Gimme Everything You Got - Iva-Marie Palmer Page 0,12

with uncertainty, like they were rabbits that might hop away.

I nudged mine, but I must have done it too hard because it jumped five feet in front of me. I ran toward it and almost tripped over it. When I got my bearings, I started toeing the ball more gingerly, realizing I could make it down the field if I went slowly. I felt like an old woman but at least I was staying upright; a few girls around me had fallen on their asses. But how did people do this and still see where they were going?

Bobby blew his whistle. “Wait, wait! We’re going to start with something else!”

He ran toward us and stopped in front of me. He flipped my ball up from the ground with the top of his foot, catching it as he smiled at me. A special smile, I thought. “Starting slow like that’s okay, a good way to get used to finding the ball,” he said, just to me.

I felt dizzy with his attention. Tina poked me in the ribs when I returned to the line. “Need to catch your breath, Suzie Q?”

“Shh,” I said, because Bobby was looking at all of us apologetically.

“I shouldn’t have started you with dribbling. It’s tough if you haven’t played before,” he said, and I could tell that in his world, dribbling wasn’t tough. “We’ll get to ball handling”—someone giggled—“but why don’t we start out with some calisthenics instead? How about fifty jumping jacks?”

A chorus of incredulous voices answered back, “Fifty?”

“Did you say fifty or fifteen?” Candace asked.

“Fifty,” he said, grinning, his whistle balanced at the corner of his mouth. With his bottom lip, he lifted it and blew.

Jumping jacks were easy for me, and I guess for Tina, who didn’t even break a sweat. And Candace’s tape must have been working because she kept going, too. But after a few minutes, some girls gave up—they didn’t just stop jumping, they left the field. We were down to about fifty people now.

“Good!” Bobby said when we were done. “Now push-ups, at least fifteen. Feel free to put your knees on the ground if that makes it a little easier.”

“It would be easier if you did them and we watched,” I heard Joanie Fox, a sophomore, say under her breath.

“What was that?” Bobby asked.

“I said, you got it,” Joanie said.

Push-ups were harder. Candace, next to me, was panting after doing three. I felt terrible for her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. You should do extra, though,” she huffed. “You . . . might . . . grow . . . some . . . tits.” Her face was so red, she looked like the devil when she grinned.

After a few more, Candace sat back on her knees and adjusted her T-shirt, which had ridden up, before getting back into position to finish. Tina and I eked out our last push-ups—my arms felt like chewed gum by the end—then sat up. I was sweating, but I tried to look unfazed as I bent my legs up in front of me and looped my arms around them, like I was posing for Seventeen’s back-to-school issue. I wanted to be worthy of Bobby’s admiration, but not look like I was angling for it.

Some of the other girls were murmuring complaints to each other, deciding whether to stick around, and others were silent and sullen. None of us had talked about what we expected from tryouts, but that was probably because none of us had tried out for a sport before.

It was clear Bobby was just getting started, too, as he waited for us finish and consulted a clipboard. He stood in front of us; our eyes were level with his shorts. I forced myself to watch some kids playing on the swings instead of staring at his crotch.

“Good work,” he said. “We’ve got forty survivors, I see. Impressive. Okay. As your coach, I can teach you plays, but no one can teach you speed and endurance, which is what soccer is all about. Give me ten laps, from that tree to the fence to the bike path to the playground.”

A collective groan went up among us. “I’m not Rocky. I’m out of here,” Lynn Bandis said, getting to her feet and strutting away like she thought Bobby would beg her to stay. I was glad he didn’t. “You coming, Marie?” She turned around to look at her friend, and Marie gave Lynn a long look, as if by not bailing on tryouts, too,