Page 17 of Mile High Coach

Chapter 8

Harrison

When I wake up and hear the consistent vibration of my phone on my bedside table, I almost fool myself into thinking it could be Lovie, changing her mind about the program.

It’s been a month since Lovelace Waters joined the Blue Crabs team, and she’s come in like a storm.

Nothing is good enough for her, and it means she picks apart every single thing I do.

Drills before scrimmage? Let’s test and see which provides the best practice performance. What about pre-practice affirmations? What about the warm-ups each player does—are they completely customized to the guy?

Of course not. Everyone warms up together. That’s how we’ve always done it—that’s how every hockey team on the planet does it, as far as I know. But according to Lovie Waters, it’s high time that changed.

Everything is about being efficient, even as most of the stuff she wants us to do wastes time. Lovie and I butt heads at every turn.

So maybe it’s stupid, wishful thinking that I conjure her face first when hearing the vibration of my phone. And maybe it’s justthe fact that not a night goes by without me thinking about what it would be like to get her in my bed again.

When I finally roll over and pick up my phone, blinking groggily at it, it’s not Lovie Waters I see, but instead Eliza Greene.

Eliza Green, once Eliza Clark.

My stomach turns sour like it does any time I have to think about her new last name, or when I have the misfortune of seeing a friend of a friend posting pictures of them doing something together. Or when I think about her, Brad, and the entire fucked up situation.

I want nothing to do with her, and my first instinct is to ignore the call. But it is only six in the morning, and if she’s calling, it must be for something important.

As much as I hate her fucking guts for what she did to me, I can’t ignore it.

What if she’s sick or dying? What if she was in a car accident, and this is Brad, calling to tell me she’s taking her last breath? What if, even after all this, Eliza is asking for me?

I’m not in love with her, but we were together long enough that I feel I owe those years something, even if it’s only answering during her dying moments.

“Hello?”

“Harrison?” Eliza says my name like we’ve just run into each other somewhere across the world, like it’s the largest coincidence in the world that we happen to be connecting right now. I clear my throat, ruffle a hand through my hair, and sit up against my bedframe, preparing myself for whatever she’s about to tell me.

“Yeah.” My voice feels tight, still carrying the anger of what happened all those years ago. “What’s going on?”

She pauses, and I realize in this split moment that she’s not on her deathbed at all. “Well, Brad said that he ran into you, and…”

The sigh I let out is loud enough that it silences her on the other end. Brad told her he ran into me, and I ignored him, and that prompted her to think she should just call me out of the blue?

After everything first blew up, Eliza called me nonstop, trying to get me to just listen to her and hear her side. Once, when she cornered me outside our old place, she’d told me she could handle losing me, but she didn’t want Brad to lose his best friend.

If Brad didn’t want to lose his best friend, then he shouldn’t have fucked my wife. He definitely shouldn’t have gone on to have a baby with her, building up a new life for himself inside his best friend’s old one.

Instead of saying any of that, I just clarify, “Eliza. It’s six in the morning.”

“I know. But you’re usually up?—”

“You don’t know anything about my life, Eliza. You made that decision. Don’t call me again unless you’re fucking dead or dying, got it?”

When I hang up, my heart is pounding, and it takes me a few seconds to regret that last line. Then, immediately following the regret, comes another fresh wave of anger.

Eliza made her choice, and it wasn’t me. She has no right to be calling me like nothing happened.

Swinging my legs out of bed, I use the adrenaline coursing through my body for a great workout. One room in my loft is fully dedicated to workout equipment—a bench, squat rack, and rows of dumbbells I use to stay in shape.

I’ve seen some of the other guys who retired around the same time as me let themselves go completely, and I can’t imagine it. Even Brad looked a bit dad-bod-ish when I saw him at the deli.

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