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I swallow the sudden dryness in my throat, thinking about the pile of fat and grease in the form of bacon I made him this morning. The thing about taking care of a person the size of my dad is sometimes I’m scared he won’t be breathing the next time I come home. “F-fine, sir.”
“That’s good to hear. He was quite the player in his day.”
“I’m sure he would appreciate you saying that.” My pursed lips stay that way. It’s hard to imagine my father anything like the twenty-year-old Coach T speaks of when all I’ve known him to be is an extension of the recliner in the living room. He doesn’t even sleep in a bed anymore.
“Why did you want this job?”
“Oh.” I fidget, avoiding Coach’s gaze. I don’t give a crap about football, but if I don’t tell him I’m the biggest Bulldog fan, willhe get mad? Athletes, even former ones, like their egos stroked, don’t they? “I mean, football is great. I’m grateful for the?—”
He frowns. “I hired you because your dad said you didn’t care about sports. The last thing I need is some girl who thinks her ticket to a good life is hooking up with one of my players and following him to the big time.”
Shit.“Oh, I— I actually don’t care about sports.” I give him a weak smile. “I just didn’t want you to think I didn’t care about the job.”
He lets out a breath. “Well, that’s good news, but whydoyou want a job here?”
I fidget in my seat again. I can’t tell my dad’s former teammate that the reason I want this job is to make money to get as far away from my dad as possible. He could tell him. Or worse, he could look into the reasons why. “I need extra money for college expenses, and after talking about it with my father, he thought maybe you’d have something available. He trusts you.”
Coach eyes me for a significant period of time. Enough time to make me squirm. “I’ll cut to the chase, Charlotte.”
“Charley,” I correct.
“Charley. You were late today.”
My stomach dips. “I’m sorry about that.”
He holds up a hand. “I need to make sure you’re serious about this job and your dad isn’t making you do it. I’d do anything for old teammates, but I am looking for someone who actually wants to work.”
“I do,” I blurt out. “I apologize for being late. It won’t happen again.” I make myself look at him as I lie. The truth is, I’m constantly late. Not because of my doing, but because my dad always needsone more thingbefore I go. This morning, he needed more heart attack–inducing bacon to get him through the day until I got back, even though I’d already made him an entire package. Sometimes it’s that he needs his pillowsrearranged, or that he needs pain reliever, or something—anything.
I’ve nearly given up. I tried getting ready earlier and asking him thirty minutes before I have to leave if he needs anything, and there is still always some last-minute task that needs to be done. It’s almost as if he likes the control.
It’s terrible to think that about my own father. But if I refuse to do it, I get to live in a house with a joy-sucking blob for a week. Maybe more.
I make my own emotional prison, and I’m done doing that.
Coach must think I look sincere because he nods. Suddenly, his gaze moves above my head. “What do you want, Farmer?”
I jump, spinning to glance behind me. My hackles rise when I spot thesameguy. Mr. Tackles Whoever He Wants and the annoying Gatorade jug guy. Was he there the whole time? Listening to Coach reprimand me?
“Oh, nothing,” this Farmer says. He peers down to wink at me, and my body flushes from head to toe.This a-hole… My stare travels downward, and I swallow.This a-hole who clearly has one of the nicest physiques I’ve ever seen in my life. Pecs, abs, arms that bulge with muscles. He even has a trail of dark hair beneath his belly button that leads under the towel slung around his waist…
“I’m in the middle of something. Do nothing somewhere else.”
“Yes, Coach,” he says, lips curving into a smile as he hesitates in the doorway a few seconds, his gaze never leaving mine.
“Charlotte—”
“Charley,” I correct, watching while the male specimen saunters away running his hand through his freshly showered hair.
“Sorry,” Coach mumbles. Turning, I find him flustered and frowning down at his papers. “I met your mother a few times. Nice lady, and if I’m not mistaken, she was also a Charlotte.”
I nod, a picture frame on Coach’s desk catching my eye. It’s of a girl close to my age. He doesn’t say it, but I feel the question burning on the tip of my tongue because I’ve wondered the very same thing. Why did my dad name me Charlotte? So he could spend every day having to say the name and remember my namesake was gone, ripped from his life forever? Because of me.
Because ofme.
“That’s why I prefer Charley,” I say softly.
“Well, it’s a pretty name. Both of them.” He angles the picture I’ve been staring at toward me. “This is my daughter, Kennedy. You might’ve seen her around campus.”