Page 93 of The Fine Line
I launch out of my seat.
Coach walks back in. “Alright now, where were we?—”
Holt yanks me into a hug so fast I stumble.
“Well, would you look at that!” Coach claps.
Holt pats my back like he’s trying to break a rib.
Coach’s phone rings again. “Damn—sorry, boys. It never ends. Oh, it’s just my wife. One second.”
As soon as he turns away, Holt grabs the back of my neck and pulls my ear to his lips.
“Listen close. This team’s mine now. I care about it. People respect me for that—not that that’s something you’d know anything about.”
I try to pull back. He tightens his grip.
“I want to work with you. But that means you have to work with me. Get your shit together. Show up on time. Shut up. Stay in line. If you can do that, we won’t have a problem. But if you don’t?—”
Coach is wrapping up. I wrench away, but Holt grabs my shirt.
“Remember, I earned this. I’m the star. You? You’re nothing.”
I grit my teeth.
“And if you give me even one excuse—I’ll make sure you stay nothing. I’ll ruin your career before it even starts. If you don’t do it yourself first.”
Coach turns around. Holt releases me and pastes on his best captain smile.
“Alright,” Coach says. “Let’s go over what you can expect this season.”
“I’d love to hear it.”
Coach couldn’t have been further off.
twenty-three
CAROLINE
Austin, TX, USA
“You could not be further off, Rhett.”
“What? How?” he huffs. “Why wouldn’t it go in this cabinet? It’s a bowl.”
“It’s a colander.”
“Okay—without using scientific terms—they’re basically the same.”
“Is it practical for the milk from your cereal to land in your lap? Or when you eat soup? You trying to get second-degree burns down there? Pretty sure that’d be detrimental for you.”
“Well, A,” Rhett says, “I’m not fifty-five, so I don’t eat soup?—”
“What’s wrong with soup?”
“If I don’t have to chew it, it’s not a meal.”
“That’s ridiculous?—”
