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“I’m your daddy on the field, bitch.”
I was annoyed with myself for being the kind of person who cried when angry. I wanted to be a shouter. A shouter was much better than a crier.
“Give me a name,” Johnny growled, dropping his hands to his hips. “And I’ll take care of it.” “What—no! I’m grand,” I quickly replied. “I have allergies.” “Me too. To assholes and bullshit,” Johnny snarled. “Now, tell me who made you cry and I’ll fix it.”

