have no idea how much I’ve missed this,” Phoebe tells her.
“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” Mel says.
Coach has his favorites. Phoebe’s always been a proxy to Mel’s stardom. Phoebe didn’t get the same accolades Mel did. No picture in the paper. Not that she cared, really. That was never what she played for. Mel might be the star of the Wildcats, but Phoebe has always thought of herself as the heart. And tonight she finally feels it beating again.
Phoebe checks her email, then helps herself to a cupcake, which she eats in three bites while checking her email yet again. Her phone is low on battery, and she sets out to find the charger Mel’s family has in the den. That’s where she finds Coach, sitting by himself, his phone already plugged in.
He got sunburned from tryouts today, a bit of pink across his nose. His hair, still damp from an earlier shower, hangs down over his eyes. In his dark jeans and polo shirt, he looks like the kind of boyish adult who could play a teenager on television. He’s looking at something on his phone, his mouth in a sulky pout, and then clicks his phone off, leans his head back, and closes his eyes.
The Wildcats are not the only ones drawn to Coach. He’s mobbed all the time.
The guys at their high school pathetically congregate around Coach’s desk, wanting to talk to him about workouts or what supplements he buys from GNC. They beg him to come play Ping-Pong in the gym during free period.
Referees kiss his ass. Parents suck up. Their vice principal is so obviously hot for him. Other coaches always want to bend his ear, shoot the shit, even while he’s clearly trying to do his job. Then again, most coaches talk about drills but don’t perform them. In fact, West Essex’s track coach notoriously drives his car when the distance runners do a ten-miler. But Coach is always on the field with the Wildcats, deftly demoing the drills that don’t cause him pain, and gritting his teeth to get through the drills that do. It’s like he sometimes forgets his field hockey career is over.
But that’s the thing. It’s never been about his looks. She’s always been drawn to Coach’s swagger. His confidence. It’s another place where she knows she’s still lacking on the field. Phoebe felt so insecure at tryouts this week. Every day she had to shake that feeling, not let it get into her head. Especially the times when Coach would swap her out for Kearson during a scrimmage.
Kearson. Bobblehead Kearson. That’s what she looks like, her head slightly too big for her skinny little body, constantly in motion, always yessing Coach.
Anyway.
After checking her email yet again, Phoebe decides to do something brave. And possibly stupid. But she’s never let that stop her before. She uses her phone camera to check her makeup, quickly touches up her lipstick, pulls out a few pieces from her fishtail braid. Then, summoning all the confidence she can, she walks into the den and flops down next to Coach on the couch.
“Hey, Coach.”
He turns his head and opens his eyes, then closes them again. “Hey, Phoebs.”
She loves her new dress, white cotton with a sweetheart neckline and wooden buttons down the front. She didn’t want to wear Knee Spanx tonight. She didn’t want to think about her knee. But smoothing the dress, Phoebe sees her scar. It used to be pink, but as her skin tanned, it’s become white, brighter. Now she wishes she’d picked a different dress. A maxi.
“Nice party, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Phoebe blows a few wisps of her hair out of her face. “Wow, you know, I just can’t wait to be out on the field tomorrow. Playing in an actual game. Which I haven’t done since the championship.”
“I’m well aware of the last time you played field hockey.”
“Right. Of course. But I’ve just got this feeling like, once the whistle blows tomorrow, I know it’s all going to click.”
Slightly irritated, he sits up. “What’s going to click?”
Phoebe doesn’t even want to say it. But she knows it needs to be said. “Obviously I still need to work on my timing. But I’m going to get there. I’m not worried. Oh, and today’s tryout was definitely the hardest test on my knee yet, and I’m passing with flying colors. I don’t have a bit of soreness. Just so you know. Or, um, anyone else that might ask.”
“You mean like scouts.