“What would it take to make you interested?” Lord, now I sounded like my father. “In joining the team,” I added hastily.
“I guess you haven’t heard about me yet,” she said, her face devoid of any emotion. But I saw something simmering in those bright green eyes.
“Look, Morticia, I don’t care if you spent last semester clubbing baby seals.” That was a lie. I wouldn’t feel great about bringing a seal clubber onto the team. But at this point I was desperate. We’d lost our second game of the season by a respectable four goals. Lisabeth called all of the midfielders dumbass hick bitches and the boys team had mooned us when we left the stadium. “I’m interested in what you’re doing this semester.”
“I can’t play,” she said, rolling the ball up onto the toe of her boot and flicking it into the air. She caught it with her knee.
“Why not?”
“First of all, you’re a complete stranger. How do I even know you’re a coach? You could be some sweaty creeper trying to lure me into a van.”
“It’s a hatchback actually.”
I saw a glimmer of humor in her eyes.
“Secondly, team sports cost money. I don’t have any.”
I warmed up my argument. “If the only thing standing in your way of joining the team is money and not an outstanding warrant or the fact that you’re in the witness relocation program, then I have several solutions.”
“Don’t need your charity.” She was freaking juggling the ball back and forth from foot to thigh. I needed this girl and wasn’t above groveling.
“No, you don’t. But I need you and your magic feet.”
With a clean nudge, she sent the ball sailing at me. I trapped it with my foot and thanked God when I didn’t fall on my face. I scooped it up and managed a back and forth between my knees before awkwardly knocking it back her direction.
She took it from foot to knee to forehead. “Look, lady—”
“Coach,” I interjected.
She stopped, caught the ball. “I just moved here. I live in a foster home with an overworked foster mother who’s too busy working two jobs and being responsible for five kids to run me to practice and games. Happy?”
“Where do you live?”
She gave me a “not happening” look.
“I can give you a ride.”
“You’re working really hard for a stranger trying to convince me to get into her kidnapping hatchback.”
“I have candy.”
“They let you be responsible for students?” she asked with the ghost of a smile playing around her bare lips.
“They were desperate. But they’re starting to really appreciate my awesomeness.” Lies!
She was quiet for a minute, her teeth working her bottom lip.
“Look, I can drive you to and from stuff. I have no life. We’re coming off of six years of losing seasons, and we’re off to a stellar shutout start. You could help. Uniform’s free. You’ll just need cleats, and I’m sure we can figure something out there.”
“I don’t like charity,” she repeated.
“I don’t blame you. But look at it this way, you’d be doing me a favor. I have a lot to prove because I think the boys coach is a misogynistic wiener and no one expects much of me.”
She swiped the back of her hand under her nose. “No one expects much from me either.”
“Maybe we can surprise them. Together. With the candy in my kidnapper van.”
She sighed.
“Look, just come to practice tomorrow. 3:30 right here. See what you think. We’re enthusiastically not good. But you might have fun.”
“I don’t like mean girls,” she warned me.
I mentally worked out a plan to have Lisabeth Hooper kidnapped.
“Good thing your BFF the coach has the power to make mean girls run until they throw up.”
“Hmm.”
“Think about it,” I told her. “3:30 tomorrow. Free candy.”
She nodded and bounced the ball on the grass. “Libby, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Libby. I’m Coach Cicero. You’ll probably see me lurking around the gym, too.”
“Not creepy at all,” she said, that sort-of smile still hovering.
I decided to leave before I got down on my knees and begged, terrifying her into cyber school or something.
“See you around.” I gave her a wave and with great reluctance jogged back to the road. I had fifteen more minutes to go on this torture run, and I was going to spend it praying that Libby would show up tomorrow.
31
Marley
“What’s this?” Dad asked that night, his already high-pitched voice cracking in eager anticipation as he lifted the lid on the slow cooker.