Free The 90 Day Rule by Diane Nelson Page A

Coach Ryan?”
    Was that needy Jes asking about Jack and making the intellectual leap that he could have called and told her that himself because he had her dossier and paperwork and wouldn’t he want to see her again…
     Even mental run-on sentences left one breathless. Especially when they led inexorably to pit-of-stomach bad vibes.
    “Uh, yeah. We better haul ass, Jes. The lines’ll be long as it is.”
    I agreed but asked, “Will I have time to change before we see Coach Bryant?”
    Chazz checked some inner spreadsheet and shook his head no. That meant business casual, nylons and two inch soft leather, plain black shoes. I’d check into student grunge on another day. Today was dress to impress time.
    No one bothered to explain that a more sensible option would have been an investment in roller blades. And not even the morning weathergirl mentioned that the last Monday in August was going to be one of the hottest of late summer.
    Sometimes it sucks to be me.
    “Mom, take my backpack, the purple one.”
    “Thanks, Hon. I’m fine.” I adjusted the short waist suit coat and tucked the vinyl carryall under my arm.
    Following my escort for the day, I discovered that the elevator was once more out of order and that pantyhose were still the devil’s curse on womankind.
     
    Student Jes had two morning classes five days a week, one of them in economics and the other in finance. Assistant-to-Coach-Bryant Jes had a bad case of the heebie-jeebies and a total failure in personal body odor control.
    We’d walked … everywhere and back, leaving no student footpath, legal or otherwise, untrodden. Then out to the Jordan Center, twice. Even Chazz looked wrung out and peckish. We were on the last try for the day to snag Coach Bryant’s undivided attention.
    A young thing came be-bopping up, smiled shyly at Chazz, then did all but a curtsey to me.
    “Are y’all Miz Cavanaugh?”
    “Uh, yes, yes I am.”
    “Oh goody.” Goody? “Coach says y’all come on down now.”
    Chazz beamed at the Georgia peach, he couldn’t help it. She oozed cute out of every pore.
    “I’m TJ,” she stuck out a hand, “and I’ll be your tour guide for today.”
    She had a surprisingly strong handshake, one that said Fly Me with real suthin conviction. Chazz was drooling next to me, waiting for a touch. It didn’t happen. I got to liking Miss Georgia Peach TJ more by the minute.
    The youngster liked the sound of her own voice, which wasn’t a bad thing. A bit on the edge of pleasant birdsong, it had an odd soothing quality without hitting screechy soprano high notes. The problem with soothing was that it lulled the senses into missing some very pertinent details. The little dynamo was a walking Wikipedia. I made a mental note to run to Staples and buy a digital voice recorder once the funds from my bribe had cleared.
    Even Chazz’s eyes had glazed over, though that might have been from watching TJ sashay down the very long hallway.
    The girl wore sprayed-on short shorts that on anyone else would have resulted in arrests and defibs being called into service. I was just old enough to have seen the old Dukes of Hazzard television show. TJ looked a lot like Daisy Duke, but with dark ash blond curls and way more smarts.
    It was easy to see how much she impressed my daughter’s significant other with her intellect.
    God. Men.
    We finally trapped Bryant in an alternate universe, otherwise known as his office. He motioned me in and the others out.
    “Sit down. You look tuckered out, girl.”
    Gratefully I sank onto the metal folding chair, oblivious to the pantyhose doing a tuck and roll on my sweaty thighs. Giving him my most professional demeanor, I launched into my bona fides but he interrupted.
    “Nice to have fresh meat.” He stood, all six-feet-two inches, nearly two hundred and eighty pounds of don’t fuck with your defensive co-ordinator. “I see you’ve met Seimone.” He chuckled. “She don’t usually do civilian women. Guess