Kickin' It (Red Card) - Rachel Van Dyken Page 0,69

He shrugged. “I can be sensitive.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Just how sensitive are you around my sister?”

His lips twitched while Slade bit back a curse.

“Yeah, fantastic,” I grumbled. Jagger smiled and looked away because he knew I wouldn’t like his smug expression.

“Is this serious?” I found myself asking as tryouts started. Different girls ran to different stations, there was a staff member at each station. Shit, they had her doing passing drills first.

I would have preferred her in front of the goal, but passing was fine.

“I’m going to marry her,” Jagger announced.

I cranked my head toward him. “The hell?”

“Your sister.” His grin turned soft. “I mean she’s too young right now, so I’m going to let her sow whatever oats she wants—but in the end, she’ll choose me.”

“Isn’t she already sowing her oats?” Slade just had to ask, making me think about oats and Jagger and her and that damn game of tag again. “With dickhead here?”

I groaned into my hands. “How’s Parker doing?”

“Are you seriously not watching? Where’s the giant camera? Sign? The Capri Suns and orange slices? You’re worse than a soccer mom taking her kid’s Ritalin,” Slade joked. “And she’s consistent, which is more than I could say for number two, who keeps passing too far ahead, making her partner sprint to stop the ball.”

I eyed the field with an intensity that almost seemed foreign. As if it was my team, I was coaching, and we were one game away from the playoffs. I exhaled and took another deep breath as one of the coaching staff blew his whistle and made a motion with his hand.

Parker moved to the other side of the field and played one-on-one defense against another team member. I grinned because this was where she outshined everyone else. She knew how to score, she knew how to pass, she had impeccable footwork and a great attitude when she wasn’t scowling. But her ability to read plays was outstanding. It was one of the first things I had noticed when I watched her old tape.

“Left, right, left,” I whispered under my breath. “Don’t let her fake it, she’s going left again.”

And like she’d heard my words, Parker lunged to the left, stealing the ball from around the other player’s legs and moving down the field. She stopped and kicked the ball back for another drill.

I clapped.

And suddenly wished I did have a sign and a video camera so I could remember this moment and show her how proud I was—how proud I am.

“Attagirl.” Jagger clapped his hands and whistled. “She just handed that girl her ass.”

I grinned with pride. “Yeah, she did.”

“She still has to make it through the next few drills,” Slade said, deflating my enthusiasm and pumping worry back into my veins. “She’ll be fine. She just needs to stay focused.”

My body tensed with each move she made as if I was the one doing it. On the outside, I was calm; on the inside, I was on that field with her, I was coaching her, encouraging her, berating her when she went the wrong way, and then blowing the shit out of my whistle when I needed her to hustle.

“No offense, Matt, but I’ve never seen a guy flinch so much in my entire life.” Slade laughed. “You look like one of those dance moms who memorized their kid’s entire routine and can’t help but do some of those moves in the crowd.”

Jagger burst out laughing. “Finally, a perfect nickname for him: Dance Mom Matt!”

They both fell into fits of laughter.

I ignored them.

Because she had one drill left.

Which some may think was the easiest.

Score as many goals as you can in under a minute.

Soccer balls stretched from one edge of the field to the other, each one lined up to a different shot she could strike from. She’d have to start at one end and kick them in order.

I flinched when the whistle blew.

And almost laughed when Jagger seemed to hold his breath while Slade pulled out his phone.

At least one of us was smart enough to document it.

The first kick was a bit wide but made it in, and as she went down the line, the kicks got tighter and tighter until she drilled one straight down the middle that had the goalie stumbling backward as the ball hit the net.

I grabbed Slade’s arm and Jagger’s shirt.

We waited like that, holding our breath.

And then Parker looked over her shoulder to me, blew a kiss, turned, and drilled her last goal