Gimme Everything You Got - Iva-Marie Palmer Page 0,132
we were playing in front of a crowd of parents at a Catholic school.
Behind me, my teammates had burst into frenzied cheers, and even though we still had seven minutes to play, everyone poured onto the field, surrounding me and screaming.
“You did it!” Tina said.
“We did it!” I said, hugging her.
“We won!” Joanie yelled.
“Did they just say they won?” I heard a St. Mark’s defender ask one of their forwards.
“I think they did,” the forward said.
Dana threw herself at me and I grabbed her under the shoulders and tried to lift her, even though she was much taller than me and it was virtually impossible.
“I’m sorry I froze out there,” she said. “I can’t believe you kicked it at his balls.”
“It was a good play,” I told her. “I mean, I think we could work on it a bit.”
Bobby was making his way through the rest of our players, giving hugs and praise to each girl as he went. And then he was hugging me. We were at the center of the team and the world fell away and his arms were around me and he said, “I know amazing potential when I see it.”
His arms were strong and his voice was low and meaningful and I couldn’t hate him if I wanted to. I wouldn’t have felt as good as I did at that moment if it hadn’t been for him. If, back in September, I hadn’t been as horny as I was and he hadn’t been as hot, this team playing this game and having this moment right now would not exist.
I’d like to say that scoring that goal and the surge of pride and camaraderie it inspired had also elevated me to a new level of consciousness, one where desire to reach ever higher accomplishments and serve my team in new ways somehow usurped my desire to get off, or to imagine undressing Bobby. But in fact, in the crush of people, I thought how easy it would be to grab his butt, how satisfying it would be to feel it in my hands just this once. But I savored the daydream and then placed myself back in reality. Maybe his butt, like Bobby himself, was better to enjoy in my head.
“How do you feel?” Bobby asked me, holding me at arm’s length.
Like I’m still thinking about how hot you are, I thought. Like I’m so happy I got that goal, but I’m even happier I get to share it with the team, and Tina and Candace and Polly and my mom and dad. Like I plan to be horny and daydream a lot of the time but also like I want to commit to my real life more than my fantasy one. Like my mom was right, and hurt and disappointment are survivable, and risking them only makes winning feel fucking amazing—orgasmic, even. Like I wonder what Joe’s doing later. Like I’m really grateful guys like you and him exist, if only to help cancel out some Kens.
I didn’t say any of that. Instead I smiled and said, “I’m thinking that I can’t wait for next season.”
Bobby beamed. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Thirty-Eight
Once the team finally calmed down, we realized that everyone in the stands and all of St. Mark’s team were waiting on us, entirely befuddled by our celebration. The score was 24–1, and there was still time left on the clock.
But we’d made our decision at halftime, and once we had the goal, we walked off the field.
Most of us, anyway. Ken limped away from the goal, eyes shooting daggers at me. I smiled and shrugged, like “What can you do?” For once, he had nothing to say.
Mom, Polly, and Dad rushed from the bleachers to entrench me in a group hug, and it was Dad who spoke first. “Man, you’re tough,” he said. “That’s my girl.”
“I might cry,” Polly said. “Watching you girls out there was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Don’t you think, Dierdre?”
Mom nodded. “I can’t wait for the next game.”
Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to see Candace. “You were great,” she said, hugging me.
“That was amazing,” George said. “It was way better than any of our football games.”
“Thanks for saying that, George,” I said. I smiled gratefully at him, and Candace squeezed his arm and mine.
“Come Sunday for Lasagna Night, okay?” Candace said. “Tell Tina.”