I had a small apartment off campus. A tiny studio, all open plan and cozy. If you had a long arm stretch, you could reach the fridge from the couch, so some may call it cramped, but I preferred cozy.
I bounded up the stairs, my boots clanking on the wooden boards, and before my key was even in the lock, I could hear my cat, Milly, behind the door.
“Hey, girl,” I greeted her as I opened the door slowly, using my legs to block her from getting out.
Milly was a house cat. She used to get out, but then some asshole hit her with their car and never stopped, and once she was better, and I was still paying the vet fees, she became a house cat. Milly was still adapting. It’d been eighteen months, but she was a persistent girl.
Her white, squidgy face looked up at me, blue eyes already narrowed in disapproval.
“How was your day?” I asked as I gently herded her inside. “You hungry?” She walked with me to the kitchen. It wasn’t far. Milly meowed at me again. “I know, you want to be fed. You want out. You want to go play with the cars again. I know. But all I’m giving you is food and some cuddles.” I looked down at Milly. “If you let me.”
She meowed and pawed her bowl.
I think my chances of a cuddle were fifty-fifty.
That about summed up the state of my life at the moment.
* * *
The athletic department always felt weirdly sterile, as if someone had Febrezed away guilt and booster money. I approached the main reception desk in the brightly lit foyer, holding my signed access form like a golden ticket.
The assistant raised her brows as she scanned it. “And they know you’re coming?”
I gulped past my nerves, but plastered a smile on my face. “Yes, they should. The form’s signed by my professor, see?” I pointed to Professor Flannigan’s signature. Before she could respond, the doors to the inner depths of the building swung open, and Head Coach Sutherland stepped into the foyer.
I froze.
Of course he’d be here. It was going to be fine. I willed my nerves to settle down.
“Ms. Peterson,” he said, sliding his gaze over me like he was checking for contraband. Or a microphone.
“Mr. Sutherland,” I replied with the fakest smile I owned. I saw his scowl, and the receptionist cleared her throat. “CoachSutherland, sorry, not, um, used to... you know... it all. Um, yet.”
“Yet?”
Is this how ants felt under magnifying glasses as kids burned them with sunlight — really hot and panicked, hoping there was a safe place somewhere? “I’m here as part of my assignment for my, um, practicum, for my—”
“FeatureJournalism.” He crossed his arms. He may as well have spat on the ground with the disgust he said it with. “I’m aware.” His tone was very much one of ‘I’m aware of everything you touch, and I don’t like any of it.’
I almost gave the receptionist a smug smile that confirmed he knew about me coming, but I was too scared to break eye contact with the intimidating man in front of me.
“Yes. I’m covering the spring training for my, um, assignment.”
Coach Sutherland walked forward and plucked the form from the desk, skimmed it, and exhaled through his nose in that disappointed-dad way he seemed to have perfected. “And this is approved?”
“Professor Flannigan has signed it.”
“Why?” His attention was back on me, the form crumpling in his grip. “Surely you’re the last student that should be here.”
Probably.
“He believes in second chances,” I said. “And I am looking forward to putting the past behind me.”
It didn’t look like he was.
“This may be approved by your professor, but it is not approved by me. So take this—” he handed me my form — “and I’ll wish you a pleasant day, Ms. Peterson.”
“But—”