Coach Burton pulled me aside afterward. I braced myself for a long-winded, expletive-filled verbal beatdown, knowing on some level I probably deserved it. But I had to admit—at twenty-three, this shit was getting old. I secured my towel and cocked my head, focusing on the angry vein pulsating at Coach’s temple.
He was a super-fit, no-nonsense drill sergeant in his late forties with graying hair, who lived and breathed water polo. He’d won numerous accolades in his career as an athlete and a coach. I had the utmost respect for him, but I hoped he’d finish berating me sooner rather than later.
“…you better learn to control your fucking temper,” he yelled, pointing a warning finger at my chest. “You’re an important member of this team, Vaughn. You and Chadwick will be unbeatable together if you get your head out of your ass and—”
“Sorry, sir. Um, what do you mean by ‘unbeatable together’? He plays for the enemy.”
Coach Burton lifted his bushy brows and leaned in conspiratorially. “Not for long. He’s coming to Long Beach.”
No fucking way. I frowned and then shook my head, hoping he’d crack a smile and laugh at me for taking everything so damn seriously.
“You’re kidding, right?” I prodded.
“Nope. I’m serious. And after the way he handed us our lunch, I’m fucking thrilled.”
“But when…and why?”
“Next week and who cares?” he quipped. “We need Chadwick to be competitive this year. But the only way this works is if you play nice. I need you to make him your best goddamn friend. Got it, Vaughn?”
I nodded distractedly. “Got it.”
Coach patted my shoulder and bellowed at someone behind me before ambling away. I let out a beleaguered sigh, then pushed away from the wall and willed myself to relax. I had one year left. It was pointless to stress about personnel changes. If I were smart, I’d concentrate on my future after graduation and remember that some things were beyond my control.
But having Gabe for a teammate was just…alarming.
The problem with being a type A control freak was that I couldn’t let anything go. I had a terrible habit of twisting and turning over minute details and sweating the small stuff. I’d lie awake at night thinking about a test I had to ace or an appointment I had to make. Timeliness and general organization mattered to me more than they did to most of my friends. Evan was a great example. He lay sprawled on our sofa in front of the flat-screen with a bag of chips on his stomach, typing something into his phone with his left hand while he reached aimlessly for the remote on the coffee table a foot away.
“What are you doing?” I asked, picking up the remote and swiping the chips away in one fell swoop.
“Hey! I was eating those and watching that and—why are you all dressed up?” Evan furrowed his brow and sat up when I perched on the armchair next to him.
“We’re going to Chelsea’s party, remember? You need a shower. Hop to it.” I tapped my watch obnoxiously, then busted up laughing at Evan’s blank stare.
Evan di Angelo and I had been roommates since our freshman year in the dorms. He transferred to a nearby private college to play football our sophomore year, but he didn’t want to deal with finding a new apartment and new roommates, so he commuted twenty minutes to school. Truthfully, the deal here was too cushy to pass up. My parents bought this bungalow two blocks from the beach because they wanted to be sure I lived in a good neighborhood. In other words, they were overprotective helicopter parents. They liked Evan and invited him to stay at the beach house free of charge. Kinda like they were bribing him to be my friend. We’d laughed about it at the time, but there was something a bit…overbearing about the offer.
“Dude, chill. I took a shower after my game. I’m exhausted. Have a beer and watch some football. We don’t want to be the first ones there. Trust me,” he said, giving me a dose of sideways realness.
“I guess you’re right. Want another?”
“You’re reading my mind. Thanks, man.”
I returned with two bottles. I uncapped them both and slid one across the coffee table before reclaiming my seat.
“This game sucks,” I commented, noting the twenty-four to zero score in the fourth quarter.
“Yeah, there’s nothing much on. Might as tell me who got in your grill. You look pissed.”
Evan’s intuitive side always took me aback. He might have seemed like a typical jock, but he was surprisingly sensitive. He was six foot two, two hundred and thirty pounds with light-brown hair, brown eyes, chiseled cheekbones, and a straight nose. And he was built like a brick house. No one in their right mind would mess with Evan. Until they got to know him and realized he was a big, good-natured teddy bear who liked watching sports, hanging with his buddies, and playing video games. Other than height, we were complete opposites. I was lean and broad-shouldered with short dark-blond hair, blue eyes, and tan skin. I looked like a typical California kid, except I lacked the stereotypical easygoing attitude. I thrived on stress.