A Stallion's Touch. Deborah Fletcher Mello
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apology. “Sorry, Coach. It was unexpected. Something came up.”
“We’re going to the big game, Stallion. If you actually want to play in that game, you need to get your ass here on time!” the man ranted, spewing a lengthy list of expletives at Nicholas. “You’re lucky I don’t fine your ass. I just so happen to be in a good mood!”
Nicholas didn’t waste the breath to respond. He wasn’t moved by the profanity-laced diatribe, and he saw no reason to reply in kind. He himself didn’t cuss, his older brother Noah having told them time and time again that a man who needed to punctuate his point with obscenities really didn’t have a point to make. Neither he nor any of his brothers had ever felt a need to sit around with their buddies and trade vulgarities. And it wasn’t often that Nicholas allowed any other man to swear at him without him putting the fool in check. Coach was an exception to that rule. Despite the exchange, he considered the coach a friend and had much respect for the man and his position. But his body language tightened and his eyes narrowed, an air of indignation rising with a vengeance.
The expression across his face spoke volumes, and the coach suddenly swallowed hard, shifting his gaze around the room to avoid looking directly at the man he was chastising. The tension was palpable, and one of the other players suddenly slammed his helmet against a metal locker.
“Let’s do this!” another teammate screamed, all of them anxious to get out on the field and hit something.
After another two minutes of a pep talk, the coach dismissed the team, and they headed in the direction of the field. He sauntered slowly to Nicholas, who still stood where he’d stopped. The two eyed each other warily.
“Why do you have to bust my chops, Stallion?” Coach Brandt questioned. He stood with his hands on his hips, his eyebrows lifted in query. “You are taking us to the Big Game! The Big Game! You’re one of the best damn players in the league, and you need to be setting an example for all the others. Instead, you’re giving me a hard time!”
Nicholas took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He met the look Brandt was giving him with one of his own, wondering why the man felt the song and dance was necessary. Nicholas didn’t always do what was expected of him, but he had never once not done his job and done it well. And Brandt knew that. In the years he’d played for the team, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d been late for anything and have more than half his fingers left over. To Nicholas’s chagrin, Brandt often played to the cameras and the other players, needing to laud his position whenever he had an audience.
“You done?” Nicholas finally asked, clearly not impressed.
Brandt lowered his voice. “Hey, you know everyone already thinks I give you too many passes. Just this morning someone was whining about you being the coach’s favorite.”
“Just this morning?”
“Well, maybe not this morning, but I heard it once this week already.”
Nicholas chuckled softly. “I should be your favorite. Me scoring more points and gaining more yardage in a single game is what got you to the championship. Breaking the records I’ve already set is what’s going to win you that championship ring. I know it and so do you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” The man grinned. “So, is everything okay? Nothing we need to worry about, I hope.”
Nicholas shook his head. “Everything’s fine. It won’t happen again. At least, not this season. I can’t speak for next year, though.” He turned to hang the last of his street clothes in the locker, slamming the door closed after pulling a jersey over his head.
Brandt nodded, extending his hand. The two bumped fists, and Nicholas turned in the other direction, following the other players to the football field.
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