"Coach?"
With a hint of grogginess, an older man with a thick mustache awoke, looking around with calm, narrowed eyes.
When Coach Owen saw Leonel looking over him, he blinked.
"Son of a bitch. You died too, kid? And what the hell is with that hairdo, you look like a dyke."
Leonel pinched the bridge of his nose. Whenever his coach had a sip to drink, all his political correctness went out the window. It was as though he didn't know you weren't allowed to say that kind of stuff. And, apparently, his almost dying had the same effect as a shot of whisky.
Leonel slapped his coach's chest, knocking a bit of wind out of his sails.
"Hey, hey! What the hell are you doing, brat?! Can't you see I'm lying here?! If you're mad, go dye it black like a real man!"
Aina sputtered with laughter, unable to hold it back anymore.
"Huh?" Coach Owen looked over. "… Well, at least the angels are beautiful."
