She just stared at him.
“Now. I’ll be discussing your behavior with Ms. Cook when she comes back. You’re out of line, so far out you can’t even see the line anymore. Get your stuff and stay out of the gym until you’re due to report back to the training room this evening, and not a minute sooner.”
“You can’t—”
“I just did.” He gave her his iciest stare, the one he reserved for court when cross-examining a witness. It was rare he needed it, but he knew it was effective. Her hand shook a little as she pulled away, and her eyes swam with unshed tears. The second she hit the parking lot, she’d be a sobbing mess, he bet.
Oh, well. He’d tried subtlety. Simpson had tried subtlety. They’d all tried to quietly and kindly brush off her advances. When that didn’t work, it was time for plan B.
Huffing her way to her large pink tote bag, she grabbed it and threw it over her shoulder, stomping her way to the gym entrance and up the stairs before shoving her way through the door to the parking lot. The second it closed behind her, Simpson heaved a sigh and slumped a bit.
“Thanks, man.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, his dark face flushed with embarrassment. “She just . . . wouldn’t leave.”
Graham clapped the man on the shoulder and shook a little. “I know you wanted to be nice about it, and you’re not the kind of guy who takes pleasure in hurting someone’s feelings. But with that one, you can’t be subtle. We’ve all tried it, and it doesn’t work. Be firm next time. ‘Sorry, Nikki, I don’t want to lead you on. I’m not interested.’”
“Easy for you to say,” he muttered, looking down at shoes. “She doesn’t hit on you.”
Probably because she realized from the start it was a lost cause. She’d chosen the younger guys to work on more. She was a viper.
“You’ve done your duty, so you won’t be in the gym alone again anytime soon. Stick in groups. Do as the antelope do and form a herd against the lion.” Or rather, lioness.
That made the younger man laugh, and he went back to sit down. Graham sat nearby, playing on his phone a little, debating texting Kara and leaving her a message for when she checked her phone between classes.
When Coach Cartwright entered fifteen minutes later, he walked straight for them instead of heading to the coaching office. “Either of you boys drive a blue Camry?”
“Yeah, me.” Graham reached for his bag, automatically digging for his keys. “I didn’t do something stupid like leave my dome light on, did I?”
“No . . . that’s not the problem.” The man’s grim face said it all. “Better come check it out.”
Simpson jumped up beside him. “How bad could it be? You haven’t even been here an hour. What . . . oh, shit.”
Yeah. Oh, shit just about covered it.
Wainwright stood, thumbs tucked in the hooks of his jeans. “I’m guessing you didn’t drive here with that brick through your windshield.”
“Son of a bitch.” Graham stood for a moment, shocked to see the brick sticking half in, half out of his windshield. The glass had spiderwebbed across the entire width, but the shatterproof material had kept the brick from going through completely. He looked around, but what the hell did he expect to find? A crazy brick-wielding cartoon villain dancing around the parking lot, waiting to be found and cackling maniacally? Whoever did this threw it and ran like hell. No questions asked.
Even as he scanned the parking lot, he noted his car had been the only one to be nailed. Everyone else’s was safe. He walked up to the car, carefully watching his step to avoid stepping on any glass, if there was any. But it looked as though the windshield had done its job.
“Why didn’t it go all the way through? Even with the type of glass it’s made of, you throw a brick hard enough, it would go through. They’re shatter resistant, but not shatterproof.”
“Maybe they lost their grip throwing it,” Simpson suggested.
“Maybe they’re huge pussies and throw like a three-year-old,” Cartwright muttered. “Call the MPs, son,” he told Simpson. “Get in there and grab your personals, Sweeney. Documents and all that junk. Anything you don’t want heading to the mechanic when this bad boy gets towed.”
It was still locked, so he had to use his key fob to unlock it. As he reached for the door handle, he froze. Not only had the fucker tossed a brick at his car, but he’d been keyed as well. Jagged scrapes ran down the driver’s side. “Son of a bitch. If it’s not one thing . . .”
He gingerly picked around the few shards of glass that had come loose from the now-flimsy window, opening compartments and searching for anything he wouldn’t want to lose. Who the fuck was crazy enough to throw a brick through—or mostly through—his window? And had it been aimed directly at him, or simply another bit of vandalism for the team in general, with his car being the unlucky one?