Mr. Fiancé(90)

Shit. "You can't. I'll sue you for defamation of character."

Coach laughs again, like I've just told the funniest joke in the world. "Sue me? Duncan, first, you'd have to prove that I did actually reveal any information, and there are so many sources out there. The reality is that for three years now, I've been covering for you, not revealing anything about you."

Like that matters. "Yeah, just like every other coach around college ball. You guys get a player with my talent, and you bend over backward to make sure we stay eligible and putting cash in your pockets. How much is that Nike endorsement contract the team signed last year worth to you? Half a million a year?"

"That contract is written with the knowledge that players like you come in and fade out. There are some who have a good year, then shit happens," Coach counters, still smiling a little smile that disturbs me. Maybe Bainridge knows something more than I do. “By the way, I know you had that agency do an evaluation of your potential draft position over the summer, and I know the results. Coming off the chips in your elbow, and as a tight end, regardless if you have good speed and hands for that position and can play slot, you were looking at nothing higher than a third-round pick in April's draft, weren't you?"

Damn, Coach knows more about me than I thought. Talking with an agent like that is technically against the rules, although I never signed any contract with them, so there's nothing that can be proven. "Something like that."

Bainridge nods and continues. "But if you put up good numbers this year, you've got a chance at a first- or second-round pick, which doubles or even triples the money you get on that rookie contract. I know you don't give a fuck about the money—you care about the fame and your reputation. Being some third-round scrub pick is nothing. Being a first- or second-rounder though, you come with expectations and a greater potential of fame. You think you're the first egotistical prick I've had to deal with in twenty years of being a head coach?"

Of course I don't. It was one of the reasons I picked Western. I knew that Bainridge ran a program that produced League-level players nearly every year. He'd just had a dry spell, and there were whispers that maybe he'd lost his touch as a recruiter, that he was getting too old to keep up with the modern game. Not that I cared. I cared that Western got a minimum of nine games a year nationally televised. "You covered for the other guys."

"Of course I did. You're right. But I also demanded at least a modicum of professionalism from each of them. Which meant that I overlooked their poofty, underwater basket-weaving major schedules, the girlfriends that got stacked two and three deep at times, the parties, the drunken frat antics, all of it . . . IF they showed up and did their jobs for the team and produced on the field. Now, I will admit you've been a tougher nut to crack than most of the others. I could hold their scholarships over their heads. But I know what drives you, Duncan. I take away your ability to get fame, and you're stuck. So that's what I'm holding over you. You either get with the program, or some of the front offices in the League get anonymous but easily verified reports about your antics during the past four years."

Fucking asshole. But he has me over a rock. "What do you want?"

"I talked with Coach Taylor. He says you've been avoiding coming down for a rehab."

"Of course. That meathead can't tell me what to do." When I say meathead about Coach Dave Taylor, that is exactly what I mean too. The guy has a neck larger than his head and seems to think that the cure for everything is squats and deadlifts. If he got an AIDS diagnosis, he'd probably go do some power cleans to cure it.

Bainridge doesn't agree with my opinion. Nothing new there. "Actually, he can. In fact, he's got a PhD in kinesiology and rehabs more athletes in a year than some strength coaches and trainers rehab in a lifetime. So here's the deal. For your own damn good, I'm ordering you to go down to the weight room tomorrow as soon as your last class is finished. When is that?"

"Two," I grumble, knowing if I lied, Bainridge would just look it up anyway. He gets that information from the registrar's office every semester. "So three?"

"Two thirty," Bainridge counters. "Coach Taylor has an offseason lift with the volleyball team scheduled to start at three, and I won't let some prima donna player of mine screw with his schedule. So you get your ass down there by two thirty, and you talk with him. I don't care if he wants you to sleep in the weight room and do wind sprints before breakfast. You do them, and you do them exactly according to protocol. If he says walk, you walk. If he says run so hard you puke, you’d better bring a bucket."