Page 51 of Worth the Scandal
Freedom is less than twenty metres away. I can see the sunlight bouncing off my windshield adjacent to coach’s driveway and two front yards down. The birds are chirping, and I might just break out in a happy dance. I am not far from victory flush with this veranda rounding to the front of Coaches house, totally in the cle—
“Morning, Kingston.”
I freeze. Oh fuck. That voice.
Like, full statue mode, like if I’m not moving maybe I’ll camouflage in with the front garden hedges, magically turn into some overgrown garden gnome. I’m not even breathing, partly because my whole life flashes before my eyes and I’m imagining all the ways Coach will gut me alive for being here this early in the morning, which means I must’ve been here late last night. Which means Scarlett and I were doing more than playing chess and checkers.
I turn my head very slowly—and there he is.
Coach Ted Walker.
Wearing a Ridgebacks hoodie, a cap pulled low, Crocs and socks—he’s a fashion icon, obviously—and holding a garden hose like it’s a medieval weapon. Gripped tight, so tight he’s got white knuckles flexing around it, probably imaging it’s my throat. Here it is the moment of truth.
He’s standing next to a bed of rose bushes, watering them like the God of Dad Energy, looking entirely too relaxed for someone seconds away from committing a homicide, the second crime to take place in the space of a few hours on this premises.
“Coach,” I say, voice cracking like a guilty teenager caught sneaking out the window.Coach?! That’s the best I could come up with.Better than I just spent the night fucking your daughter and moaning her name I suppose, God Asher now is not the time get it together, hope your ass is ready to ride that bench.
He lifts the hose.
I’m watching waiting for him to say something, ask, assume, anything? But I guess he doesn’t have to.
No hesitation.
Sprays me. Directly. In. The. Face.
“Holy—” I stagger back, hands up, hoodie clinging to me like plastic wrap on leftovers. “What the hell?!”
Ted doesn’t blink. He hoses me again, one more for good measure.
“Next time,” he says, as if he’s not actively hosing me down like a Labrador who’s been rolling around in mud “Park in the driveway, son.”
I’m dripping.
I’m pretty sure I just inhaled 80% of Dawson’s Ridge’s water supply through my nostrils. The boys are going to eat me alive. I look and feel like I’ve been water boarded.
“I—what?” I sputter. “You’re not mad?”
He lowers the hose to a casual angle, like he’s just giving the grass a little love now.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t mad.” He adjusts his hat, and he clears his throat. “I said don’t leave a classic car like that on the side of the road. Bad for the tires. Bad for appearances.”
He turns back to his rose bushes like this is normal, like he hasn’t just assaulted me with municipal water pressure and starts humming—humming—like a man at peace.
I stand there soaked to the bone, rethinking every decision I’ve ever made.
My training gear is wet. My pride is gone. My soul? Lightly misted.
“Oh, and son, don’t be late for practice.”
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but all that comes out is a weak, “Yes, sir.”
I slink down the path like a drowned golden retriever, water squelching in my sneakers, hoodie plastered to my back. My mind is reeling, did that just happen? Oh, fuck what’s going to happen now. I can’t be late to training now, so I’ll be heading there in this ensemble, whether I like it or not.
As I turn the corner and reach my car, I hear a laugh.
I look back through the gates toward the left of the property, following the faint giggles I’ve come to know all too well already.
There—on the granny flat veranda—is Scarlett, biting her knuckle, shoulders shaking as she watches me make my walk of shame in full human sprinkler-mode.
