Torn Apart (Torn and Bound Duet 1)

The shitty part is he’s acting like what happened between us is all my fault. When the truth is, it takes two, and he’s just as much to blame for what went down as I am, if not more so. I might’ve reacted badly, but it was in response to the shit he pulled.

Well, he’s just going to have to get over it, because I’m here to win this fucking season and if he can’t get on board with that, then he can sit his ass on the bench. I don’t care how damn good he is.

I drop onto my chair and grab the stack of folders. Each player has a file that includes everything I need to know about them, from their physical and emotional health, to their academic history.

As a coach, my job is to not only lead the team to the championship, but to be their leader in all things.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Thompson,” Denise, my new secretary, says from the doorway. She’s a short, fit, brunette woman in her early fifties, whose husband is the athletic director here. According to what she told me this morning when I met her, she, her husband, and their children all went to school here.

“Please, call me Drew.”

“Drew,” she says sweetly. “Because Coach Garrison was having health problems he was a little behind on things.” She walks over to my desk and hands me a stack of papers. “Before the first game, we have to confirm all the players have had their physicals and their grades meet the minimum requirements.”

She flips through the pages from across my desk. “I’ve wrangled all the players and had them go to the team doctor to have their physicals updated. I’ve flagged any possible issues that need to be addressed.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, making a mental note to find out what kind of coffee and pastries she likes, so I can bring her some tomorrow as a thank you for going above and beyond.

“Of course,” she says with a soft smile. “This stack here”—she points to the second packet of papers—“are the players’ grades. We run bi-weekly progress reports and the top three are those who are at risk of becoming ineligible to play.”

The top name gets my attention. I’m shocked he’s failing two of his classes: English and American History. In high school his answer was to have all the girls who were drooling all over him to do his work for him. Guess he couldn’t find any puck bunnies here to handle it for him.

Well, looks like I’m going to have to handle it for him.

I glance at the other two players. Both are struggling in their math classes.

“Can you call these gentleman in, please?” I glance at the clock. “Tell them I want to see them as soon as they’re done with their classes for the day.”

“Sure,” Denise says.

I spend the next couple hours going through file after file, getting to know each player the best I can, so when we have our first official practice tomorrow, I’ll be prepared.

Zack Ryan, one of the guys failing math, stops by and we discuss what he needs to bring his grade up. His girlfriend is a math major and is helping him. He assures me next progress report his grade will be up.

Jeffrey Franks, the other guy failing math, must know why he was called in, because when he walks through my office door, he hands me a tutoring appointment.

“Miss me already?” Brayden says dryly, when he steps halfway into my office. He’s dressed casually in a royal blue collared shirt and jeans with an Ice Hawks ball cap on his head.

When I linger too long on his hat, memories of our past trying to push their way out from where I long ago buried them, he crosses his arms over his chest and glares his dark eyes at me. “Feel free to get to the point any time.”

“Have a seat, please.” I gesture toward the chair on the other side of my desk.

“I think I’ll stand,” he says, leaning against the doorframe.

I could play the coach card, threaten him to comply, but I know the way Brayden works and his stubbornness would have him quitting the team before he would bow down to me. So instead I go with a different approach.

“I’m concerned about your grades.”

“Me and my grades aren’t your concern.” He juts his chin out and sucks his teeth. Something he always did when he wanted to appear like he didn’t give a shit, but was really nervous.

“They are when they can mean you riding the bench instead of helping the team get our first win.” I lock eyes with him, hoping he’ll take what I’m saying seriously. This isn’t about our past. This is about the game, and at the end of the day, here, we’re on the same team.