schedule for a team of six-year-olds. At the beginning of the season, they decided it would be ‘fun’ if the home team supplied food for both teams and no one had the courage to stop them,” Stacy groused as she returned to the kitchen. “Two teams, twenty kids each, three snacks per game—a welcome snack before the game, some kind of protein at half-time, and something sweet at the end, to celebrate, whether they won or not.” She rinsed the knife and set it on the drainboard.
“That’s a lot of eating.”
Ryan’s phone beeped with an incoming text message. He slipped it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen, before wandering back to the cabinet for an insulated cup.
“Melissa and I drew the line at buying boxes of hot coffee and supplying trays of pastries for the parents though. So I guess that’s a win for us.”
His response was noncommittal and she could tell she’d lost his attention again.
She didn’t know exactly what was happening with the company Ryan and his college roommates at MIT had started three years ago, but she suspected it had something to do with the rounds of funding they’d received from venture capitalists out of Seattle. What she did know was that Ryan was becoming more distracted with his work, and she didn’t like it. It reminded her of her father and his devotion to his job; she wanted better for her own family.
Connor, groggy with sleep, stumbled into the kitchen. His brown hair was tousled and his shoes were on the wrong feet. Ryan and Stacy exchanged looks. Last year, when Connor started playing soccer with his best friend Archie, the atmosphere had been much more casual, the culture more in line with a fun game for kids. Things had changed at the beginning of this season, when a small group of parents decided the boys needed “to be playing to their potential.” The volunteer coach was replaced with a trio of paid coaches who scheduled practice twice a week and insisted on a pre-game warm-up an hour before every match. Stacy and Melissa had protested until things turned ugly—then they gave up. Thankfully, they had all summer to decide whether to continue.
“You want to stay home today, bud?” Stacy cupped her son’s chin with her palm.
Connor shook his head. “I’m goalie today. Chad says the team needs me.”
Stacy had just knelt down to fix his shoes when the doorbell rang. As Ryan went to answer it, Stacy slipped a granola bar into her little boy’s hand and felt a twinge of guilt. Her mother would have made a hot breakfast.
Connor brightened when he heard his friend’s voice and that made Stacy feel a bit better.
She kissed his forehead as she rose. “Have fun with Archie, and you listen to his mommy, okay?”
Connor squirmed and broke free, running toward his friend. “Okay.”
Stacy followed her son to the living room. Archie’s mother, Melissa, dropped her car keys into Ryan’s open palm. “Thanks, Ryan.”
“Any time.” Ryan hoisted the strap of one of the insulated bags to his shoulder and lifted the cases of water. “You parked out front in the circle?”
“Yup.” Melissa stood to the side and let him pass. “Trunk is open and the hazards are on. Can you lock it when you’re done?”
“Sure thing,” Ryan answered.
As Ryan left, Melissa turned her attention to Stacy. “I thought about taking the boys to the mall for pizza and a movie after the game, but if the weather is still crummy, maybe we should just stay home and order in. What do you think?”
“That sounds perfect actually. Connor’s tired too and could probably use the rest. Thanks for doing all this, by the way.”
Melissa shrugged. “You did it last weekend; I’m just returning the favor.”
Stacy turned her attention to the darkening sky. “I wish they’d call off the game.”
“That’ll never happen,” Melissa scoffed. “Lemme see if I can remember the exact wording from Coach Chad’s introduction email.” She frowned a moment, then curved her fingers into air quotes. “What the boys are playing is not just a game—they are participating in an ‘elite soccer experience’ offered to players to make an ‘extra effort to achieve excellence.’”
“I still can’t believe that.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t see Chad’s most recent email?”
“What email?”
“He’s offering a summer camp for the team to practice as a unit, in preparation for next year’s season.”
“They’re six years old,” Stacy tutted. “They should be off digging holes and playing in mud puddles, not ‘developing elite