I set it down and scrub my face. “I didn’t sleep last night.”
“Adrenaline from the game. I get it.” His hazel eyes study me.
“Yeah, right.” I lean back on the seat.
I couldn’t sleep because of her.
Her words. That goodbye kiss.
I stare out the window at the financial district. People walk up and down New York, coming and going, heads down as they move from one place to another. The bustle, tall buildings, and honking horns are an adjustment. I’ve visited Tuck several times in the off months, but this time, the city feels busier, more intense. I think about my hammock in Blue Belle.
We’re ushered out of the SUV and greeted by Damon’s personal assistant. I leave Tuck and get on the elevator with the PA and head to his office.
He’s not there when I arrive, so I pace around the room, my heart thudding, a feeling of surrealness inching in. For two seasons, my life revolved around kids in Texas, trying to help them be champions. I came up with our motto, Win the heart, win everything, and those words sit like a lump of cement in my gut.
What’s Toby doing right now? Is he working a shift at the bookstore? Is he worrying about his mom? Dammit, I should have checked on her last night . . .
Bruno . . . he’ll be planning a date with his hot cheerleader girlfriend.
Milo . . . he’ll be at Lois’s playing video games.
Skeeter? He’ll step up as head coach and take the Bobcats to state.
Maybe Andrew will apply and get the job next year.
And Nova . . .
My heart splinters. I shut my eyes and force myself to push the images of her away.
Blowing out a breath, I make my way to the trophy case on the right side of the room.
“If all this works out, I’ll need another case,” says a raspy voice behind me.
I turn to find Damon Armitage II, the owner; Coach Bruce Hardy, the head coach of the Pythons; and my agent, Reggie.
Leaning on a gold-tipped cane with a snake on it, Damon walks behind his desk, then sits. Wearing a black tailored suit, complete with an ascot and a boutonniere, he’s in his seventies, rich as fuck, and known as an eccentric firebrand. “I’m glad you were able to fly in, Ronan. We could have chatted over the phone, but then I wanted you in the room.” He waves his arms around at his spacious office. “Nothing beats seeing a man face to face and getting the measure of him.”
“True,” I say.
“We all met in the elevator,” Reggie says with a nod. “Good to see you, Ronan!” Around forty, he’s dressed in a slick suit, his dark hair clipped around the ears.
“Same,” I say, and the four of us shake hands.
Coach Hardy grins at me. A tall man in his late fifties, he sat by my bed in the hospital for three days after the wreck. He flew my mom from Chicago to New York on the team jet the night it happened. When I woke up the first time in my room, the two of them were there, waiting.
We make small talk, catching up, then chat about his new quarterback, Lucas Pine, a fresh kid from Iowa. He’s having trouble with the transition from college to professional, missing snaps and play calls.
“How’s Coach Dixon doing?” I ask a few minutes later. “Tuck said he was flying to Houston for treatment.”
Coach Hardy sticks his hands in his khakis. “You probably passed him somewhere over Indiana. We’re going to miss him on the field. A hell of a man and coach.”
Reggie takes a seat. “It’s a tragedy.” He looks at me. “But it gives Ronan a chance to step in. I was thinking we’d start with what Dixon was making—”
“Hold on,” I say sharply as I slide into a leather chair. “I appreciate the urgency, but there hasn’t been an offer made or one accepted. This was just a discussion.”
Reggie starts, glaring at me.
Damon frowns, straightening his ascot. “Don’t be coy, Ronan. The salary will be there. We know you, your talent, your work ethic. We’ve seen what you did with that team in Texas. You’re our pick, hell, before Stanford snatches you up!” He slaps the desk and lets out a wheezy laugh.
I lean back and smile, pretending to be calm when I’m anything but. My stomach just won’t settle. “I called Hite and turned him down.”
Reggie nods, and the other two smile, clearly happy.
I clear my throat and steeple my hands. “The thing is I’ve made commitments, Damon. The high school playoffs start December first. Will this wait until afterwards?”
He picks up the pipe on his desk and lights it. “No. Sorry. We want to announce Dixon’s leaving the team, as well as his replacement, on Monday. Our staff’s covering the game Sunday, but we’ve lost two already, ones we should have won.”