And I want that. I hate that I don’t know the mundane, everyday shit she’s been up to the last forty-eight hours. I want to know what she had for lunch and if she spent the night watching a movie or doing homework. I want to hear her sleepy voice on the phone every single night before I go to bed, and because of that fucking prick across the room I don’t get any of it.
Maybe I should get it over with and tell him everything. Emery will be furious that I went behind her back, that I didn’t consult her first, but she’ll get over it eventually. Right? Or will betraying her in that way only push her farther away?
I’m not sure how long I am lost in my own head, but soon everyone stands, having been released to our rooms for the night.
The elevator ride to our floor is mostly quiet as we’re all mulling over the information we got at our meeting. When we get to our floor I find Coach leaning against my hotel room door.
Carey mumbles, “The fuck does he want?” His big presence at my right gives off the protective vibe of a wingman as we approach.
“Coach,” I say as we stop shy of our door. The way he’s positioned against it we’d have to pick him up and move him to get inside.
“Spider, I need a word with you in my room.”
Carey tenses. “It’s nine o’clock on a game night, Coach.”
“Did I ask for the time, Slade?” He pushes up off the door and jerks his head in the direction of his room further down the hallway. “It’ll only take a minute.”
Kaipo and Loren stall a bit at their door as if waiting to see if I need rescuing. I shrug, act casual, and follow coach down the hall wondering what this is all about, but also considering I might already know.
He flashes his keycard and pushes open the heavy door. The room is dark except for the lights of Tempe through the window. I linger in the entryway until he flips on a light. “Have a seat.”
I take one of the two seats at a small table near the window and watch Coach pull a small bottle of bourbon from the mini fridge to pour into a glass. The awkward silence in the room makes the pressure build.
“Is this about the game?” If it was he wouldn’t need to talk to me alone, but I need to move this convo forward.
He takes a seat at the end of the king sized bed, sips the booze, and stares at the floor three feet in front of him. “It’s about Emery.”
I figured it might be. “What about her?”
Another sip of his booze, and on the next he opens his throat and takes down what’s left in his glass. His eyes come to mine, cold and hard as concrete. “She’s unwell.”
I put a tight lock on my reaction, something I perfected as a kid when a reaction could equal a fist to my jaw. Inside, my mind is swimming with what the fucks and I hold back a deluge of questions.
He sniffs, goes for another bottle of booze, and continues after he pours. “Emery was diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder when she was twelve years old.” When he doesn’t get an immediate reaction out of me, he continues. “She’s a—”
“Sociopath. I know what it means.” Thanks to my year of psych 101 I diagnosed the man who beat me for most of my life with the same thing. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Did you think it wouldn’t get back to me? That you have been seeing my daughter behind my back?”
The only people who know about Emery and me are my roommates and their loyalty runs too deep to rat us out. Ollie on the other hand… Third-stringer looking for favor with his coach, I can see his motivation for snitching, and I don’t even blame him.
Coach takes another swig of booze. “Now you know, she could be a danger to not only you, but to herself.”
I catch my grin before it fully manifests. Emery is different, really fucking different, but a sociopath’s leading trait is that they lack empathy. She broke up with me because she was worried about how her placement in my life would make my life difficult or ruin my NFL dreams. She clearly showed empathy, to the point that she gave up her own happiness for me.
Is she a little off? Sure. But that’s what I love about her.
And I do love her.
He props his ass on the dresser and continues. “Superficial charm, high intelligence, pathological lying, manipulative behavior, lack of remorse or shame, she has all the diagnostic features.”
My protective instincts flare. “You don’t even know her.”
“She’s my child,” he sneers.
“Jesus, Coach, she’s a nineteen year old woman—”
“My daughter!”
“No.” I stand to my feet feeling the urge get the hell out of here before one of us starts throwing punches. “She’s not your anything. You abandoned her when she needed you most, which makes you the equivalent of a sperm donor.”
His expression falls and his face pales. “What did you say to me?” His voice is a deadly calm whisper.
“I’m in love with her. Don’t expect me to ask for your permission or approval, you gave up the right to have a say.”
I walk past him and throw open the door but as soon as I hit the hallway he grips my upper arm hard enough to leave a bruise. “How dare you fucking talk to me like that.”
He’s taller than me by a few inches, but I stare boldly into his unflinching eyes. “Get
