Page 45 of The Groupie

Rylee

“Finally. Why the fuck have you been avoiding me? Do you know how many texts I’ve sent you that went unanswered?” Chuck is pissed, but it’s hard for me to separate Chuck, the overbearing asshole, from Chuck, the coach, so whatever guilt I should be feeling is buried deep.

“I’ll assume that’s a rhetorical question.”

“What the hell’s going on, Rylee?”

“I’m taking care of Mamma Cass. We saw a doctor, and she has emphysema. It’s terminal.” I flinch as I say the words, and Zak’s hand goes to my thigh and holds on like he means it, like it means something other than foreplay.

“I’ll be there tomorrow.” He pauses, and my fear alarm spikes.

The last thing I want is for him to see me limping around. He clears his throat, and I know he has more to say. I dread what it might be. I close my eyes as if that’ll protect me.

“How’s your ankle?”

Shit.

“Fine. What did Tanya tell you?”

“Enough to know it’s not fine. You see a doctor yet? I have the name—”

“I have my own doctor, damn it. And I’ll see him when I’m damn well ready. What is it with men trying to nose in—”

“Men? What men?”

Fuck. I open my eyes to see Zak giving me the kind of stare that would rattle a girl if she cared. Fiery anger, hurt, and concern war in those deep dark eyes. I wish I could say I didn’t feel a small pinch of conscience.

“Never mind. I don’t need you coming to Boston.” I watch as Zak’s eyes go cold and angry and he motions for me to end the call. He can hear every word Chuck says, and he doesn’t like it. Well, that makes two of us, but I can handle it.

“I’ll be on the next flight I can catch,” Chuck says before I can come up with a way to convince him otherwise. “I’ll call you when I get in.”

I jab the “end call” button and toss the phone, feeling like I could fry someone with the heat flying from me I’m so mad.

“What did you mean by ‘what the fuck is it with controlling overbearing men?’”

“You tell me.” For once, Zak isn’t smiling or even smirking. The easy-going expression he usually wears has been replaced by a tight, wary look. His eyes study me with uncomfortable intensity. “Chuck’s your coach? Charles Banner?”

I nod. Of course, he knows who the Olympic snowboarding coach is. He’s probably googled the shit out of the Winter Olympics since he found out I’m on the team. The idea should bother me, but all I feel is a hint of satisfaction. I’m an idiot. I put my hand on the door handle as I answer him, and he doesn’t stop me. “I don’t want him to know about my ankle, but I don’t have any choice in the matter.”

“When’s your appointment?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“You going to tell Chuck about it?”

“I don’t want to, but—”

“You need to. I’ll be there with you.”

“Don’t you have practice or something?” I should be telling him I don’t need him there, don’t want him there, but I can’t bring myself to say any of those things. Probably because it’ll send Chuck a message that we’re over. So, I tell him, “I’d appreciate if you could.”

“That was a sudden change of tune.”

“I’m fickle. Sue me.”

He laughs and then his face softens. “What are you going to do if your ankle takes more than two weeks to heal.”

“It won’t.” I want no part of this conversation.