“Have a seat,” the GM said, taking his own seat beside Coach Karl. “Coffee?”
“Um, yes, please,” Leo said, fitting his big frame into an open seat on the opposite side of the table. It was a bit like being called into the principal’s office. Although if the news were very bad, they wouldn’t have had him on the jet at all.
“How’s the jaw? The doctor look at you yet?” The GM opened a Starbucks bag and pulled out three sealed cups of coffee, passing one to Leo.
“I’ll live,” he said, uncapping the coffee. “Haven’t spoken to the doctor yet, but he won’t find anything other than a real ugly bruise and a scrape. Nothing my cosmetic surgeon can’t fix.”
Nobody laughed. And Coach Karl sat stone still in his chair, wearing an expression like someone had just force-fed him something bitter. Leo sipped his coffee and was grateful to have it. Maybe it wasn’t worth getting punched in the face, but he’d never underestimate the healing power of French roast.
Hugh cleared his throat. “Son, we need you to know that the club does not support the actions of a coach who lays his hands on his players. Or vice versa, of course. What happened last night shouldn’t have. And it won’t happen again.”
“Okay,” Leo said, his gaze leaving the GM and landing on the coach. It was all well and good for Hugh to give that speech. But Leo was pretty sure that a direct apology should be forthcoming right about now.
“Karl?” Hugh prompted.
“I apologize for my rash temper and the unfortunate result,” Karl said woodenly.
Never was such a lackluster apology issued. And even though none of this was funny, Leo found that he had to fight back a bitter laugh. “Thank you.” . . . For that inadequate sentiment.
Coach pushed a white paper bag across the table. “Here,” he said gruffly.
He took the bag. “What’s this?”
“An apple turnover from Reinwald’s.”
“Um . . . thanks?” This morning got weirder by the second. “Is it poisoned?”
Nobody laughed.
“Son,” Hugh began. “We need to know if you plan to pursue any legal action against the coach or the team.”
With that question the conversation moved rapidly into the ass-covering portion of the morning. Careful. Leo’s agent wouldn’t want him to promise anything. “If that’s the last of my difficulties with Coach Worthington, I don’t see why I would pursue anything,” he said.
The manager tilted his head back, studying Leo over the end of his shrewd nose. “All right.” He shuffled a file folder in front of him and drew out a page. “Then would you mind signing this?”
The plane had begun accelerating down the runway for takeoff. Leo took the paper from Hugh and read the first few lines. Regarding the altercation between myself and Karl Worthington on the evening of . . . He skimmed. I will not pursue regulatory nor legal action, nor seek damages . . .
He sighed, then set the paper down on the table, which was now rattling as they went airborne. “Tell you what. We both know my agent would spank me for signing anything without getting his eyes on it first. But we don’t need this piece of paper.”
“We don’t?”
Leo shook his head. “If Coach gives me a fair shake, treats me like the rest of his players, and doesn’t trade my ass, then this conversation is moot.”
The GM gave a slow blink. “Are you blackmailing Coach Worthington? If he trades you, then you’ll sue?”
“No,” Leo argued. “Don’t put words in my mouth. I don’t want lawyers, I want to skate. And I want the same shot as every other guy on the plane. It’s not that complicated.”
Hugh surprised him by smiling suddenly. “Good answer, kid.”
Coach Karl said nothing.
Leo shouldered his duffel bag. Then he took the pastry bag and the Starbucks cup. Because good coffee was good coffee, even if assholes gave it to you. “We’re done here, right?” He looked at his coach, who only stared back at him for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
“Thank you.” Leo got up and slid the door open with his index finger, ducking carefully out of the little room. The jet was still gaining altitude, so he held the ceiling with his pastry bag hand and carefully eased down the aisle. When he got to the row where Georgia sat, the seat beside her was still empty. Feeling the eyes of nearby teammates on him, he slid into it and fastened his seatbelt. Beside him, Georgia looked with a steadfast gaze out the window at the hazy white sky.
He opened the bakery bag and pulled out the pastry. He hadn’t had one of these for years. His mouth watered just looking at the flaky thing on the sheet of waxed paper. “Georgia,” he whispered.
“What?” she whispered back.
“Any idea why your father gave me a punch in the face and then an apple turnover?”
“Nope.”
“Was this supposed to be for you?” he asked. “You always liked filled things.”
“What?” She finally turned her heart-shaped face toward his. It was hard to be angry when those clear eyes were looking at him.
“Filled things,” he repeated. “Turnovers. Samosas. Dumplings.”
She swallowed. “You’re killing me right now.”
He grinned, nudging the pastry. “Halfsies?”
Slowly, Georgia nodded.
Leo folded the waxed paper carefully around the pastry then tugged it in half. He picked up one of the pieces himself, then placed the other on the white bakery bag and slid it onto Georgia’s tray table.
They ate in absolute silence. Chewing was uncomfortable for Leo, as it made his jaw ache. But the pastry made it worthwhile. Reinwald’s was a bakery about a mile from their high school. It opened at six thirty in the morning, so a guy could get a donut even before an early practice. After Georgia had been attacked, he’d gone there every day after school on his way to Georgia’s. He’d choose whatever cupcake or cookie had the best chance of making her smile.
Those were grim days, before she was ready to go back to school. Before the cuts on her face had healed. She wouldn’t talk about it, either. A couple of times he’d tried to get her to open up about her attack, but she’d only change the subject.
So he brought her a cupcake every day for two weeks until she complained that she was going to get fat. That was such an unGeorgialike thing to worry about that it felt like a slap in the face.
But Leo didn’t give up on her. Not ever. Instead of treats, he’d switched to bringing her funny videos on his phone. That hadn’t worked so well, either. But he’d tried.