Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 115838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
I don’t answer her, instead I put the phone down and then go over the plays we should have executed last night, but fell flat, to see if maybe we can practice another drill.
Ken walks into my office at noon on the nose, as if he set a timer to arrive without a minute to spare. He closes the door behind him, not many staff members are in today. It’s mostly the equipment team who is unloading the bags and making sure everything is good for the game tomorrow.
He sits down and pulls out his phone. “How are you doing?” he quickly asks me before Brad picks up the line. My look should tell him how I’m doing. My hands are folded into each other and on top of my desk as I tell myself to remain calm.
“Hey,” Brad says, picking up the phone. “I’m here with Scott and Dewey,” he mentions the team owners, “and we were going over a couple of things.”
“I’m here with Zane,” Ken tells him.
“Listen,” Brad starts, and I immediately want to tell him to fucking fuck off, but I sit here, my eyes on the phone, watching the time go by. “You need to start rethinking how you are calling plays and changing the lines,” he advises, and I lean back in my chair, both hands holding the armrests to stop from throwing the fucking phone across the room. “I know you’ve said that there is a learning curve coming into a head coaching position.”
“He’s been at it for three months.” Ken takes my side. “It is a learning curve.”
“There is no more room for learning curves,” Brad declares. “We’ve spent the last seven years rebuilding this team. This is one of our only shots to get another Cup. If it’s not now, it won’t happen for another fucking seven years. There are lots of contracts due at the end of the year, and we might not have the cap space to sign them all. I’m not fucking it up on a kid who doesn’t know what he is doing.”
“One,” I snap, “I’m not a fucking kid just because I’m not in my fifties, and two, no one, and I mean no one, wants to win more than me.”
“Then why don’t you do something about it?” Brad raises his voice. “Before we have to make a very hard decision about how to proceed with the rest of the season.”
“What does that mean?” I look at Ken as he looks down at his phone, avoiding looking at me.
“If you don’t think you can handle this team the way it should be handled, it might be better for everyone to part ways,” he clarifies.
“I can handle it,” I say tightly.
“Yeah, I guess we’ll see,” he replies. “We’ll speak more on Monday after the game Saturday.”
“Great,” I reply, and Ken hangs up.
“Listen, Zane,” he starts, getting up, “I’m on your side. But you have to look at the big picture.”
“I am,” I tell him, feeling my stomach roil. “If I didn’t think I could do this, I would gladly walk away. I know I can do it. I know the boys can do it. We just—”
He nods, not letting me finish. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” I exhale as I get up and head back into the room to watch the game over and over again.
I’m totally mentally drained by the time I get home. I’m walking out of the shower when the groceries I’ve ordered are delivered. I start to marinate the steaks and the whole time I’m bouncing between telling myself that work needs to be a priority and that getting involved with Victoria right now is not a good idea, which puts me in a shittier mood. By the time the doorbell rings, I’m ready to claw at my skin.
I walk to the door and open it, and she stands there. Her hair is exactly the same way it was the first night I met her, to the side with soft curls framing her face and bringing out her blue-gray eyes. Her plump lips are shiny, and I want to kiss the ever-loving shit out of her to see what they taste like. She’s wearing a pair of black pants that are tight on her hips but then are loose going down and stop right at her ankles with a low-cut black top and a light-pink dress jacket and leopard stilettos on her feet. “Hi,” she says with a smile, and I can’t help but smile back at her.
“Come in.” I move away from the door, giving her a chance to walk in.
“Thank you,” she responds, and I can tell she’s a bit nervous. “You have a lovely home.”
“Thank you.” I turn and lead her down the hallway that leads to the kitchen. “I was just starting to make dinner.” I point to the island where all the ingredients are.