I nod at him and look over at my father. “I’ve got this,” I say, and he shakes his head.
“Oh, I wasn’t coming in with you,” he says. “That’s a you thing.” He motions with his chin. “You got this.”
When I walk into the room with Nico, I see the coach sitting at the table on his phone. He looks up. “The big bad Michael Horton.” He puts his phone down and gets up. “Martin,” he says, holding out his hand. “Welcome to Dallas.”
I shake his hand and sit down in the empty chair in front of him. Nico walks over to the other side of the table and sits down next to Martin. I look at both of them, and it feels like a big elephant in the room, and I know I’m already going to have to deal with it with the press. “Before we start.” I think of the words to say and then finally just say what comes to mind. “I just want to thank you both for taking a chance on me.” I swallow. “I don’t know what you heard or what you read, but just know that there are three sides to the story.”
“I know that,” Martin says. “I also know John, and I know it’s not easy to be coached by him.”
I shake my head. “I have no problem working hard. I have no problem showing you what I can do. I have a problem with not showing you that I can do what you just told me I couldn’t.” Martin looks at Nico and nods his head. “I just want a chance to show the world I’m not the spoiled little shit that everyone is probably calling me.”
“Fuck ’em,” Martin says. “Press is going to be all over your ass.”
“And we are going to make sure that it’s respectful,” Nico states. “I have no problem telling the press to get out of my arena,” he says, and I nod at him. “With that being said, I think by you not saying anything to the press, it will be like putting a target on your back.”
“I agree.” Martin nods his head.
“I’m not pressuring you to do anything you don’t want to do,” Nico says, folding his hands on the table. “But I think if you did an interview.” He holds up his hand for me to let him finish. “We can set it up, choose the reporter we want to talk to, and—”
I hold up my hand. “I’m not shitting on my other team,” I say. “I am not going to sit down and point fingers, saying it was his fault and all that bullshit. I won’t do it.” I shake my head and wonder if I’m not shooting myself in the foot, before I even get on the ice. I look over at Nico and then at Martin. “I won’t do it to them. I won’t do it to you guys. That isn’t who I am; that isn’t who I was raised to be.” I put my shoulders back. “So if you think it will help, then set up the interview, but I’m just telling you that I’m not throwing shade at anyone.” I smirk. “No matter how much they deserve it.”
“That.” Nico sits up and points at me. “Respect right there.” He pushes back from the table. “I think we are going to get along just fine.” He smirks at me. “Welcome to Dallas, Michael Horton.”
Chapter 2
Jillian
Looking into the mirror, I hold the clothes hanger with the black-and-white dress on it in front of me and contemplate wearing this tonight. I close my eyes and wonder why the hell I ever agreed to go out on a blind date. A date with a man I know very little about or have even seen a picture of. All I know is that his name is Zander, and he is meeting me at seven o’clock at Sullivan’s restaurant. I throw the dress on the bed and walk over to grab another one-piece t-shirt red dress and hold it against me. After going back and forth a couple of times, I toss the two choices back on the bed and walk back to the closet for two more hangers.
Tossing the choices back on the bed, I plop down on the edge. Everything I own is scattered around the bed. And I mean everything. My phone rings, and I can hear it coming from someplace under the mountains of clothes on my bed. “Where is it?” I move the clothes aside as it rings, finding it under a white pillow.
“Hello?” I answer, lying on my stomach and my hair falling in my face. I blow the hair out of my face and then turn over to my back. A hanger stabs me in the back, so I get up to move it, then lie back down. I look down to see that she started a FaceTime call with me. I press the green accept button and wait for her face to fill the screen.
“Are you getting ready?” my sister, Julia, asks, and I close my eyes. When I take more than a second to answer her, she says my full name through clenched teeth, making me laugh so hard. “Jillian Lee Williams.”
“You know it’s serious when you use my whole name.” I shake my head. “You do know what I’m doing, right?” I look around the room and wonder how long it will take me to clean this shit up.
“If I were to guess,” she says, “you’re probably at your computer with a spreadsheet with a pros and cons list as to what you should do tonight.” I roll my eyes.
“Wrong,” I say, happy she is actually wrong for once. Turning the camera, I give her a view of the explosion of clothes everywhere. I hear her whistle and then turn her back to me. “Besides, I already did that this morning when I got up,” I confirm, making her laugh. “I’m lying in the middle of my bed, on top of every single piece of clothing I own.” I look around the room at the disaster. “I’m not kidding. I took everything out. Jeans, yoga pants, joggers, skirts, shorts, dresses.” I pick up a gray shirt with Warrior Not Worrier in the middle of it and toss it aside to the for-sure-no pile.
“What did you decide on?” I hear her tapping something, and I know it’s either her index finger or a pen as her face comes closer to the phone.
“Either my black jeans.” I pick up the jeans in question to show her. “And a black silk tank top.” I pick up the black silky tank top with a bit of lace at the top.
“Or?” The tapping stops, and she sits up, looking around, and I can see she is sitting outside somewhere.
“Champagne shorts with the black silk tank top.” I look around, and she blows out.
“You know why this is so hard.” I hear a bird squeaking in the background. “Because you dress like a nun.” She points at the phone.
I chuckle. “I like to call it respectable teacher attire,” I say, getting off the bed. Placing the phone down on the bed faceup, I start to fold the clothes I will definitely not be wearing tonight.
“Is that what you are calling it?” She teases me as I look around at all the non-sexy clothes I have.
“I teach kindergarten,” I remind her. “I can’t go to school wearing stilettos and sexy clothes. All of my outfits are made for comfort. And after wearing a very expensive sweater one day, a cashmere sweater I bought for over a hundred dollars, and getting splashed by paint, I learned that it wasn’t worth dishing out the big bucks. The amount of clothing I’ve had to throw out from being stained or glued is crazy. So I go affordable.”
“If you want, you can swing by my place and borrow a couple of things,” she says, and I laugh out loud. She has the same wardrobe I have, only she might have sexier tops for when she goes out cruising, which seems to be every weekend.