Beauty and the Baller

“What can I do?” I ask.

“Nothing. It’s already been blasted online.” He shows me an article, but I don’t have time to read it before Toby is next to me.

“Coach? What do they want?”

Ronan flinches, then opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. Unease is written all over his face. With a grimace, he strides away from us to the glass doors and steps outside.

Foreboding crawls over me as I follow him.

He can’t face this alone.

Chapter 25

RONAN

A November breeze blows my hair, and I settle my Bobcats cap down on my head. Swallowing down unease, I approach the edge of the concrete ledge that leads down to the steps of the gym. I sweep my gaze over the myriad of reporters gathered at the bottom. At least five cameras are pointed at me, one of them ESPN.

The plan, months ago, had been to do an interview with local stations before we played Huddersfield, letting the guys get some camera time, maybe catch a few college scouts’ eyes. But this isn’t about my players; this is about me.

They rush forward, a local guy managing to push out ESPN. He shoves a microphone in my face, a gleam in his eyes. “Michael Collins here from WBBJ in Austin.”

I nod at him, my face flat. “Hmm.”

“Ronan, we received a tip you’re on the short list for Stanford. Can you confirm if this is true?”

My jaw grinds as all eyes focus in on me. I hear shuffling sounds and throw a glance behind me as Nova and several players spill outside and gather around me. My shoulders tense as I adjust my stance. Whatever I say, it’s going to be wrong. It’s going to ripple through my team, eroding their trust, messing with their heads, which need to be straight for the game.

Michael steps closer. “Coach Dunbar, the quarterback coach from Stanford, has resigned, and Coach Hite confirmed you were on the short list. Is it true?”

“Yes,” I mutter. So it was Hite who spilled . . . not a good way to start. Unless he wanted to force me to decide. Dick move.

A sharp inhale comes from a person next to me. Toby.

The reporter edges closer. “Are you aware that when the news was announced by Hite, the student body started a petition this morning to get you to the top of the list? So far, they have five thousand signatures.”

I shake my head. “While I appreciate the support, I’m focusing on my team here.”

Another reporter edges forward, a woman. “How will this affect the Bobcats? You have games coming up. Will you be here for those?”

“I plan on it. Next question,” I snap.

“How will this affect your team’s morale for tonight’s game?” She’s looking at Toby.

“My team is ready,” I say on a growl. “And you aren’t talking to my players. Not later either.”

She eases back as the guy from ESPN finally nudges forward. There’s a gloating expression on his face that gives me pause. His camera girl follows him as he points a mic in my face. “Hey, Ronan.” He gives me a thin-lipped smile.

I narrow my eyes. “Keith. You’re a long way from New York.”

“We follow the news, and you are news. Good to see you back in the spotlight. How do you like living in small-town Texas?”

“I love it. The people, the players, the school. Next?”

He chuckles. “You’re abrupt. Nothing new there.”

I exhale. “Do you have a question, Keith?”

“Yeah.” He leans in and looks at the camera. “Hello, from Keith Bridges. We’re here in Blue Belle, Texas, a hot spot for talented high school football. Ronan Smith, former quarterback for the Pythons, is here with us. He’s been coaching here for two seasons. Last year he took them to state, and this year they’re hopefully going to finish the season undefeated. Isn’t that right, Ronan?”

I nod.

Keith smiles at the camera. “Earlier today, Stanford announced him as being a contender as their quarterback coach, and this station also got another tip . . .”

I inhale, my eyes widening.

He looks at me. “Is it true you’re slated as the next quarterback coach for the New York Pythons? I bet those Stanford people are going to be devastated”—he glances at the people around me—“as well as Blue Belle.”

Breath whooshes out of me. How the fuck? My old coach called me this morning; then Tuck called before the pep rally.

My hands clench as I force a smile. “You’re on private property without an invitation. Disperse, or the police will be alerted. Thank you.”

“Ronan, just answer the question!” he calls, but I ignore him.

My players have walked off ahead of me, their shoulders stiff.

Skeeter eases in, his hands in his pockets. “That was a surprise.” He watches the reporters pack up their gear. “Is it true?”

“It’s true New York called me, yes.”

“Ah, I see.” He looks away from me, his jaw tense. “We’ve got practice. I’m gonna head out to the field house and get ’em started if you need a minute to figure out what you’re gonna say.”