He wanted back on the pitch with a quickness, although he never really left it.
He’d shown me the facilities the second time I visited to officially sign paperwork and take the job, and they are top tier.
Even the football teams at the colleges I worked at didn’t have the level of sophistication these do, and that’s saying something.
There’s a main video and strategy room where I’ll lead the weekly team meetings, every wall equipped with large screens, and an actual media room where I’ll give my first press conference as the official head coach of the Granite in a few hours.
The gym holds the absolute latest in machinery, with computerized equipment that can be customized to every player and quickly pull up their individual profiles and increase weights and resistance as needed as they move through a workout.
A large office off the gym is for the team’s doctor and two physical therapists.
I’ve not met them yet, but Neesha tells me I’m considered their boss.
Which, again, mind-blowing. How am I suddenly responsible for this many people? The spins threaten to overtake me if I think about it too much.
The view from the windows is a wonder of its own.
Right below me is the pitch, its lush green grass glinting up at me with two bright white goals rising from each end.
It’s a huge stadium by American rugby standards; in fact, it’s amazing that we have these facilities in the first place.
A lot of pro rugby teams are still playing on collegiate fields or soccer fields; not all, but many.
Clearly the Granite have some high-roller donors, and Scott made it very clear to me that part of my job was kissing those donors’ asses.
Fine by me. I have exactly zero problems with that, especially since those very same donors are likely paying my salary, indirect as it may be.
“Nice, isn’t it?”
Striding through the doorway is the owner himself, Scott, along with the team’s head of PR, Frank something. The man makes me think of those legless lizards, and not in a good way.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Neesha says, backing out with a respectful nod at Scott but not bothering to acknowledge Frank.
Interesting. I tuck that tidbit away and turn my attention to my boss. “Great to see you, Scott.”
He reaches his hand out for a shake, tilting his head to the lizard man. “You remember Frank Jarvitts?”
Frank raises a thick eyebrow. “Never got an acknowledgment from you about those talking points I put in your inbox.”
It takes me a split second to decide how to play this, and it’s to Frank’s detriment.
This asshole doesn’t realize that he’s a fuzzy little kitten compared to my dead father.
“Good morning, Scott. Great to see you, too. I’m excited to be here.
” The smile drops from my face as I turn to the PR man from hell.
“Frank. I didn’t respond because I don’t have access to my email yet – something it seems that you, as a long-time employee of the Granite, would know.
” I flash him a smile. “But I’m sure you just forgot.
Let’s hope that doesn’t happen often.” Then I chuckle and turn my back on him as I angle a knowing smile at Scott, including him in my “joke.”
“Technology,” Scott says as he shakes his head sympathetically. “Frank, why don’t you go see how IT is coming along with his laptop? Coach, I’ve got some ideas I want to run by you.”
Frank’s jaw ticks as he turns on his heel and leaves without a word. As I watch him leave, I catch a glimpse of a tall blonde moving through the hallway. Something about her makes me think of Sam, but that’s impossible. Besides, I’m focused on things I can control right now.
And Sam – my wife, my guilty conscience happily reminds me – is definitely not on my control list.