like the ones Joe had said he was making for his band. I set out for Sportmart.
I was headed inside the store when I saw a familiar butt. Bobby’s. He was hanging one of his Personal Best flyers on a bulletin board next to the pay phones.
“Hi, Coach,” I croaked out.
He turned around and, seeing me there, offered up a big smile. “Hi, Susan,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
I wanted to impress him, so saying I was here to get a shirt to wreck for a punk show wasn’t the right answer.
“I . . . I’m looking for gear to get better at soccer,” I said, but hearing how dumb my words sounded, I added, “Last night, I sort of challenged the St. Mark’s team to a game. We play a week from today.”
“Wait, what?” Bobby set the stapler he was holding on top of the pay phone and let out a breath. “St. Mark’s? You mean the private school?”
I nodded.
He squinted. “Are you sure the team is ready for that? They’re really good.”
He didn’t say, “They’re boys.” Joe hadn’t, either.
“I think we’re good, too,” I said. I waited for some kind of game-show buzzer to sound, signaling, “You’re wrong, dumbass!” But my statement floated to Bobby, uninterrupted.
“You’re right,” he said. “But gear isn’t what will make the difference. Training is.” He used his thumb to point backward at the sign he’d just hung.
“Maybe, since I’m not going to end up buying gear, you could show me how that works?”
“I don’t have a client right now,” he said. “Maybe I can show you my setup and we can figure out how we’re going to prepare for this game.”
“That would be great,” I said.
“Okay, let’s go,” he said. We headed out to the parking lot, and between his shorts and my track pants, people probably thought we were a couple with a devotion to physical fitness.
We got into his car, and as he started it, he turned to me and said, “You just need to promise me one thing.”
Anything, I wanted to say in response to his dark, hopeful eyes. “Sure,” I said instead.
“If you think the workout is helpful, tell me, because I’ll fight to get the team some time in the school weight room.”
“Okay,” I said, flattered that he thought my input was valuable. “That’s it?”
He let out a long breath. “Maybe one other thing. . . . Please keep this game quiet. It’s not that I don’t think you should play, but I’m a little worried that if the school gets wind of it, the administration might intervene, or it could threaten the team.”
I hadn’t thought of that when I’d thrown the gauntlet down with Ken.
We drove to his duplex, which was on Mansfield, as Dana Miller had told us. He hopped out of the car and opened the side door to an attached garage. As I followed him up the driveway, I tried to peer into the residence part of the duplex. Seeing Bobby’s things would give me insight. Maybe there were markers that would clue me in to what kind of man Bobby was when he wasn’t coaching. Or at least clues to how much sex he had. His curtains were closed, though.
The inside of the garage was brightly lit, with no dead leaves or dust or junk littered in the corners like every other garage I’d ever been in. Instead of concrete, the floor was covered in carpet remnants that were mismatched but obviously vacuumed regularly. On a shelf was a stereo and next to it a calendar with names and appointment times filled in on a few dates.
Bobby gestured grandly at the neat, piecemeal gym. “This is it. Personal Best Training,” he said. “For now.”
“It’s nice,” I said.
On the wall behind us were posters of the human body stripped of skin to show all the muscles. Bobby started to explain each muscle group, how they functioned separately and as a system, how strengthening them in a focused and safe way would enhance my game, and my whole life. I was trying to take it all in, but it was difficult to pay attention. I felt just like I had that night at the motel. It was hard not to admire Bobby even more when he talked about what he loved. He almost glowed as he told me about clients who’d never imagined the potential their bodies had. Normally, him saying something like that would make me instantly think of the potential our