Page 44 of The Coach

He cooks fettuccine, and the smell wafts over me, making my stomach grumble. While I was studying, I hadn’t dug into the snacks he left for me, my focus overriding my hunger. He serves us both massive plates full, and we sit on the couch as we eat.

“Can I ask you something?” I ask after I take a sip of my wine, my plate discarded on the coffee table, my stomach over full.

“Of course,” he replies, turning to face me completely. I can tell by his expression that he’s concerned about whatever I’m going to bring up, and I don’t mean to do that to him, but if there’s one thing I hate, it's miscommunication.

“I noticed when we were at Robin and Devon’s how well you got along with their kids, and I was just wondering if that was something you want.”

Tanner’s face breaks into a smile, and he nods. “Eventually, I think I would like a kid or two.”

I feel like I’m sinking into the couch, reality hitting me hard, and I shake my head. “Oh.” Real brilliant reply. They should just hand over my master’s degree right now.

“But,” he starts again, taking my free hand in his. “I need a few years to coach first, to get established. I want to be comfortable in my job before I need to split my time.” He scoots me closer, putting my wine glass on the table and half pulling me into his arms so I’m practically on top of him. “When I’m a dad, I want to be in full-on dad mode. So, I can’t go having kids now when I’m brand new at coaching.”

I have never been so relieved in my life. “Really? You’re sure?”

“I’m positive.” He cups my cheek and pulls me closer. “I want a life where you’re in it Mick. If you don’t want kids, then we’ll get a fucking dog, okay? You’re important to me.”

“I…” I pause, trying to filter through my words to make them make sense. “It’s not that I don’t want kids. I could see myself doing that. Just… later.”

He nods his understanding and smiles at me before pressing his lips to mine in a quick kiss. “Later, then.”

Tanner repositions us so we’re cuddling on the couch, and we lie there talking until one of us falls asleep.

And I go to sleep that night thankful, rested, and confident about our future, despite having to keep us a secret for a little bit longer.

eighteen

MICK

“Happy Thanksgiving!” I hear the commotion around me as I chop potatoes, the exact ones I’ve been standing here for an hour peeling because my mom apparently thinks we need twenty pounds of mashed potatoes today.

She had decided that every teammate of my brother’s that didn’t have a place to be today should come to our home and have dinner with us.

Not only that, but I’d already invited Vic and Cassie to come along as well. They were running late because Vic decided to take a last-minute appointment today.

The noise at the door was none other than my brother and all of his friends.

I stay hidden in the kitchen.

Not only because I have no desire to see my brother’s teammates—they weren’t all bad, but the ones that are, annoy me to the point where throat-punching was always a possibility—but because my brain has been in a fog for the last week.

Basically since I saw Tanner last, which was a night I won’t soon forget. I did get to see him briefly when I was at the games over the weekend, but I had to duck out early both nights to finish up my work for midterms.

Now, I am finally on a break and I plan on taking full advantage of my time off. Tanner was over visiting his own folks today and had invited me to come along, but I was adamant that keeping everything separate until I graduate was for the best. While I’m sure his parents are nice people, they could tell one person who would tell another, and then we would be in deep trouble.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my little sister.” Lincoln bounds into the kitchen, his harem of boys following him in, crowding around the small space. My mom fusses over each of them, getting them drinks and appetizers, while I sigh heavily and roll my eyes.

“You wish I was your little sister. Then I wouldn’t have pictures of you in full-on makeup when you were six.” His face, the one that held a teasing smirk before, falls.

“Micayla, I swear.” He holds a finger up to me and says, “If you don’t burn those pictures, I’ll tell everyone you snuck out with Bobby Colter in tenth grade and that zit was actually a cold sore.”

I gasp at the accusation and punch him in the stomach. I don’t even think about it. It’s practically an instinct at this point.

“Damn,” Crew says, his attention moving from my mom to me. “You got a mean right hook, Mick.”

“Damn right, I do.” I pick up my large knife and start slicing the potatoes again. “You should see my knife skills.”

“Micayla, good grief,” Mom complains, helping Lincoln up like he’s a tiny child and not a grown-ass man. “No hitting at Thanksgiving.”

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