Page 38 of The Coach

MICK

“Noogie!” An arm clamps over my shoulders, and a rough fist rubs the top of my head. I pivot, turning until I can get an elbow into the stomach behind me and grin when I hear an “oomph” when he loses air.

“Get off of me, you Neanderthal!” I shout at my baby brother, wiggling out from under his arm.

He lets go and rubs where I hit him. “Dammit, sis, Coach had me running drills all afternoon. I’m sore.”

“You should have thought of that before attacking me then,” I retort, kicking my shoes off in my parents’ foyer and walking into the kitchen.

“Children, quit fighting. You’re making me nostalgic,” my mom’s voice rings from behind the wall hiding her from our view. When we come into the kitchen we grew up in, I smile at the sight of her standing at the stove, slicing bread.

My parents bought their home just outside of Rose Hill when I was a baby. I grew up here in these very walls, and aside from some paint and a few improvements here and there, everything was exactly the same as it was when I was young.

The kitchen was painted a soothing cream color, the cabinets a soft shade of teal that my mother loved, and the countertops were one of the oldest granites you could get. It was always comforting to come home and be surrounded by the things you grew up around.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, stepping into the kitchen and letting her arm fall around my shoulders as she hugs me to her. Lincoln, unable to take not being the center of attention for five seconds, wiggles in between us.

“Quit hogging, Mom,” he sasses at me and takes her from my arm.

“You are such a mama’s boy!” I groan, poking him in the side and feeling satisfied when he jolts away from me. “Where’s Dad?”

“In the garage, of course.”

“Of course,” I reply and take over the slicing of the bread.

“Lincoln, go get your father.”

“On it,” he replies, poking me in the side as he quickly passes.

I yelp and hold up the knife in my hand. “I have a knife!”

“Oops, sorry,” he replies, not sorry in the least.

“How do you put up with him?” I ask my mom, only half teasing.

“On a wing and a prayer mostly,” she replies, giving me an exasperated look and taking a sip of her wine.

If there was one thing that Sienna Ellis knew how to do, it was how to cook a mean lasagna.

Dad had come in with Lincoln on his tail a few minutes before we sat at the table. He kisses my cheek and then sits before cutting and dishing out portions to us. It was our family’s way. Mom cooks, Dad serves, Lincoln and I clean up.

“So, how was practice?” Mom asks Lincoln while I stuff my face with her food. It’s been a minute since I’ve had superb homemade lasagna, and I’ve been missing it.

“Insane,” he replies in between bites. “Coach Johnson got fired.”

“I heard he quit,” I reply without thinking, biting my tongue at the slip-up.

“How did you hear about it?” Lincoln asks me. “And who said he quit?”

“Oh, you know.” I wave my hand around. “Through the grapevine. People talk.”

Holy shit, I’m a terrible liar.

“Yeah, well, he may have quit. But he was losing it on the ice today. Screaming at people and trying to put Coach in his place.” He chuckles, his eyebrows raised. “Coach Mitchum turned into a badass so fast. I’ve literally never seen the guy mad, not once, but this did it for him. I half wanted it to turn into a brawl on the ice.”

I frown when I hear that. Tanner had called me directly after practice and told me everything that had happened. Just hearing it in his voice, I knew he was really upset about how things went down, and I wish I hadn’t already agreed to dinner tonight so I could be there for him.

Thankfully, he was at his own parent’s tonight, taking the opportunity to see them while I was busy, and he needed the distraction from what he had dealt with at practice.

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