𝙂𝙊𝘼𝙇𝙎 | blue lock

𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻

"An offer."

As soon as those two words left Ego's speaker (?), you picked up your pace toward his dreaded office. As much as you did not want to be in there, you really couldn't help but be curious as to what he was talking about. What could your coach possibly want to give you?

What if I'm getting laid off? Oh my god. I have a wife and kids at home! How am I supposed to support them now? The mortgage!

Nah. Luckily, you had not hit your midlife crisis—yet. If anything, you could just leech off Ego. You deserve some sort of payment for doing this shit, anyway.

You creaked open his door, proceeding to slam it shut behind you. He turned around in his godawful chair and flung your phone toward you without a second thought. 

"Hey!" you yelled as you scrambled to catch it, clutching it close to your chest once you did. Who the fuck just throws around someone else's phone?! It was the first time you'd seen it in weeks, a connection to the outside world, and yet it's safety was already being risked. 

He raised his eyebrow in disapproval, "Go outside and call him. He has not stopped ringing that goddamn thing all morning."

"Alright..." you replied skeptically, turning on your heel to shut the door behind you. You weren't sure why your coach would be this eager about something. He'd said before he had something to tell you, but he'd been quite nonchalant. A bit weird.

You held the phone up toward your face so it could scan it, but the lock symbol just shook instead of opening the device. With a sigh, you pulled it down for a second before placing it back in front of your face, features on full display once again. Again, the phone didn't unlock and you had to but down so hard on your bottom lip you could almost taste the metallic tinge of blood.

Goddamn this stupid technology. What happened to the days people used pay-phones? Damn phones, they were most definitely why you hadn't been outside in weeks and were severely deficient in vitamin D.

I really do sound like a have a fucking mortgage.

After a moment to collect yourself and manage not to fling your phone against the wall, you relaxed and let it scan your profile once more. By the grace of everything good in the world (Anri), the phone unlocked and you were able to see the fifteen missed calls from your coach. The old man was desperate at this point.

You rung his number, barely having to wait two seconds before it picked up.

"Hello, [Surname]," he greeted stiffly.

Oh god. You couldn't tell if he was pissed or excited, meaning this conversation could either go great or very, very south. "Heeeeeeeeey. Why'd you need to call me so bad?" you asked carefully.

He sighed heavily on the other side of the line, his new tone of voice much lighter than before, "Ah! How come it took so many tries for you to answer, kiddo?"

The floor almost caved in with the amount of tension that was released from your body in that moment. So he didn't call to 'offer' me punishment for doing something stupid. You patted your back lightly for that one. One jail free card for [Name]. 

You laughed softly, "Ego doesn't let me have my phone. All my adoring fans must miss my social media presence so much."

"They don't," he answered flatly.

"Oh."

"No, they're just confused as to why that don't see stupid things like 'why do people talk about watching paint dry like it's a bad thing?' on their timelines anymore."