I hug myself tighter. “What about Knox?”
“What about him?” He scowls. “You chat him up about this too?”
I shake my head miserably. “You’re on his list.”
“What list?”
Oh shit. He doesn’t know. Knox didn’t say anything to him? I close my eyes briefly, gather up what little composure I have left. “He’s got a list of players to check up on. You were on it and I said I’d do it for him.”
“I’m on a fucking watch list?” He starts pacing. “Oh hell, Ellie. You have to break up with him.”
“Why?” I shouldn’t be surprised. I knew it was coming, but it’s still not a blow I’m ready to take.
“Coach Lowe finds out Masters let you do the checking up and he’ll be on Knox’s ass so hard.”
It’s good that Coach Lowe supports me. If he didn’t, I guess I wouldn’t get to go early. I think the scouts rely on his assessment. He’s said I’m mature enough to go early and that I can handle the extra responsibilities.
Jack nods grimly at my moan. “Coach could even think Masters was in on it with you.”
My breath halts at Jack’s words. Because Knox and I are sleeping together, because we’re a couple, Knox could be tainted by my actions. Coach could take away Knox’s captaincy. Scouts will start whispering about his lack of character and he could drop down the draft ranks faster than a concrete block in the pool.
“Oh God.” I cover my mouth. “I’m sorry Jack. I’m sorry for everything.”
“Let’s go. I need to tell Coach. I might need to start sitting out games immediately.”
“You’re going now?” I don’t feel prepared for this. I was only ready to talk to Jack, not tell the world.
“Better get it done with. If I play a game and I’m not eligible, then that win might get taken away.” He guns the engine. There’s so much bitterness in his voice. I wonder if he’ll ever forgive me.
“I’m going with you.”
29
Ellie
We argue about it the entire way over to the athletic center, but I tell Jack if he doesn’t let me come with him, I’ll show up anyway. In the end, he gives in. He tries to lecture me on how it’ll all unfold, with him taking the blame and me standing there like an extra piece lettuce on the side that no one wants to eat.
“Hey, Coach,” Jack calls out tentatively as we approach the open door to Coach Lowe’s office. It’s a spacious one, with a desk bigger than my bed back at the dorm room. Lowe himself isn’t much taller than me, and as fit as any one of his players. He has a full head of gray hair and a solemn look on his lined face.
“Come in, Jack.” He gestures for us to have a seat. The two chairs in front of his desk are spartan—all wood and not a speck of cushion. That’s saved for the brown leather tufted sofa, with its back against a wall decorated with plaques, and the big chair behind his desk.
I take one seat, but Jack remains standing, his fingers hooked around the back of the wooden chair. So I stand back up too.
“Coach, this is my sister, Eliot Campbell.”
Coach Lowe’s hand feels dry as dust and I try hard not to give him a limp wristed shake in return. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“What’s this all about?” Coach Lowe rounds the desk and takes a seat, gesturing for us once again to sit down. His voice is laden with suspicion, which it should be because a player doesn’t show up on Sunday afternoon introducing his sister for shits and giggles. Jack remains standing and so I do too.
Before Jack can open his mouth, I answer Coach Lowe. “I asked Jack to bring me here to tell you that I’ve helped him, unofficially and without him knowing, for years. And by helped, I mean, I’ve done some of his work for him.”
Jack tries to interrupt me. “No. This is not all on Ellie. I should have known what was going on, and I was too happy, passing classes that I probably shouldn’t have passed, so I didn’t question it.”
“No. Jack didn’t know anything about it.” I protest. “It was all my idea.”
“Oh, Mom had nothing to do with it?” Jack raises a furious eyebrow.
Coach Lowe whistles, and Jack and I shut our mouths quick.
“The both of you sit down,” Coach Lowe snaps. The authority in his voice acts like a whip and we both race to take a seat.
“Now I want you to start from the beginning and go slow.” He points at Jack. “Your sister first.”
“Where’s the beginning?” I ask. “From when Jack and I started here at Western or before?”
“How long have you been helping?” His emphasis on the word indicates he knows exactly the type of help I’m talking about.
I lick my dry lips. “Eighth grade.”
Jack makes an uncomfortable sound. This has to be terrible for him, and I hate that I’m here, talking about his troubles in front of someone he respects a great deal. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his head dip forward as if his shame weighs him down.
Coach Lowe steeples his fingers together and looks thoughtfully at the both of us.