“Coen Highsmith is a great player,” I say.
“Not anymore,” Emma replies solemnly. “Daddy says he’s washed up already.”
I don’t know whether to laugh. Coen is by no means washed up.
He’s absolutely fucked in the head, but he’s still got mad skills and talent. I glance at the father who refuses to meet my eyes as he readies his phone to take our picture.
I move between the girls, bending down to get in the frame with them. I then snap a selfie with the entire family, taking the phone from the dad, since my reach is longer than his, to get us all in.
Just as I’m handing him back his phone, I hear men yelling near the front of the bar, louder than the regular din of patron chatter.
I glance that way and see Coen grappling with another man who has his arm around Coen’s neck. Coen is trying his best to break free.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, shoving the phone back at the father.
I head that way, pushing through patrons crowding in. Coen pulls his right arm back and lands two hard punches to the man’s ribs. He would’ve swung again, but bouncers jump in and pull the men apart.
The other man is hurt, holding his side, his face pinched with pain. Coen struggles against two bouncers holding him back, cursing at the man and trying to get free to go after him again.
Jesus, he’s a mess.
I reach Coen and step in front of him, cutting off his line of sight to the other man. He tries to look around me, heaving at the bouncers. I lean in to growl, “You need to calm the fuck down before you get arrested and booted off this team.”
Coen’s eyes flash with fury as his gaze comes to mine.
“Bring it down, man,” I say, again low enough that our conversation’s not heard by anyone other than the bouncers. “Walk out of here with me right now.”
Coen glances back at the man, who is fortunately being talked to by Stone. Hopefully, that will help defuse the situation further.
“I’m good,” Coen growls, going still against the bouncers. “You can get your fucking hands off me.”
They both look my way, and I give a curt nod. Warily, they release their hold on Coen who swipes his hand through his hair and blows out a heaving breath.
“You need to apologize and fix it to the extent he doesn’t call the cops,” I advise.
It seems as if for a few beats, Coen’s not even comprehending my advice. He looks over to the man again, perhaps noticing the way he’s got his hand pressed to his ribs and the pain in his expression. Coen almost seems surprised, and I’m wondering if he even knows he hit the man or if he blacked out from rage.
It’s not an excuse, but it does make me curious.
To my surprise, Coen moves to the guy. He’s not overly conciliatory, but he does offer what seems to be a genuine apology. Luckily, the guy accepts it, which means that real disaster—another arrest—is avoided. It would surely have guaranteed Coen’s suspension for much longer than last time, perhaps for the rest of the season.
“Come on,” I say to Coen, jerking my head toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”
He follows me outside, silent, shoulders hunched. I walk into the parking lot toward my car, and when we’re far enough away from the building and any patrons, I whirl on him. “What the fuck is the matter with you?” I demand. “Are you deliberately trying to sabotage your career?”
Coen’s face flushes, his expression once again tight with anger. “Nothing’s the matter with me. That douche knocked into me purposely.”
“Oh, cut the shit,” I snarl, getting in his face. “You’re looking for trouble. Even if he knocked into you, the Coen Highsmith before the plane went down would’ve brushed it off and kept moving.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he exclaims, and that anger morphs into what I think might be fear. It’s a look I’ve never seen on him.
“I do know what I’m talking about.” I lower my voice to an even keel. “You’ve changed, and not for the better. You’re spiraling, and if you don’t figure out a way to stop it, you’re going to find yourself with no team and no friends.”
Coen looks off across the parking lot, not really staring at anything, but I can tell my words give him pause.
“Tell me how to help you, and I’m all over it.”
Coen’s eyes coming to mine, and they seem empty. His voice… dead. “You can’t help me.”
That’s not a statement I’d ever argue with him about. But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t need someone’s help. “A therapist. Let’s get you in to talk to a professional. With everything you’ve been through—”
“I don’t need a fucking shrink,” he snarls, his tone laced with denial and fury.
He’s wrong about that, but again, I’m not going to argue with him. He’s too volatile. So I offer him the only truth I can. “You need help, Coen. You’re on a path of self-destruction, and frankly, I don’t think you have the strength to pull yourself off it. I’m here if you need me. I’ll get you help somewhere else if you want it. It will stay between us. But you’ve got too much fucking potential to give all this up. You’re going to ruin your life, and I don’t want to see that happen.”
“It’s no more than I deserve,” he mutters.
My chin jerks inward. “Why would you say that?”
“Never mind,” he says and pivots away from me.
“Coen,” I call out as he starts a trot between the rows of cars.
He ignores me and disappears into the darkness.
“Shit.” I rub my hand over my jaw in frustration. I honestly don’t know what to do for the guy. I don’t even know if I can do anything, but I have to talk to someone about it. Keller’s out of the question. He can’t stand Coen and will offer no constructive help.
Probably Callum would be the best bet.
I pull out my phone and send him a quick text. I need to talk to you about Coen. I’m worried.
Pocketing my phone, I head toward my car. I don’t feel like going back in for a beer. Maybe I’ll call Jenna when I get home.
My phone rings, and I pull it out. It’s Callum. That was surprisingly fast but proves he cares about his team.
Connecting the call, I say, “Hey… thanks for calling.”
“You’re worried, then I’m worried,” he says. “What’s going on?”
I tell him about the exchange that just happened, the general tension among the players because of Coen, and the unstable situation between Coen and Keller.
“He needs help,” I say.
“He does, but you know we can’t force him to do anything,” Callum replies.
“I know. But someone needs to try. He won’t accept anything from me.”
“I’ll talk to Brienne. I think we’re at the point we need to strongly encourage him to see someone. It would be best coming from me, but I want to make sure she’s on board with that.”
“Sounds good.” I let out a breath of relief. Someone is going to do something.
“Thanks for caring about this enough to reach out,” Callum says. “Some people just don’t want to get too involved.”