“Yep.”
He looks surprised that I didn’t argue with him. This is a man who’s seen my head explode every time I’ve been criticized over the past six years, so I can’t blame him.
“So we’re on the same page?” he says, eyeing me. “That’s a first.”
Normally, right about now I’d be really pissed off. I’d take everything he said as a challenge. An insult.
Now it just makes me depressed.
Life was so much easier before I had to think about anyone else.
I blow out a hard breath and drag a hand through my sweaty hair. Then I meet Coach’s wary gaze and get ready to eat some crow.
“I, uh…” Fuck. “I think I probably owe you an apology for my past behavior.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Coach was about to slide out of his chair.
He narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”
This is how much of a dick I’ve been. This right here.
I can’t even say I’m sorry without him thinking he’s gone deaf.
“I said I owe you an apology. Full stop.”
The silence in Coach’s office echoes for a long, tense time. He stares at me like he’s never seen me before in his life. Then he says, “You ever see that movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers?”
Sighing, I look at the ceiling. “I haven’t been replaced by a pod person.”
“You sure? Because you sound like an alien.”
“I’m not an alien.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “If you’re not an alien, answer me this: which is the most important thing in life? Money, sex, fame, family, or the ability to manipulate the space-time continuum?”
I say automatically, “Love.”
He lifts his brows. “That wasn’t one of the choices.”
I frown, thinking back. “It wasn’t?’
“No. And now I definitely know you’re an alien, because the Mason Spark I know would never allow that particular four letter word out of his mouth.”
Christ. What the hell is wrong with me? Make a joke, idiot.
“Yeah. Sorry. Still getting used to this body.” I stretch my lips over my teeth in an attempt at a grin.
Coach sees my weird smile and goes ballistic. He hollers, “Are you on drugs?”
“Does oxytocin count?’
“Yes!” he roars, jumping up from his seat to pound a fist on his battered metal desk. “Get your ass into rehab, son! We’ve got a Super Bowl to win!”
“Oxtytocin is the cuddle hormone, Coach. I don’t need rehab.”
Coach drops abruptly into his chair and stares at me. “Did you just say cuddle?”
“Yeah.”
“What in God’s green acre are you talking about?”
Groaning, I drop my head into my hands and rest my elbows on my knees. “I don’t even know. I’ve lost my fucking mind. I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.”
After a long silence, Coach says, “It’s a girl, isn’t it?”
“Girl? She’s more like the Genghis Khan of etiquette. The Tony Soprano of manners.” Thinking of Maddie, my sigh is wistful. “The Bugsy Siegel of true love.”
“Is she also the Michael Corleone of circumcisions? Because you sound like you’ve lost your balls.”
“Circumcisions are for foreskins, not balls.”
“This conversation is a circumcision for my brain.”
I lift my head and look at him. I must look really pitiful, because he says, “Whoa.”
“Yeah.”
After a while, he says, “Well, it can’t be all bad if she’s got you apologizing out of the blue for your past behavior.” His expression sours. “Though that’s a pretty big canvas to cover with one little apology. You might need to buy me some flowers and send me a box of chocolates, too.”
“Gimme a break, will you?”
“What do you want from me here, son? You show up looking like a bag of smashed assholes, outta shape, unfocused, and talking some ridiculous shit about ancient emperors, mob bosses, and true love. I don’t even know where to start.”
“You can start by explaining what the fuck a bag of smashed assholes is.”
Aggravated, he waves a hand in the air. “It’s an old military term. It means something really bad that you don’t want to see. The only thing worse is a clear bag of smashed assholes, and you’re almost there.”
I say forlornly, “I know.”
“So did you get this girl pregnant, or what?”
“No! God, no. Nothing like that.” I add sheepishly, “We haven’t even… you know.”
He lifts his brows, making the wrinkles in his forehead multiply like rabbits. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
“You’re telling me you’re this worked up over a broad you haven’t even slept with?”
We stare at each other for a while. Then I say, “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“You bet your ass it’s bad, son! If you ever get her naked, you’ll probably burst into tears! You’ll start listening to Kenny G and watching Ellen DeGeneres and wearing frilly shirts made of macrobiotic hemp!”
I say defensively, “I love Ellen.”
He hollers, “Say the word ‘love’ one more time and I’ll make you run a hundred goddamn laps around the field!”
He stands, props his hands on his hips, and starts to pace in agitation behind his desk. “All right. Talk to me about this love gangster of yours. What’s the situation?”
I lean back in my chair and look at my hands. Hands that only a few days ago were cradled around Maddie’s beautiful head as I kissed her. “The situation is that she’s too good for me.”
He barks out a laugh. “Every woman is too good for every man, idiot. You just have to find one that doesn’t lord it over you too much.”
I think of his wife, a fiery Italian-American woman he’s been married to for about a hundred years. “Is that what you found with Carla?”
“Are you kidding? That woman tells me she’s better than me every chance she gets. I can’t even take a piss without her hollering about how I always leave the seat up and spray pee everywhere and she should’ve married Joe Scalia like her mother said.”
“Have you ever asked her why she didn’t?”
He laughs again, only this time it’s warmer. “Because Joe Scalia didn’t make her lady bits tingle, that’s why.”
I grimace. “I can already tell I’m gonna be traumatized by this little talk.”
“My point is all that bullshit about you not being good enough is just that: bullshit.”
I keep staring at my hands. My voice drops lower. “Yeah, except it isn’t. You know my story.”
He stops pacing. I know he’s staring at me, but I don’t look up. Shame makes my ears grow hot.
Then he sits down behind his desk again and props his feet up on the top. “Is that what this is about, son? Your past?”
“What’s past is prologue.”
He sounds irritated by me quoting Shakespeare. “No, what’s past is just that: past. I’m not your goddamn therapist, son, but let me give you a piece of advice earned over many years of living.”