sharp focus, everyone else background blur, passing and sprinting, passing and sprinting, and then Mel firing a shot so hard, the crack of wood like a thunderclap, that she wondered if she’d broken her stick in half. She picked up the ball from the back of their opponent’s net and ran screaming to midfield. Phoebe looked amused, and maybe slightly concerned for Mel’s sanity. Mel leapt into Phoebe’s arms, knocked them both to the ground, and then she laid a big fat kiss right on the top of Phoebe’s sweaty head and said, “I freaking love you, Phoebe Holt.”
Hours later, Phoebe was sound asleep, cuddled on her favorite side of the bed, and Mel was wide awake, still completely hopped up on adrenaline, when Coach texted her. She crept out of Phoebe’s bedroom into the Holts’ family room, Hamburger following close behind her in case Mel made a detour to the kitchen.
COACH: YOU KILLED IT MEL!
COACH: I told Truman you were something special and you proved I know what I’m talking about!
COACH: I was so fucking proud of you, I almost hugged you.
MEL:
MEL: Phoebe did great, too! Don’t you think?
MEL: Hopefully the scout saw how well we play together and wants us both.
COACH: I actually got some news from the Truman scout.
COACH: But not about either of you two.
COACH:
MEL:
COACH:
COACH: He said a head coaching position is opening up at Trident.
MEL: But aren’t you waiting for Truman’s coach to retire?
COACH: Yeah.
COACH: For the last four years.
COACH:
Coach had long ago confessed to Mel that his dream job would be to return to Truman and become head coach of the team he once played for. He tried to stay regularly in touch with his former coach, who was still in charge over there. The guy was so old, he didn’t text or email. Coach sent him actual letters, which Mel found pretty adorable.
COACH: Trident is nothing special but I could make a big impact there. Put them on the map then leapfrog someplace else in a couple of years.
COACH: I can’t stay at West Essex forever.
COACH: It’s been too long already.
COACH: Colleges are impressed by what I’ve made happen here, obviously, but at the end of the day, I’m still coaching high school girls. I’m only getting interviews because people remember me from when I used to play.
Mel also secretly harbored the idea that she and Coach might overlap at Truman at some point in the future. But, really, she just wanted him to be happy.
MEL: Where is Trident?
COACH: About an hour away from Truman.
COACH: My friends and I used to make the drive there every couple of weeks to hit up the bars.
COACH: It’s close enough that I can come and see you play.
COACH: You’ll have to call me by my real name.
Mel’s eyes went wide. She held her phone up to Hamburger and whispered, “Am I dreaming or is he flirting with me?” Hamburger licked her face.
MEL: Well, of course.
MEL: Because you wouldn’t be my coach anymore.
COACH: Exactly. My. Point.
COACH: I’d be coming there to see you as a …
COACH:
MEL:
COACH:
MEL:
COACH:
MEL:
Mel startles, feeling a tap on her shoulder. “Hey! Did Coach write back?” Phoebe asks.
Mel looks up from her phone, disoriented. Though it felt like she’d been in the car only a minute or two, Phoebe was already parked a few houses down from Gordy’s. And her teammates were all spilling out of their cars and hurrying inside.
“No. Not yet.”
“Then what are you smiling at?”
In the time it takes for Mel to unbuckle her seat belt and climb out, Phoebe and Buddy have made it all the way up Gordy’s front lawn.
“Why are you in such a rush?” Mel calls out after her.
“You’re the one who said we only have fifteen minutes!” Phoebe teases.
Buddy gives a throaty bark.
With a sigh, Mel closes the passenger door, tucks her phone into the pocket of her cutoffs, and rakes her fingers through her ponytail.
Gordy’s Volkswagen is parked on the driveway—along with a bunch of mountain bikes and two kayaks—likely dragged out to make space in the garage. Two garage doors are lifted up, and the inside is open and bright and inviting, with clip-on construction lights running on bright orange electric cords.
It seems like a lot of people were here at some point, judging by the sea of empty beer cans and stacks of discarded Solo cups, but it’s a smaller group now. A game of beer pong is in progress, but the two players—juniors, Mel thinks—are the only ones focused on it. The other