RISKY PLAY (RED CARD #1) BY RACHEL VAN DYKEN Page 0,45

may even call them adorable—even with the runny noses and constant farting.

I just wasn’t feeling it.

That meant I wasn’t feeling inspiring because I wasn’t inspired. Because I was feeling jealous about Mack’s date with Jagger—and because she had barely answered my texts.

And maybe because every time Jagger pulled out his phone I wondered if he was texting her—I wondered if he was winning.

And then I felt like an ass for even thinking it.

She’d done nothing except be an easy target when it came to my grief. I wasn’t sure why it was finally clicking for me, just how much I blamed her for my father’s death.

Maybe it was a hard look at jealousy, staring its ugly face down and realizing that if I didn’t do something, I was going to end up alone, without the only girl in my entire life who’d ever made me feel truly alive.

How’s that for honesty?

“Who you texting?” I just had to ask as I leaned over Jagger’s arm.

He shoved me away with his elbow. “Do you mind?”

I spread my arms wide. “Just a question.”

“Dipshits.” Matt made his way over to us with two Starbucks cups. He was wearing sweats.

I frowned. “Are you depressed, man?”

“Huh?”

“Yeah.” Jagger took one coffee. I took the other. “What’s with the sweats? Get dumped?”

Matt just glared between us. “You know what I need? A pet.”

“Because you’re depressed?” I added knowingly.

Jagger elbowed me. “He doesn’t even have gel in his hair.”

“A nice pet,” Matt continued, “that almost lacks the will to live—I need that level of lazy so I feel like I’m actually adequate at taking care of things.” He sighed. “No, I’m not depressed, I’m just here to help because I’m a good manager and a good friend. Seriously, if you looked up saint in the dictionary, my face would be smack dab next to Mother Teresa.”

I took a few steps back and looked up. “Huh, I could have sworn I felt lightning.”

“I heard thunder,” Jagger added.

“God forbid you two ever become friends. I’d need a sedative,” Matt grumbled. “The kids should be here any minute. Be nice, be inspirational, and try not to curse.”

I laughed. “Yeah, okay, we won’t curse.” I made air quotes. “Matt, we know how to do our shit.”

“Yeah, fuck, let us handle our damn community service like professionals!”

“Hell!” I said while Matt groaned into his hands. “Those little bastards won’t know what hit them, huh, Jagger?”

“You know it, bitch.”

Matt narrowed his eyes. “I think I found the common ground.”

I snorted in disbelief. “Oh yeah, what’s that?”

He pointed between us. “You both live to piss me off.”

Jagger was silent, like the idea of us being friends again made him uncomfortable.

I frowned at him and then shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I still don’t want to kill him on a daily basis.”

“Still upset over my date, I see,” he announced just as one of the volunteers walked up with cones and a bag of soccer balls.

“She says you’re just friends. I call bullshit.” I shrugged.

Matt bit back a curse. “Stop with the language.”

I turned and grinned. “And bullshit’s what? A dirty word?”

“Fucking hate my job most days.” Matt kicked the dirt.

Jagger burst out laughing. “Poor Matty.”

Matt’s eyes widened.

I burst out laughing. “I forgot about that nickname.”

“Oh, it’s a gem,” Jagger added. “Remember? I’m Jaguar Jagger, you’re Slade the Striker, and then we have . . . Little Matty.” Nostalgia hit me hard and fast as a memory of us playing in our early twenties reared its ugly head. Game after game, bars filled with friends and food. We’d been poor as hell but happy.

Matt gritted his teeth and then flipped us both off, though he was cracking a smile as he turned around and jogged toward the volunteer.

I took a sip of coffee. “How do you want to do this? Start with some drills?”

“Sure.” Jagger was looking at the grassy field. “Camp goes until eleven every morning—which means we can still get in our afternoon practice with the team . . . I say we go through a few drills, and you can teach them all about balls, that is, if you still have them after Saturday night.”

“Good one,” I said in a dry tone. “And that shitface deserved every punch I slung his way, plus I didn’t see you jumping to your feet until my balls and I stepped in.”

“Yeah, well . . .” He swallowed and looked down. “We used to be friends, remember? My first instinct isn’t to hit my friends. You wouldn’t know what that’s