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I clench my jaw for a beat. “Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. But you’re not doing yourself any favors talking back to the coach just because he’s your brother. Now get the fuck out of my office, and if you ever talk to me like that again, you’ll be running suicides until you vomit. Hear me?”
“Yeah,” he mutters, and he stands to leave without another word.
Maybe that wasn’t the most motivational meeting I’ve had with a player, but I can’t have him strutting around in his stupid fits thinking he has some advantage because I’m his brother. I need to be as hard on him as I am on any other player…if not harder. And suicide drills where he runs from the goal line to the ten-yard line, then back to the goal line and to the twenty, all the way down the field over and over—that’s usually the way to get through to just about any player.
So when he gets called for illegal use of hands when he pushes a player before he moves to catch a ball Miles fired at him in the next game, I’m furious. Especially because this time we lose ten yards and we were already on a third down.
The game comes down to a field goal at the wire that goes the way of the Bengals at their home stadium, and I’m fucking livid.
I realize it’s a team effort and it never comes down to just one play. Furthermore, I realize that there was more than one penalty in this game despite going over the issues with my players in the last game. There will always be penalties. That’s just the nature of the game.
Maybe I’m expecting more out of my brother after our talk. Maybe I expected a cleaner game because I came down hard on him.
Maybe he needs to run a few suicides as penance for his penalty.
We get in late on Sunday night, but I still call him in Monday morning at nine. He’s wearing another ridiculous outfit, and his eyes won’t meet mine as I basically blame him for losing the game for us.
I’m in a bad mood the rest of the day as I meet with every player who committed a penalty during the game, but Tuesdays are our day off, and I text Jolene just as I’m leaving the office.
Me: Any chance I can see you tonight?
Her response is quick.
Lorraine: Is this a booty call, a dinner date, or an overnight?
My chest tightens as I think about what I need, and I know what I need is a good night of sleep holding her in my arms.
Me: All of the above if possible.
Lorraine: I’ll see what I can swing.
Me: I miss you.
Lorraine: [teary eye emoji] I miss you, too.
As it turns out, she can swing coming over at nine, which is just after Jonah goes to sleep. The boys are back in school now, and Jolene said Sam was fine with getting both boys off to school in the morning.
The moment she appears at my front door, I pull her into my arms. I let out a heavy breath that feels like I’ve been holding onto since the last time I got to hold her in my arms like this. Every time I’ve seen her since our first preseason game, our time together has been rushed.
I don’t want to rush.
I just want time with her.
I kiss her and pull her inside, slamming the door shut behind her.
“What’s going on?” she asks breathlessly.
“Nothing. Just been a tough couple weeks and I guess I needed this more than I realized.”
“So did I,” she admits, clinging to me just as I am to her as she nestles into my chest.
We stand there quietly, just holding one another as we practice deep breathing exercises, and I feel instantly calm having her here in my arms.
“Can I get you some wine?” I finally ask, and she nods against my chest.
“I’d love some. I’ll take my bag upstairs and meet you in the kitchen in three minutes.”
“Deal,” I say, and I press my lips softly to hers as she heads upstairs to my bedroom—a room that feels like our bedroom when she’s here.
