Page 4 of Misbehaving With Minotaurs (Haven Ever After #8)

CHAPTER TWO

MANORIN

I glance out of the window in my first-floor office, admiring how peaceful and quiet the skyball field looks this early in the morning. In a half hour, the perfectly manicured field will be bustling with the Protector Academy and pro skyball teams—finals practice starts today.

A reminder pings from the blue leather watch strapped around my wrist. I’ve got an important call starting in two minutes.

I’ve been working at my computer for hours, planning the primary and secondary lineups for the upcoming season, and my back hurts from hunching so far over the desk.

Standing, I roll my broad shoulders, grimacing at how my long horns scrape the ceiling if I stand up too straight.

This office wasn’t made for a minotaur of my size, much less a longhorn minotaur. I’ve been the head coach of the Hearth HQ Hellions for a very long time. The coach before me was a gargoyle.

A lot shorter.

And a lot less strict with his players, if the old stories are to be believed .

I probably should’ve had the office renovated, but it never seemed to be top of mind.

The Hearth HQ skyball team was a damn mess when I came on, but I’ve whipped them into shape over the last two centuries.

Many seasons’ worth of players have come and gone during that time, but I’ve turned out a solid string of superstars, many of whom have gone on to have long, illustrious pro careers.

Glancing out the door of my office, I smile at the paintings of famous skyball players lining the hallway.

Ninety percent of those were cultivated during my tenure here.

I smile bigger as I consider that. A ping breaks through the thought, the communication disk on my wall flashing blue. A name hologram rises above the tech’s circular surface.

Ever Keeper.

Of course, I always knew him as Arkan Canterbury, a centaur who was a star player while studying at the academy. Now he goes by his title—Keeper of the hidden monster haven of Ever, in America.

Massachusetts state, as I recall.

I grab the comm disk and set it carefully on my desk, directing it to answer Arkan’s call. A life-sized hologram figure rises up from the disk, and my former player smiles, the grin splitting his handsome dark features.

I cross my arms over my chest. “You don’t look a day older, Arkan. Or should I say Keeper?”

He waves away the comment. “The Evertons call me both. It was hard for me to give up my name for the title, even though that’s traditional for the role.”

I consider that for a moment. I could no sooner give up the Longhorn name than chop off an arm. It’s a point of pride for other longhorn minotaurs to cherish our shared last name.

“So,” Arkan says, “I’ll get straight to the point. I wanted to recruit you in my last haven, but it wasn’t the right time for that community or you. I’m pretty sure you know why I’m calling this time, and you took the call, so what’s changed?”

I suck at my front fangs as I think about his question. What has changed in the decades since Arkan last tried to steal me from my position as head coach?

“To be honest,” I say, “I’ve accomplished a lot for the Hellions.

I’ve run this program for almost two hundred years.

My brain keeps going into build mode, but the Hellions are a well-oiled machine at this point.

” I shrug and glance out the window at the skyball pitch again.

After a moment, I return my focus to the black-coated centaur male.

“I’m looking for something messy that I can fix up and make shine. ”

Arkan grins and crosses his arms, matching my stance.

“Well, Coach, it just so happens that the Ever team is messy as hells, full of part-timers with no coach at all . In fact, one of my players threatened to quit last night if I made him attend a practice. The team made it all the way to the finals last year, as you know, despite that. But there’s zero recruiting and literally no program to speak of.

We have an empty stadium that I don’t think anyone’s set foot in since the finals.

Ever wouldn’t just be something messy; it would be starting from the basement and working from the ground up. How does that sound?”

Part of me aches as he talks. That’s exactly what I want.

But another part of me longs for the open ranges and clear skies of my home haven, Pine Gulch.

My dream job would take me there. Unfortunately for me, the Pine Gulch coach has held his role for six centuries with no signs of slowing down.

I don’t think that job’ll ever open up, not unless the gods and goddesses themselves descend to drag Rip Shorthorn outta that job.

“I need more information.” I uncross my arms and tuck my hands into the pockets of my too-tight jeans. “I’m interested, though. What’s your evaluation process look like? Who else are you looking at? What are next steps?”

Arkan grins. “I hoped you’d say that, Manorin.

I’m also looking at a newer coach from a remote haven in Brazil…

Gil Stoneswallow. As for eval, I’d like you to come here for a trial period once your finals prep ends and before the season starts.

Gil will be doing the same thing, although you won’t overlap.

You’ve got a couple weeks off coming up, if memory serves?

” He winks. I may technically have that time off, but he knows I’ve never taken it once in my entire career.

“I’ll manage,” I grit out. This is important. It’s time for me to consider moving on.

“I’ll start making arrangements,” Arkan says with a huge smile. “Would you prefer to stay at our local wraith motel or up at the Annabelle Inn? The inn’s closer to downtown and the skyball stadium. The wraith motel is like most others—opulent beyond belief with an incredible kitchen.”

A smile turns my lips upward, the ring in my nose shimmying. “Does Catherine Evrien still run the Annabelle Inn?”

Arkan returns my feral look. “She does.”

“Book me there, then. She and I are old friends.”

Friends isn’t the right word, but I don’t need to get into that with Arkan.

“Done,” Arkan says. “I’ll email you later with all the details. I’m crazy excited about this, Manorin. I’ve got the one other candidate because I promised the haven leadership team that I’d do my due diligence. But the reality is that if you’ll have us, I want you for Ever.”

“You always were my favorite, but don’t be a suck-up,” I say with a snort.

He beams and tosses long black braids over his shoulder. “My mate is calling me for dinner, but I’ll email those details soon. Goodbye, old friend.”

I swat at his hologram, and he ducks out of the way. “It’s still Coach to you, kid.”

He laughs and signs off.

For a long time after he’s gone, I stare at the communication disk.

Eventually, I set it back on the wall as I consider our conversation.

Am I really pursuing this? A team with no coach and no program to speak of?

It’s something I haven’t done yet. The Hellions were a mess when I took them over, but there was the semblance of a program, and there was a head coach before me, even if he was shitty.

Ever’s a blank slate, but I think I love that for me.

Voices drift up the hall, followed by the thwap of wings and clip-clop of hooves.

The academy players are arriving for practice.

Turning to the locker in my office, I unbutton my shirt along one shoulder and down one side so I can pull it off without yanking it up over my horns.

Tossing it aside, I check out my reflection in the mirror.

I might be approaching my eighth century—minotaurs are long-lived—but I’m still built like most of my players.

The only hint that I’m older is a bit of salt dusting the oaky-brown fur at my temples.

I grab a Hellions jersey and button it over my broad chest. Kicking my way out of my jeans, I grab a pair of red and black athletic shorts.

When I pull them up, they hug my thighs and sack, accentuating the bulge between my legs.

I used to think it was ridiculous that athletic shorts aren’t made in sizes that fit athletes. Then I realized that’s on purpose.

The industry wants to tease its fans and onlookers with our bodies. Hot players in tight shirts and dick-hugging shorts are what the fans want. Cock outlines sell tickets. Actual erections are even better.

Adjusting tight fabric around my sheath, I mutter about the shorts issue and grab my whistle. I unclip it and reclip it around my neck. I’m so broad, it hangs down just far enough for me to wrangle it into my mouth. Maybe it’s time for a longer string.

When I leave my office, a shorthorn minotaur jogs up the hallway and stops in front of me with a big smile. “You ready for practice, Coach? We’re gonna kick some ass out there today!”

“Hells yeah we are,” I say, my tone pure gravel. “Those pro assholes won’t know what hit ‘em, right, player?” It’s all bluster, I coach both Hearth’s academy and pro teams, but we’re split right now to prep for finals.

“Fuck yes,” he hisses, clapping me on the shoulder. “I’m ready, Coach.”

Good. I am too.

Ready to kick ass, take names, and maybe start something new.

T he following Wednesday morning, I walk across the new Grand Portal Station, locating the glowing green portal that’ll take me from Hearth HQ to Ever, all the way across the world.

To the left of the Ever portal is a fabulous coffee shop called Higher Grounds.

I consider stopping in for a latte, but it’s actually their second location.

The original is in downtown Ever, according to my research.

I’d prefer to try the location I’d regularly go to if this move works out.

Smiling, I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder and step through the portal into a short hallway filled with luminescent green light.

When I reach the end, the portal opens into Ever’s portal station, a cavernous tiled room with a view of the forest beyond.