SERENA: She has a whole plan. It’s a really cool concept. My friendHolly is coming over tomorrow for brunch and her background is finance, so maybe she can help her figure out the money part of it.
WEST: I want to hear all about it when I get home.
SERENA: Don’t say anything to Bodi. I mean, he knows about the bookstore but not that she’s meeting with someone who might be able to help with the financial part of it. They kind of tabled it because the start-up costs are extensive, but Holly thinks she might have some ideas. Anyway, Jayne doesn’t want to say anything until they talk.
WEST: I won’t say a word.
SERENA: Okay, well, I’m going to read for a little while and then crash.
WEST: Forty-eight hours, angel.
SERENA: Talk to you tomorrow.
I put my phone down and pad into the bathroom.
I don’t know what she has planned, but I’m already excited.
The road trip went well. We won all three games, and everyone is in high spirits on the flight home. Our new head coach, Jamie Teller, is sitting in the back with a group of us playing poker. He’s in his late thirties, with dark hair and eyes. He’s quick to joke around and smile, and pretty easygoing in general. Completely the opposite from our old coach. And it’s been good for us.
“Royal flush.” Coach lays down his cards with a smug grin.
“Asshole,” Bodi mutters.
There’s no hierarchy during poker, so no one’s offended, least of all Coach.
“Sorry, boys.” He scoops up all the chips.
“I cannot play.” Vik leans back, starting to get up. “I am bad.”
“You’re learning,” Coach says. “And it’s not like there’s a lot of money at stake. Sit your ass down.”
Vik sits down with a sullen expression on his face, and I deal another hand.
“You guys hear about DeMarco?” Bodi asks.
I glance up. “Now what?”
“Apparently, he and Gregori got into it. It took two trainers and one of the coaches to pull them apart.”
Coach whistles. “I’ve heard he’s a handful.”
“But going after his own teammate?” Simon asks. “That’s next-level.”
“Rumor has it DeMarco fucked his girlfriend and then bragged about it.”
We all grimace.
“The guy’s been a menace since Juniors,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve never liked him. I think he’s the only guy in the league I genuinely can’t stand. Like, hardcore, couldn’t play with him.”
“No?” Coach looks surprised. Apparently, he doesn’t know about my condition to play in Atlanta.
“He’s toxic as fuck.”
“Noted.”
“I wish teams would stop picking him up,” Ashton mutters.
“He produces on the ice,” Coach says, “but don’t worry—he’s not on my list.”