Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
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By the time I get back to the hotel room, it's nearly eleven, which according to Coach, means lights out.
After his usual if I come by your room and find out you're not there tonight, I'm going to run you so hard in the morning you're going to wish you were dead speech, he watched us all unload from the bus and file into our rooms, two per person, before finally retiring into his own down the hall.
Win or lose, Coach has a zero-drinking policy for away games. Although, in the entire time I've known him, he's never stayed awake long enough to enforce it.
"You sure you don't want to come with us?" James asks as he pulls off his shirt and smooths out the short sleeve button-up he's now dousing in cologne.
Since he wasn't there for the paintball game last night, he's the only one on the team without at least one huge bruise coloring his skin a deep purple or blue. Our targets were on our chest and back, so most of us managed to hide our battle scars from Coach, who would have been so pissed off, he would have sent us out onto the UCLA track to run before the game.
Aaron Penn, one of our freshmen, was the poor unfortunate soul that Abby shot in the arm four times. He managed to hide his four huge bruises with a compression sleeve, but I could tell by how he was moving in warm-ups that he was hurting. Luckily, he's a second-string who barely gets off the bench, so it didn't impact the game.
"Yeah, I'm going to stay in and study." I peel off my hoodie and toss it on my bed. The weather in LA is a lot warmer than Pullman, and paired with the post-game adrenaline still coursing through my veins, I feel like I'm about to overheat. James doesn't call me out on the lie as he laces up his shoes, but I can tell by the twitch of his cheek that he knows exactly what I'm doing. "Text me if you need help, though. Don't let Micah or Luke get too fucked up; Coach will kill them if they puke on the plane," I say, squeezing the back of my neck to release some of the tension built up from the game as he crosses the room and picks up his wallet, phone, and room key from the dresser near the door.
He nods absently as he types out a text. When he finally stops texting, he looks up. "Luke wants to know how big the after-party can be on Friday."
"I don't care."
"It's your birthday party," he counters.
"Just tell him to go easy on the invites. I don't want to wake up the next day to a fucked up house." I shrug.
He nods and types the reply. "I never thought I'd see the day you'd ditch post-game beers," he says, slipping his phone into his back pocket.
I shrug again, uncapping my Gatorade to take a sip. "Priorities, man. Have to study."
He nods sarcastically as he pulls open the door and pops his head out into the hall to double-check that Coach is still in his room. When he walks out, he starts to close the door but pops his head back in quickly, his gaze falling to the phone in my hands.
