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"I don't want to hear it, Perry. I'm still too pissed to deal with you."
"It's not that, sir." His use of sir gets my attention. I know he's a good ole southern boy like most of these guys, but it's not an honorific that I'm accustomed to hearing from him. He usually sticks to “coach,” and his use is sarcastic at best.
"It's about the donor brunch. I'm getting the impression that this thing is mandatory?"
"Is it on your schedule?"
"It is, but—" he cuts himself off, realizing his mistake before I have to correct him. He looks down and nods his understanding. His expression is not one I've seen on him before. It's not just contrite, it's… embarrassed?
"What's the issue here, son?"
He clears his throat and lifts his chin. "I'll need permission to leave campus to find something appropriate to wear. Please," he adds on hastily. The fact that he's trying so hard makes my lips quirk, and I have to purse my lips not to grin. I enjoy seeing him squirm.
My eyes trace down his form, getting an estimate of his measurements. Nothing I have will fit him, that's for sure, but I know someone that might help.
"We'll get your measurements after practice today and I'll have something delivered."
"I can't pay for anything too–"
"I didn't ask for money. It's not a gift or charity, either. It's a necessity to be part of this team. There will be more than one event that you'll be expected to attend, and I expect my players to look and act the part of perfect gentlemen."
This time he's the one trying to hold in a grin.
I roll my eyes. "Get inside. I don't feel like getting caught in this rain that's about to start falling."
His brow furrows, and he looks up. There's nothing but darkness, especially as the stadium lights start to shut off, but you can't see the stars through the clouds.
"How can you tell?" he asks.
"Pressure build up," I explain.
Jack rolls his lips together and turns around, walking towards the locker room.
"What's so funny?" I ask incredulously.
He shakes his head, refusing to look at me.
"Jack…" I warn.
He chortles. "I'm sorry, Coach."
"Fucking what, Perry. Spit it out." By now, I'm more annoyed than curious.
"I just forget how old you are sometimes," he says, almost apologetically, as his eyes water with the effort to not laugh.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"Your old football injury acting up when it rains?" His eyebrows lift as his grin spreads.
My eyes roll, and I huff out a laugh. "Listen, kid. I'll bend you over my knee?—"
"Promise?" His eyes glitter with mirth, showing me the playful puppy I've come to know.
I give him a warning look, but I can't help but let go of some of my anger. Truthfully, these past two months have made me forget how old I am.
"I think you owe me chin-ups today," I tell him, trying to get back to business. Chin-ups are his least favorite, which makes them my preferred choice for torturing him. Without realizing, I swat him on the ass as he turns towards the gym.
"Put that thing away," I tell him as I bring the measuring tape to the crux of his thighs to measure his inseam.
