I wince. “Won’t be long, my man.”
We make a quick exit so as not to prolong the suffering. Out on the street, we pause.
“How about the Cheerful Rhino?” I name a bistro a few blocks away.
“That’s fine. I like that place.” We start walking. “No practice today?”
“Optional. I decided to skip it.” I grimace. “Which will probably piss off Coach. Ah well.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I get the feeling you and your coach don’t get along.”
I don’t answer right away. I know better than to criticize the coach or team management in public. Players have gotten themselves in deep shit by doing that and being overheard by their Uber driver or someone sitting at the next table in a bar. But it’s just me and Lilly, and somehow I know she’s not someone who’s going to run to the media, and also I really need to talk about this to someone who’s not involved. I can vent to my teammates, but they’re not objective about this either.
“You’re right,” I finally admit. “We’re…very different.”
“That’s diplomatic.”
I sigh. “Fuck it. I don’t like him. I don’t like how he coaches, I don’t like how he leads. He’s not a leader. He’s a fucking dictator. We’re grown men, we’re dedicated, we’re talented, and he treats us like shit.”
“Don’t hold back.”
I catch her dry smile, and one corner of my mouth lifts. “Feels good to let it out.”
“I guess there’s not much you can do about it.”
“Nope.” I fill my lungs with icy air. “And it doesn’t help that I’m kind of…grumpy.”
After a beat, she says quietly, “Why are you grumpy?”
“Because I have a bad coach.”
She laughs softly. “Hmm.”
“I get so pissed off,” I continue. “Sometimes it’s hard to keep my mouth shut.”
“Is it just him that gets to you? Or are there other things?”
I think about that. “I get annoyed in traffic sometimes.”
She nods. “I guess we all do.”
“And I hate littering.”
She bites her bottom lip as if trying not to laugh. Which makes me smile. “I hate that too,” she says solemnly.
“I also hate racism. Homophobia. And slut shaming.”
She blinks. Her bottom lip pushes out. We walk about half a block in silence. Then she says, “I hate to tell you this, but you’re not grumpy. You’re a good guy.”
I feel her words hit me in the chest. But because I’m not a good guy, I say, “Phhhht. I’m a jerk. Just ask Coach.”
“Why doesn’t he like you?”
“Because I hate assholes.”
We arrive at the bistro. It’s a tiny place, but popular in the neighborhood. We enter to a gust of warm air scented with yeasty bread and garlic. I’m starving.
The place is nearly full, but the hostess seats us at a small table for two in the back corner. We settle in, removing outerwear, adjusting our seats.
Lilly picks up her menu. “Hmm. What should I have? I love their salmon and spinach salad, but I always have that.”
“Have what you love.”
“I should try something different.”
“We’ll order different things and share.”
She tilts her head. “Okay.”
“I’m going for the roast chicken, avocado, blue cheese, and bacon on ciabatta. With fries.”
She moans. “Their fries are so good.”
He grins. “We can get extra if you want.”
“That would be perfect.”
“Easy.” I set down my menu just as our server approaches. We both request coffee and place our orders.
“Okay,” she says, fiddling with a fork. “Why doesn’t your coach like you?”
Now I’m facing her, I’m having those doubts about sharing this stuff. But hell, I’m already into it. “I don’t take his shit. He gets pissed at stupid things, and I’ve tried to tell him they’re stupid, and that just makes it worse.” I shrug and drop my gaze to the table. “I’ve been trying to keep my mouth shut, but it feels like it builds up inside me and I’m going to explode.”
Jesus. I can’t believe I just told her that. I glance up at her.
She nods slowly. “That’s what happens when you don’t deal with your anger.”
“I try to deal with it other ways. Working out. Punching things. Fucking.”
She coughs. “Well. Those are all excellent. I was thinking more along the lines of communicating how you feel.”
“Yeah, that’s what gets me in trouble.”
“I mean, in an assertive, nonconfrontational way.”
“I’ve tried that.” I lean forward, capturing her gaze with mine. “I’m not a dick. I tried meeting with Coach and telling him when he yells at us and kicks things across the room it de-motivates us.” Okay, yes, there have been times I didn’t communicate in a calm way. Like when he called one of the guys a little bitch. I blew up at that in front of everyone. Big mistake.
“Oh.” She nibbles that sexy bottom lip. “That’s good, then.”
“Yeah, and then he makes me watch four hours of video.”
“Okay, he’s just a bad man, then.”
I laugh and lean back. “You just hit the nail on the head.”
“But that’s not right! He’s in an important position. How can he still have a job? Who’s his boss?”
“The GM. Mr. Julian.”
“Doesn’t he know what goes on? Or is he terrible too?”
“He’s not terrible. I don’t know how much he knows.”
“Well, someone should tell him.”
“I don’t think going over Coach’s head is a good idea.”
She slumps back in her chair, looking as defeated as I feel some days. “That sucks.” Then she straightens. “Don’t you have some kind of whistleblower protocol?”
I look at her. “Whistleblower?”
“Yes.” She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and her eyes shift away. “Like when a business is doing something wrong, someone can ‘blow the whistle’ and tell someone higher up. And not be punished.” The words come out edged with bitterness.