“Sounds boring as shit.”

Her hazel eyes widen. “Oh, excuse me Mr. First Cousin Birth Defect.”

“Are you teasing me?”

She flushes. “I wouldn’t dare poke the bear.”

“I’m a bear now, huh?”

“That’s what Summer called you after our little run-in at the grocery store.” She scoffs. “Kids.”

“Right. Kids.” I glower. “I wonder what kind of bear.”

“The kind that eats people.”

When Violet checks the time and calls it quits on our session, we rise. She shuffles my printouts and slides them across the table toward me. I gather them up, shove them in my notebook, and stuff them in my backpack.

Curtly, her lips bend into a pleasant smile—a fake, manufactured, purely patronizing smile. One you’d give the smarmy guy hitting on you at the bar

“If you need anything else, or any additional help, you can email or call the help desk to make an appointment. If you can’t get scheduled with me, we have staffers available Monday through Friday, from nine am to eight pm.”

Her canned statement is professional, but lacks any real emotion.

Like me.

Shit.

“Come in and close the door behind you.” Coach points to the chair in the corner of his office without lifting his head. The gray on his temples catch under the light, something I’ve never noticed about him before. “Sit.”

I sit.

Shift in the shitty, uncomfortable chair.

He continues to take notes on his yellow notepad with the same red pencil he carries with him everywhere. Normally it’s tucked behind his ear, out of the way, or in the breast pocket of his Iowa embroidered shirt. He uses it now to toil away at whatever match points, positions, and strategies he’s dreaming up—something he’s famous for in the Big Ten division.

Coach pauses long enough to lift a finger, raise it in the air, settle it on a cream envelope, and slide it across his beat-up wooden desk.

“Take this.”

“What is it?”

“What the fuck does it look like?” He huffs impatiently. “It’s an invitation.”

I know he wants me to ask What for? so I don’t.

Coach powers on, still scrolling across that yellow pad. “They have a fundraiser every year and it’s coming up. I don’t suppose Nancy told you.”

“Nancy who?”

This time he does raise his head, blue eyes unblinking as he regards me. “Don’t be coy Daniels, it doesn’t suit you.”

I rack my brain, trying to recall any Nancys I’ve met recently, but none come to mind.

“Nancy from the Center, where you’re volunteering.”

Oh, that Nancy. “That chick doesn’t say dick to me, Coach.”

“No, I don’t suppose she would.” He chuckles, low and deep.

Actually fucking chuckles.

Whose side is he on? “What does this have to do with me?”

“They have a fundraiser,” Coach repeats. “It’s in a couple weeks. We have no meet that weekend and I’ve excused you from practice, so I fully expect to see you there.”

“See me there?”

“Yes. I take my wife, Linda; we buy a table, eat.” He leans back in his old, rickety seat, the springs squeaking with every movement. Coach scratches his chin. “It’s actually a really nice date night.”

Coach is married? This is news to me.

“But Coach, a fundraising gala?”

“Yes. I’m sure with all your parents’ money, you’re quite familiar.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Good, then it’s settled.”

“Yeah but Coach, I’ve literally only spent two days with the kid I’m mentoring. I just started the program.”

“Well. There are two weeks until the gala. I’d say that’s plenty of time to step up. Jump in with both feet, eh?”

I can see by his stalwart expression this subject is closed.

“I’ll see you there. Make sure you’re wearing a suit. I know you have one.”

Yeah I have one; we’re required to wear one when we travel to away matches.

“Are we done?” I huff, rising, hell bent on the brink of insubordination.

His reply is a dull chuckle.

“Yes, we’re done.”

“Oh, and Daniels?”

I turn.

“Feel free to bring a guest. In fact, I’d recommend it.”

“I have this thing I’m being forced to do…”

“You mean besides bugging me while I’m at work and hanging out with Kyle?” she teases, interrupting me.

For a moment all I can do is stare at her, so surprised am I by her smartass comment. It’s the last thing I expected.

“I-I’m sorry. I was kidding,” she stutters.

“I know.” I roll my eyes. “I can take a rash of shit when it’s being handed to me.”

Violet recovers, propping her elbows on the circulation desk and leaning forward. “Okay, so what is this thing you’re being forced to do?”

“The Big Brothers program apparently has this fundraiser every year.” I use air quotes and Violet cocks her head, confused, and narrows her eyes.

She frowns. “Why are you using air quotes?”

“Because it’s lame?”

Her brows go up. “I-I don’t think raising money for underprivileged children is lame, Zeke.”