“All right, we need to get in there,” Blaire says. “Mr. Hyland is expecting you.”
I murmur a few obscenities under my breath but shove my hands in my pockets and follow dutifully into the school. It’s prestigious, that’s for sure, with a giant crest on the floor of the main foyer. The lockers are gold and the walls a deep burgundy. It’s all flawless, making me wonder how much time they spend making sure everything looks top of the line.
Trent leads us through the lobby and into the main office, where an older man stands waiting. His gray hair contrasts with his black suit, giving away the fact that he’s closer to retirement than not. As he lifts his head and spots me, a grin spreads that’s too big for his face. Great, a grown fan-boy.
“Mr. Hawthorne. It’s so nice to meet you,” he greets me, extending his hand. “I’m Jon Hyland, but you can just call me Jon.”
“Thanks for having me,” I lie.
If he can tell that I’d rather be literally anywhere else, he doesn’t say anything about it. “The pleasure is all mine.”
I lean against one of the desks and wait for Trent to finish introducing Blaire to Jon. When they’re finally finished, I get straight to the point. It’s not like I’m trying to be disrespectful, but the last thing I want to do is sit around this place all day and exchange fake pleasantries. I can only force a smile on my face for so long.
“So, what exactly does this coaching gig entail? I show up a couple times after school and to the games on Friday night?” Please tell me that’s all it is.
The wary glance he shares with Trent tells me that couldn’t be further from the truth. “Not exactly. While we’re thrilled that you’re willing to coach our team and surely lead them to a long-awaited championship, the policy states that all coaches must be members of the faculty.”
“Aw, damn.” I feign disappointment. “I guess that rules me out then.”
“Well, let’s not jump the gun. We do have an opening for an English teacher that I’m prepared to offer you, which would make it so you meet all the necessary coaching requirements.”
My brows raise, and I instantly shake my head to try to wake myself from this real-life nightmare. “No offense, Jon, but I don’t know fuck-all about being a teacher.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Maybe not, but from what I gather, you and Trent are quite close, and he’s one of the best teachers we have. I’m sure he could show you the ropes.”
“I’m not qualified,” I begin, but of course, he has an answer to everything.
“You have a degree from when you attended Notre Dame, correct?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then you’re qualified.”
My jaw locks and my teeth grind together harshly. It’s all I can do to keep from shouting out what I really think about this whole ordeal. Judging by the way both Trent and Blaire refuse to look at me, it’s obvious I’m the only one who wasn’t previously informed of this minor detail. Just knowing they ambushed me into this makes me want to tell both of them to fuck themselves.
As if Blaire can read my mind, she finally speaks up. “Asher, you need this.”
“I don’t need anything.”
“You do if you want a chance in hell of getting back onto the field when you’re well. You know teams aren’t just looking for talent when they pick a quarterback.”
Groaning, I lace my fingers into my hair and tug, hard. I’m sure Colby is going to get a kick out of this—his best friend going from one of the league’s best quarterbacks to a fucking English teacher and coaching high school football. I can only imagine the jokes he’ll make at my expense.
“Well, I guess I don’t have a fucking choice, now do I?”
Blaire smiles like the cat that caught the damn canary, while Trent and Jon both sigh in relief. Douchebags, all of them.
I grudgingly sign the paperwork Jon needs to officially hire me, and ironically, Blaire comes prepared with all the required documents. If she wasn’t a woman, I’d probably lay her out just for the fun of it. When we’re finally done, I can’t seem to leave the school fast enough—ignoring Jon as he calls out about what an honor it is to have met me. As far as I’m concerned, he’s just had me sign my goddamn death certificate.
Here lies Asher Hawthorne’s dignity.
“Am I free to leave?” I ask Blaire.
It’s obvious she’s trying to hide her amusement by the way she swallows down a laugh. “For now. I’m going to be setting up an interview—over the phone, so no one can see your lack of enthusiasm for your new profession. I’ll have all the questions and your responses faxed over to your penthouse later this week.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic.”
I don’t wait for her to say anything else as I get in my car and slam the door. Trent jumps in just before I pull away, which is good for him, because I was about to leave his ass here. Today went from bad to worse. One wrong word out of his mouth and I just might snap. Luckily for him, he stays quiet as I drive back to his place.
“I’m going to get my things and stay at a hotel for the night,” I tell him as I pull into the driveway. “I’m still not ready to go back to my penthouse just yet, but I sure as hell can’t be here.”
He frowns. “Come on, man. You don’t need to do that.”
I shake my head adamantly. “I do. I’m not in the mood to hang out, and if I stay here, I’ll end up saying shit I don’t mean. Trust me when I say, it’s best if I go.”
It looks like he wants to argue it, but he knows better than to push me right now. So instead, he nods and gets out of the car. Thank fuck. At least something went the way I wanted in the last twenty-four hours.
OKAY, SO MAYBE BEING alone wasn’t the smartest choice. The suite I got is massive, and all I’ve done since I got here is pace. The rug will probably have track marks in it by the time I leave.
How the fuck did this happen? How did I go from having the world by the balls—both literally and figuratively—to this? Some washed-up quarterback making less money in a year than I used to make in an hour. It’s almost laughable.
My phone rings on the table, and Colby’s name flashes across the screen. I’m not stupid enough to ignore him. If I do, he’ll only make it worse for me.
“What?” I answer, not even bothering to hide my sour mood.
The chuckle he lets out makes me imagine punching him in his stupid, little, baby face. “Well, I was going to tell you about this crazy rumor that started circulating today, but judging by that greeting, I’m going to go out on a limb and say it’s not crazy at all.”
“Fuck off, asshat.”
Laughter booms over the line. “Aw, come on. Is that any way to talk to your best friend?”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t have a best friend. Only people I hate less than others. Right now, you’re not on that list.”
“Sure, I’m not. Okay, but in all seriousness, what the fuck?”
Throwing myself onto the bed, I groan. “Honestly, I’ve been asking myself that for the last two hours. This was all fucking Blaire’s doing.”