Gimme Everything You Got - Iva-Marie Palmer Page 0,37

I came up to his shoulder.

“May you what?” I turned my head back to look at him.

“Like, put you in a good position? I don’t want to just grab you.” He put his hands up like he wanted to show me what he’d be using to touch me.

“Yeah,” I said. I thought of some of the romance novels I read, like Captive Bride, where the hero grabbed the woman all the time. I liked those parts, but it was nice to be asked, too. Especially because for Joe and me, it clarified that we were friends, even if he was a constant flirt.

He put a hand on each side of my waist and gently nudged me so I was at a slight angle. Then he got on the ground and moved my nonkicking foot so it was even with the ball and about a foot away from it. I was glad I’d shaved my legs.

“That’s your place foot,” he said, looking up at me. “Your body points toward the goal, not away. Then look up for a split second, see the goal and where you want to go. Do you see it?”

I nodded.

“Now, give the ball your full attention as you pull back and nail it. Use the inside edge of your foot—that’ll give you the most control.” He was still on the ground as he said this, and I was pretty sure Bobby had demonstrated something similar and I’d been focused on his butt and not the lesson. How much better I’d be at soccer if my coach wasn’t hot wasn’t even a question I could answer.

Joe sprang up from his crouch and nodded his head toward the goal. “Wanna try?”

I was already in position, so I let out a breath and said, “Yeah.”

“Okay, think about where you want to go and go there.”

I looked at the net and thought how Wendy and Dawn had both let by kicks into the bottom corners. I had a feeling those goals were as much about Wendy and Dawn being inexperienced goalies as about anyone on our field calling her shots, but if I could call a shot, how cool would that be?

I drew back and gave the ball a nice solid kick with the inside of my cleat. It cleared the grass, hurtling fast, and hit the back of the net—not the corner, but close.

“Yes!” I screamed. Even though I’d made goals standing still before, this felt different, as if being more intentional made the result more exciting. I wished the goal had made a noise like a pinball machine.

“Nice one, champ. So if you’ve got it”—he moved to stand in the goal—“now try to get one by me.”

“Already?”

“You’re ready.”

I did everything the same way, bringing the ball down the field toward the goal. But even though my kicks were better when I got into position, it was obvious I wasn’t going to get the ball past Joe. He moved way too fast, seeming to anticipate where the ball would go before I even kicked. He shot out a leg here, or an arm there, knocking away anything that came close.

“You weren’t kidding about the long arms and legs. But also, do you have, like, Spidey senses? How do you always know where I’m going to kick it?”

“Goalie secret.” He smirked.

“I don’t think I’m going to get one by you,” I told him.

“Not today, anyway,” he agreed. I pouted, but I had to admit I liked the fact that Joe wasn’t going to give me a goal. Other boys might have, and in a way that would let me know they were doing it to be nice because it was “cute” that I played. I thought about Bobby, and what he’d said about his dad and brothers after he was so rough on us at practice.

I really wanted another lesson. Fortunately, as Joe hefted his cones and tossed me the ball to carry, he said, “I have my car, so I can drive you back—and I can pick you up next time, if you want.”

“Next time?” I was relieved he’d said it again and I didn’t have to ask.

“Yeah, you’re not yet wise in the ways of the Force,” he said. “. . . Sorry, have you seen Star Wars?”

“Sure, but what, you’re Obi-Wan now, and I’m Luke?”

“I retain my claim to higher-ranking Jedi until you get a ball past me,” he said, stopping at the curb next to his car. “But anyway, the big thing you need to learn is,