Page 48 of Forever Offsides

I linger. I shouldn’t. I know that. I should call him or text him, but I want an explanation, and I feel owed a better face-to-face than our shocked moment downstairs on Monday.

The coaches’ offices are in an administration building that’s adjacent to the stadium, and I take the tunnel that leads there. I swipe my badge and head inside, winding my way up. I know this place by heart. This was my father’s old office, and I’ve spent a lot of time in it over the years.

My dad played until I was six or seven, and when he retired, the team made him the quarterbacks coach. It didn’t take long before he became head coach, and it seemed like the most natural transition in the world.

He is Asher Reyes after all.

Boston born and raised, beloved former boy bander with Central Square, and a multi-Super Bowl-winning quarterback.

Rhett’s got some big shoes to fill, and I nearly trip up a step when I remember asking him who the greatest football player of all time was, and he said my dad. I mean, he wasn’t wrong statistically, but he had interviewed for the coach position that day, and I fucked him that night.

More rage.

I reach the third floor of the building and storm down the hall. It’s quiet. It’s Friday afternoon, and all the staff have gone home for the weekend. Practice went an hour longer than it was supposed to because of my fuckface ex showing up.

But really, how amazing are my brothers?

They’re men goals. They’re what saved me—along with my girls—after Russel broke my heart. I was an admitted basket case for a long time. I had trouble reconciling the years of relationship, love, and trust with what he did and how he did it. Not having any real sense of closure didn’t help that.

But I came out stronger on the other end. And as a woman who is no longer willing to suffer the bullshit of men, I pound on the head coach’s office door.

He doesn’t answer, and I wonder if I missed him.

I bang again, and this time I hear a noise beyond the wood. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but I twist the knob, and the door unlatches since it’s not locked.

The door closes behind me, and here I am in Rhett’s office, but there’s no Rhett to be found.

That is, until his bathroom door opens, and he steps out, wearing nothing but a towel.

15

RHETT

“Coach, can you tell us what happened today in the parking lot between Crew Reyes and Russel Jones?”

I’m quickly learning that the worst part of this job is the press conferences.

“It was a personal matter that the team and players are handling privately.”

“Was Russel Jones invited by the team?”

“No, he was not. It’s why he didn’t view the team’s practice and stayed in the parking lot so as not to break any of the league’s rules. Next question.”

Tamira Braumer stands because that’s how she works. Five-foot-something short in heels that are taller than she is, she always needs to be the center of attention. “Coach, two questions. Is it true that Russel Jones is your son, and was the altercation today related to Quinn Reyes, Russel’s ex-girlfriend, who is the sister of Crew and Mason Reyes?”

Well then. Tami did her homework and then some.

Not surprising from her, but not something I wanted to deal with today either. This will be a media storm in two seconds.

I grip the edge of the podium and let her know that was a fucked-up move at a live press conference. Not that she cares. “Yes, Russel Jones is my son. And I won’t speak to the altercation or the reasons behind it. Next.”

She gives me a smirk. One I’ve seen on her several times over the years.

About ten years ago, when I was at the end of my playing career, and she was starting her journalism career with another team, we had a small thing. It didn’t last long. I was trying to figure out my next steps, which turned out to be a college coaching position since I couldn’t leave Florida because Russel was in high school. She was a young, ambitious reporter out to make a name for herself.

I never told her about Russel because rule number one is never trust a reporter.

More than that, it was casual sex and nothing more. At least on my end.