Christ… am I getting old? How is that appealing now rather than going clubbing?
In fairness, I’ve never been much for clubs. Or bar hopping. I’ve always been an old soul, I guess.
I suppose that could translate into utterly boring. Maybe that’s why Jenna blew me off the other night.
Stop. Thinking. About. Her.
“Excuse me,” a man says, and I turn to see a family standing there. Mom, dad, and two little girls, and fuck me… they’re wearing my jersey. “Would you mind taking a picture with our daughters?”
I never mind when fans ask for photos. Not when they come this pint-sized and adorable. “I’d be glad to.” I slide off my stool and squat before the girls. “And what are your names?”
They smile shyly, but the taller one answers, “I’m Emma, and that’s my sister, Eva.”
“You’re wearing my jersey,” I note as I stand up.
“Daddy says you’re the best,” Emma says. “I wanted a Highsmith jersey, though.”
“Coen Highsmith is a great player,” I say.
“Not anymore,” Emma replies solemnly. “Daddy says he’s washed up already.”
I don’t know whether to laugh. Coen is by no means washed up.
He’s absolutely fucked in the head, but he’s still got mad skills and talent. I glance at the father who refuses to meet my eyes as he readies his phone to take our picture.
I move between the girls, bending down to get in the frame with them. I then snap a selfie with the entire family, taking the phone from the dad, since my reach is longer than his, to get us all in.
Just as I’m handing him back his phone, I hear men yelling near the front of the bar, louder than the regular din of patron chatter.
I glance that way and see Coen grappling with another man who has his arm around Coen’s neck. Coen is trying his best to break free.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, shoving the phone back at the father.
I head that way, pushing through patrons crowding in. Coen pulls his right arm back and lands two hard punches to the man’s ribs. He would’ve swung again, but bouncers jump in and pull the men apart.
The other man is hurt, holding his side, his face pinched with pain. Coen struggles against two bouncers holding him back, cursing at the man and trying to get free to go after him again.
Jesus, he’s a mess.
I reach Coen and step in front of him, cutting off his line of sight to the other man. He tries to look around me, heaving at the bouncers. I lean in to growl, “You need to calm the fuck down before you get arrested and booted off this team.”
Coen’s eyes flash with fury as his gaze comes to mine.
“Bring it down, man,” I say, again low enough that our conversation’s not heard by anyone other than the bouncers. “Walk out of here with me right now.”
Coen glances back at the man, who is fortunately being talked to by Stone. Hopefully, that will help defuse the situation further.
“I’m good,” Coen growls, going still against the bouncers. “You can get your fucking hands off me.”
They both look my way, and I give a curt nod. Warily, they release their hold on Coen who swipes his hand through his hair and blows out a heaving breath.
“You need to apologize and fix it to the extent he doesn’t call the cops,” I advise.
It seems as if for a few beats, Coen’s not even comprehending my advice. He looks over to the man again, perhaps noticing the way he’s got his hand pressed to his ribs and the pain in his expression. Coen almost seems surprised, and I’m wondering if he even knows he hit the man or if he blacked out from rage.
It’s not an excuse, but it does make me curious.
To my surprise, Coen moves to the guy. He’s not overly conciliatory, but he does offer what seems to be a genuine apology. Luckily, the guy accepts it, which means that real disaster—another arrest—is avoided. It would surely have guaranteed Coen’s suspension for much longer than last time, perhaps for the rest of the season.
“Come on,” I say to Coen, jerking my head toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”
He follows me outside, silent, shoulders hunched. I walk into the parking lot toward my car, and when we’re far enough away from the building and any patrons, I whirl on him. “What the fuck is the matter with you?” I demand. “Are you deliberately trying to sabotage your career?”
Coen’s face flushes, his expression once again tight with anger. “Nothing’s the matter with me. That douche knocked into me purposely.”
“Oh, cut the shit,” I snarl, getting in his face. “You’re looking for trouble. Even if he knocked into you, the Coen Highsmith before the plane went down would’ve brushed it off and kept moving.”