(A/N) Hey guys, sorry for the delay with this chapter, and for the delay with our updates of late. Came down with a touch of the 'flu a few weeks ago, and unfortunately it took hold pretty bad. Feeling better now though, and am slowly getting back into editing and updating, so updates should hopefully pick up in pace from here on out!
Also, for those that are looking forward to Lazer Team coming out (if you keep up with Rooster Teeth's productions), they've announced some of the cast list, and it's pretty awesome! So hyped for that film, and I hope you're all just as hyped for this chapter, which I'm going to leave you to now without further ado!
Enjoy!
Chapter Fifty – The Board Can See You Now
Coach Anderson
Written by NicKenny
"Let them think what they liked, but I didn't mean to drown myself. I meant to swim till I sank - but that's not the same thing."
― Joseph Conrad, The Secret Sharer and Other Stories
Anderson paced outside the room where the Board of Directors had just begun their meeting, waiting impatiently for them to call him in, already knowing that this wasn't going to be one of those ten-minute meetings where he's given a pat on the back and congratulated on the team's performance.
After all, the last few weeks had been far from rosy.
He feel the receptionist staring at him in irritation, as she was interrupted time and time again from her paperwork by his continual just-under-his-breath muttering, and his constant, unending shuffling from one side of the room to the other. Sighing to himself, and realising that his pacing wasn't helping, he sat down in one of the nearby chairs and grimaced in apology at the receptionist.
She ducked her head down slightly, apparently embarrassed that Anderson had noticed her irritation, and buried her nose into her paperwork. Smirking slightly at her embarrassment, Anderson turned to the stack of magazines next to him and began to leaf through an issue of Space.
He couldn't get comfortable, though, as the chair was all metal, glass and sharp corners, and he continually shifted restlessly in his spot, leafing through the magazine aimlessly, barely taking in the information as his eyes scanned over the pages. To be honest, he was surprised magazines were still present in this day and age - how long ago had print media been declared dead, and the internet had taken over? Of course, after the Z6C bug, it wasn't that much of a surprise that people turned back to the previously defunct genre, and revived it. Ink and paper after all, weren't going to try to kill you.
It's the damn suit, he couldn't help thinking sourly, the itchy fabric near-unbearable against his skin. He knew he couldn't meet the Board in his usual attire, but why couldn't formal clothes be more comfortable? As a man who had sent most of his life either in jeans or in sweats – or armour – and slacks were simply something that he couldn't imagine ever getting used to, no matter how long he managed Grifball teams.
He had to wait for over an hour before the phone rang next to the receptionist, who answered it, looked up at him with a no-doubt long-practiced smile, and informed him that the Board would see him now. He stood up, self-consciously dusting the hated suit off, and nodded to her with a smile before pushing through the two huge doors, entering the Boardroom.
The Board sat before him, Brian Sadler seated at the very top of the long table, as the Chairman of the Board. A seat had been left empty for him near the end, and he settled down into it when Sadler signalled for him to take the seat.
"So, Mr Anderson, before we begin: have you anything to say for yourself?"
Anderson's grip on the armrests of his chair tightened somewhat, but he was used to Sadler's brusque, overly-aggressive way of speaking, and he just leant back in his seat slightly, his face impassive.
"Without knowing the context of why I've been called here, Mr Sadler, I'm afraid I can't comment."
A series of murmurs broke out across the table, as Board members leant across to mutter to each other, and Anderson already felt his heart begin to sink. The Board were looking for a fight, that much he could sense already, and Sadler's face clearly demonstrated it as it set into a frown at Anderson's words.
"Of course," the Chairman said slowly, his brows knotting together. "I'm sure it's difficult for you to ascertain which one thing we've called you in for, after the past few weeks."
Ah, multiple things then. Well, isn't the next hour just going to be a joy?
Anderson kept these thoughts to himself, however, waiting in silence for Sadler to say whatever he had to say. In his experience, that was usually the best policy to take. Trying to make excuses or to protest just gave them the power. This way he maintained the chance to counter.
"We're going to look over the current…debacle with two of our new players – Miss Rush and Miss Thompson – as we believe that their private life should remain just that. However, in the future we would like you to maintain greater control over your players, and the hope that you would encourage them to be more sensible in how the handle their affairs. After all, this kind of negative publicity does not tarnish only their own reputations, but also Rampancy's as a whole."
Anderson felt the need to break in here, before allowing the Chairman to utter anything further.
"So you believe that homosexuality will be something that will 'tarnish' our reputations? Isn't that just a little twentieth century, sir?"
Sadler merely sighed, and shook his head, as the other Board members shifted uncomfortably in their seats. "Of course not, Mr Anderson, that is the last thing on my mind. However, I think we've reached the point where having a photograph taken of yourself in a compromising position is not easily dismissible to a moment of stupidity. Actions have consequences, and when you're in the public spotlight, the stakes are inevitably raised."
Anderson inclined his head stiffly, accepting his rebuke. After all, it was nothing that he hadn't expressed to the team himself already. However, their expectation that he could somehow 'control' what his players did rankled him. They were grown men and women – he could threaten and cajole them, but at the end of the day, he couldn't stop them if they were set on doing something stupid. All he could do was try to pick up the pieces afterwards, and, coming to think about it, didn't they have a PR team to handle this kind of shit?
"And the other matters?" he asked, remembering the emphasis Sadler had placed on "one" earlier, still tensed, waiting with a quiet, sullen sense of expectation.
There was brief murmuring around the table, and Sadler glanced to one of the other members of the Board – a short, balding man with thick-rimmed spectacles, dressed in a crisp, expensive-looking ash suit – who cleared his throat uncomfortably.
Anderson turned to him, his eyebrows knotting together. His name was Ian Tyrell, and he was a highly successful investment banker from Reach. That was pretty much all that Anderson knew about him, and he wasn't sorry about that. He tried to keep clear of the Board as a matter of principle – the less he had to do with them, in his opinion, the better.
Tyrell shuffled the papers in front of himself for a moment, before looking up at Anderson and meeting his gaze. "Not to beat around the bush," he began, in a clipped tone that bore a trace of a Hungarian accent, "but we're displeased with the recent run of results. The loss against Droppods was simply the final straw."
The coach rolled his eyes, something that was clearly noticed by Tyrell, whose eyes tightened slightly in response, and his tone grew sharper.
"Our current positions in both the league and cup are, quite frankly, unacceptable. With the loss to Droppods, it seems highly unlikely that we'll progress to the knock-out stages, and that, quite naturally, is a big problem. The amount of money involved in television and advertising deals for those matches is imperative to the successful management of this club. Without it, we start to face real problems in regards to our financing. If Rampancy's form continues down this path, we will–"
"You will what?" Coach Anderson said coolly, interrupting. "You'll fire me?"
He laughed – a dark, humourless action, which brought the tension in the room to an even more tangible level.
"I'm sorry," he continued, smiling grimly. "Forgive me if I fail to take threats of that kind seriously. If you really believed that there was someone out there who could do this job better than I can, they'd be the one standing here, and not me. The fact is that I'm the only person that can do this, and I know you all know that, so let's cut the crap and get to the point."
He took a deep breath, and took a moment to look each separate Board member in the eye.
"Our results lately haven't been great – I accept that. However, you've all got to accept that we've lost several players from last season, and the ones that we have brought it – while extremely talented – are still relatively wet around the ears. We're still a work in progress, and our full potential still is far from being reached at this moment. However, our results will improve, that I can guarantee you all. I'm just asking you to have some patience."
Looking around and suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious, he shrugged and tilted his head slightly to the left. "After all the years I've given to this team, is that really so much to ask for?"
Anderson walked through the streets of downtown Austin, his Rampancy cap pulled down firmly over his head and his collar turned up, successfully disguising his features. At least, that's what he reckoned, and no one stopped him to ask for an autograph or to take a picture with him, which certainly would have happened if anyone had recognised him.
Grifball was a big-money sport, after all, and Austin were firmly behind Rampancy. There had been many times that Anderson had thanked his lucky stars for the way in which the city, or rather, the people living in the city, championed the team, sticking with them through thick and thin, but there had been just as many times when their ferocious fanaticism had worn him down.
Now, certainly, was not a time for meeting and greeting fans. Now was a time to keep out of sight, and out of mind. Thankfully, years of celebrity had made Coach Anderson very, very good at avoiding notice when he wanted to, and now was no exception. To all those around him, he was just another person, of no significance to their everyday lives. Of course, not that he really was anyway, but Grifball really mattered to some people, and who was he to turn away their hero-worship.
After all, he had to put up with all the abuse that came with the job.
City life went on about him unperturbed, and he took solace in it, looking around as a man ran to catch up with a bus, failed, and was then soaked in brown, muddied water as a car flew by, running through the growing puddle at the edge of the road. The man's furious cursing began to die down as Anderson walked away, shivering slightly beneath his coat as the misty breeze cut through him, beginning to soak through his coat with a worrying speed.
He picked up pace, though his heat sank lower and lower the further he travelled, and his growing depression wasn't entirely due to the weather. He couldn't even bring it into his heart to be angry with Sadler and the other Directors, because their complaints had merit. And what was worse, while he may have made a good plea before the Board, he really didn't know how he was going to fix Rampancy's problems.
If they would only listen to him – but no, that wasn't the problem. His players always listened to him, growing silent when he spoke, nodding away throughout, the information going swiftly through one ear, and then, just as swiftly, out the other. They respected him, they trusted him – to some extent, at least – but they weren't going to do what he told them to, oh no, not if they knew better. Forget the fact that, whatever their beliefs, all of their problems had been experienced by other people in the past, by other Rampancy players, and that, if they would let him, he could help them.
But no, they were all determined to sort out their own problems, and that determination only grew stronger the deeper a hole they dug for themselves.
He sighed as he walked by a building covered in UNSC recruitment posters, beginning to peel at the edges, underneath the fluctuating rain and scorching sun. He glanced at them sullenly, before turning away, burdened by enough uncomfortable thoughts at the moment, and not willing to take that dark road through memory lane. Right at this moment, as hard as it was to admit to himself, he just didn't know what to do. And even worse, he didn't know if he'd ever know what to do.
He sighed again and shrugged that thought away as he caught sight of the building that served as his destination, he glanced around wearily, satisfying himself that he wasn't being followed. Discretion is the better part of valour, and whatnot, he thought, butchering the proverb, before ducking underneath the rain sheet above the entrance, framed beneath the bright pink neon sign, proclaiming the name of the building – The Tabernacle – to all those before it.
He paused outside the entrance, his fingers twitching slightly, looking around somewhat uncomfortably at the other people walking in and out, before shaking his head slightly, sighing, and marching in.
