Chapter 7
SEVEN
CASSIUS
EIGHT YEARS LATER
“Eat a bag of dicks.” Not the most original comeback, but with the speed Dexter turned red, I figured it hit the mark.
“And time to get off the court.” Ollie gripped the back of my neck, just firm enough to get me moving. I expected it stopped me from getting into trouble too. Receiving a fine for talking shit to Dexter, the bigoted prick from the Bobcats, would have caused Coach Jenkins to have an aneurysm.
While I was used to him being pissed off with me, he usually did it with a “Jesus, I can’t believe this asshole kid’s an Eagle, but he is and he’s kinda great” sigh. But a big fine and bad press would have meant I’d be subjected to a “come to Jesus” moment with him.
“Cool it, yeah?”
“What?” I grinned widely and shrugged casually as my captain finally released me. “I’m so cool I’m like that ice character in Batman. Mr. Ice.”
“That’s not his name.” Ollie ushered me toward where Coach and our team were waiting. The game was over, our team kicking the Bobcats’ asses with a ten-point lead.
“Sure it is. He’s all icy and frosty.” I paused just as we reached hearing distance of Coach talking to Lintman. “Is it Mr. Frost?”
“Mr. Freeze.”
I didn’t have the chance to respond to Ollie, not sure he was right about the name—wasn’t that an ice cream or something—before I stopped in front of Coach.
His narrowed gaze landed on me. “There a problem, Britton?”
“Absolutely not, Coach. Just giving Dexter some suggestions about what’s good to eat in town.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Ollie’s whole body became taut. This usually meant he was reining himself in, and I expected working hard at not laughing. That or calling me out.
“Uh-huh. Well, in the future, get your ass off the court and back to your team.”
“You got it, Coach.”
He stared at me for a few more seconds, almost as if he expected me to say something else.
While I could, so very very easily, I had little doubt he’d overheard Dexter’s ridiculous slur. And because he had, I expected he’d already made a formal complaint. That meant if I got caught up in it, Coach would be steam-out-the-ears mad.
I’d been playing for the Minnesota Eagles, returning to my home state, for five years now. It had been the best move ever, and I was grateful as hell.
It also meant I knew just how far to push Coach without him losing his shit and threatening to transfer me. If that happened, who the hell knew what I’d do.
Sure, I had a no-transfer contract, but if I pissed the man off, he’d find a way. That or he’d bench me.
I focused back on Coach as he told us to get our asses into the locker room. We did so quickly, the few on-court interviews having been wrapped up. Once inside our home locker room, he called for our attention. “Right. Monday morning, team breakfast, and then we’re flying out to Louisville.”
A collection of hollers went around the room.
The Roosters were always fun to play, especially close to the end of the season. Without the pressure of being in the running for the championship—our season had been decent but not great—it meant we could let loose.
That didn’t mean it wasn’t shit that we couldn’t make the playoffs.
“All right, all right.” Coach rolled his eyes and shook his head, following up with a slight frown from something Finnegan, our strength coach, said too quietly for me to hear. “Tomorrow, you need to be in at ten, reviewing footage.”
We all bobbed our heads, relieved he was giving us a break and not dragging us in at the butt-crack of dawn.
“Just three games left, Eagles. How you played tonight is what I expect from you for the final games.”
We’d played our asses off. The Bobcats having so many players who were prize pricks had been a good motivator for all of us. There was nothing quite like giving dickwads the proverbial middle finger—and maybe a verbal slam or two as well—by taking the win.
Especially Dexter, who hadn’t changed a bit since our days back in the academy.
But Coach was also right about our less-than-stellar season as a whole. Not that he verbalized it quite like that. While we were nowhere near useless, with more wins than losses, it was only by a pinch.
Coach continued giving us his end-of-game pep talk. I nodded in the right places, ribbed my teammates with sly looks, mouthed words, and hidden hand gestures. I could be subtle as fuck when the time called for it.
“Cassius.”
My gaze snapped to Coach, and I dropped my hand from the jacking-off motion I directed at Joel. It was our love language. “Yeah, Coach?”
I kept my face relaxed, ignoring Joel’s snicker.
“A word,” he said pointedly before telling the rest of the team to get showered.
Ollie nudged me as he passed by, shooting me a meaningful look to keep my mouth shut and out of trouble. It wasn’t like I was completely without a filter. I could, when I chose, do exactly that, but telling the truth and calling people out on bullshit—myself included—was kind of my thing.
But there was something in Coach’s gaze that seemed a little off. He didn’t seem pissed off or even frustrated.
“In my office.”
Ah, fuck. Maybe I’d completely misread his tone.
I followed him in, shooting Marlow a middle finger on the side of my face as he jeered and made kissing noises.
“Take a seat.”
My eyebrows drew together. Usually, he called me out as soon as the door closed. This was different.
Unease settled in my gut as I sat.
He didn’t look angry.
“Everything okay, Coach?”
His expression turned solemn as he lifted his finger before picking up his phone.
A slither of unease unfurled in my gut as he spoke into his phone. “Yeah, I’m in my office with Britton now.”
My brows shot high. With my brain going a mile a minute, I thought back over the last week. I’d done nothing particularly bad. Hell, I hadn’t even been out for drinks, so it wasn’t like the cops could be showing up due to post-drinking stupidity.
This week, I’d even been catching a ride in with Miles, as my car was in the shop receiving a pretty slick paint job.
So not even a traffic violation could be coming my way.
Not that I expected cops. It had been a long-ass time since I’d gotten into any kind of trouble with the law. And even then, it was so not my fault.
A knock at the door had me angling around, trying to see who Coach had summoned. Rather than hollering like he usually did, Coach continued to pull the rug from under my feet by racing to the door. One tentative look in my direction, sending a fresh wave of alarm through me, and he opened the door.
I frowned. My brain took a second to catch up.
“Dylan?” The word finally broke free as my best friend stepped fully into the room. “The hell?” A grin split my face, and I shot up out of my seat.
On the first step toward him, I faltered.
Something was wrong. Off.
It wasn’t even the fact that he was in his police uniform, his chest proudly displaying his Zumbrota PD badge.
This man had been my best friend since day one of kindergarten when I’d shared my gummy bears with him. We’d been through everything together. Coming out. Losing family. Ditching school and a hundred million other moments.
His eyes, the way he stepped into the room, the harsh swallow as he finally stopped, gaze on me, screamed something bad had happened.
“What’s wrong?” I was in his space in the next second.
And then he did something I hadn’t seen him do since almost three years ago when we were at his sister’s funeral. He cried.
Big, fat tears rolled down his face.
“The fuck?” The words spilled out of me, even as I wrapped him up in my arms.
I vaguely heard Coach leaving the room, but with my heart pounding loudly in my ears, it was difficult to focus on anything beyond the man gripping me and hugging me hard.
“Hey,” I whispered, still holding him. He clung to me, head pressed against my chest, our seven-inch height difference perfect for me to rest my chin on the top of his head. “You want to sit down?”
A shuddery breath left Dylan.
“Come on.” I all but dragged him to the small couch, needing the support of the seat to stop the shake in my body as worry clawed at me.
By the time we sat, he’d stopped crying. I took in his expression, the shell-shocked look peering back at me.
Dylan swiped a hand over his face and shook his head. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t have come here like this.” When his gaze dropped to my Eagles uniform, his frown deepened. “Fuck, your game.”
“Already finished, and we kicked ass.”
A hollow laugh spilled from him. “I can’t stay long. Fuck.” The rough word sounded scratchy. “I’ve got to get back to Mikey.”
Alarm tightened my chest, my heart thudding heavily. “Who’s looking after him?” It was late. Two-year-olds should be fast asleep at this time of night. At least, I assumed as much.
“Helen’s at my place babysitting. He’s fast asleep.”
Some of the anxiety loosened in my chest. “Okay, so Mikey’s fine…
.” I petered out, waiting for him to fill in the gap.
When he swallowed hard and tears welled in his eyes, I reached out for him, taking his hand.
“Dylan, you’re killing me here. You’re an hour away from home, still in your blues. The hell is going on?”
Expelling a slow, shaky breath, he angled to look at me. His eyes were wide. Fuck, he looked terrified.
“Mom and Dad are trying to take him.”
“What?” I shook my head, my brows bunching. “Take Mikey?”
He was already nodding before I finished.
“Yeah. They’re spouting shit about grandparents’ rights, saying that as a single, working parent, they’ve got a case for full custody.
Saying shit like my work hours mean I’m neglecting him.
That and using his broken arm as ammo.” Pink colored his cheeks, his voice turning hard.
And thank fuck. A pissed-off Dylan I could get a better handle on rather than a defeated one.