“And I only lost one senior,” she continues. One senior—Stacey. Gone to Arizona State. Good freaking riddance. “The group of girls we have this year is a terrific balance of talent and teamwork, and I want to nurture that, not upset it.”
I swallow again. “And you think I might upset it.”
“Yes.”
“What can I do to—”
“To make me think otherwise?” She says it with a perfectly arched brow, red lips pursed at the question mark.
I nod.
“Show me you can be a teammate.”
I’m not sure how I can demonstrate to her my stellar teammate chops without a team to be on.
To my surprise, Coach Kitt picks up on my confusion and helps me out. “Are you going out for any fall sports?”
I blink at her. In my world, there is no other sport to play but softball. My little brother, Ryan, plays soccer, but I never did. For girls, it’s a spring sport, anyway, so it doesn’t matter. In fall, the options are slim—cross-country, volleyball, golf—and I’m not really cut out for any of them. Maybe cross-country. Maybe. I can run and I’m fast, but it’s basically a group of individuals competing together. Not exactly the best showcase for teamwork.
Coach is waiting for me to answer, patience wearing so thin I think she regrets throwing me a bone at all.
“Cross-country?” I suggest weakly.
I know she sees the same holes I do. And I hope she realizes why that’s my answer—that there is nothing more Olive Rodinsky would like to do than play softball. Even cross-country would be a means to an end, a way to stay in shape for the main event in the spring.
“Consider it,” she says. “And maybe a winter sport, too. Basketball, not swimming, if you have a choice.”
I nod. I better start shooting hoops with Ryan the second I get home. The kid’s got a nice jumper and I hope to God my little brother has learned a thing or two about coaching from Danielle.
There’s shuffling outside Coach Kitt’s door, cleats on linoleum. Her eyes fly up, and I know it’s time for me to leave. I’m dismissed. Students she actually believes in are waiting for her.
4
I WANT TO RUN AWAY FROM THIS PLACE, TO RUN BACK to Danielle’s house, fall into bed, and fold into the fetal position with my sorrows. But I can’t go anywhere. No, I have to be a good sister to Ryan.
Ry is trying to make the soccer team and, therefore, is participating in his third “optional” two-a-day workout before official tryouts on Friday. He walked to practice Monday with a buddy from down the street before delayed onset muscle soreness (aka DOMS) smacked them both so hard in the butt that they begged me for a ride today.
So I drove them, using it as an excuse to get to the batting cages early in the morning and to the track for laps in the afternoon. But when I saw Coach Kitt walk in the building as we were parking, I delayed my run for a chance to plead my case.
A lot of good that did me.
Still, I have my shoes, music, and water. And I have an hour. Plus, there’s no chance of running into Jake here because his butt is all the way over on a practice field, separated from the track by a fence. If only juniors and seniors were separated by a magical fence once classes start. So, track time. Again, probably a good thing to do given the conversation I just had.
Cross-country stardom, here I come. Or maybe just Katy Perry’s “Roar” on repeat for six miles. Or however far a cross-country race is.
I’d better look into that.
Turns out DOMS is the least of Ryan’s problems.
“Coach is gonna cut me” is the first thing out of his mouth after his workout.
Jesse, Ry’s bud from down the street, agrees with a “Dude. Parsons totally hates Ry. How many extra laps did you have to run today?”
“Ten. Or maybe twelve.”
“Duuuude.”
I nod in sympathy. “Duuuude. That sucks.”
Ryan shrugs, and I notice he has a football wedged in the crook of one arm. At fourteen, he’s all angles and sinew, even though he can down ten slices of Bruno’s deep-dish pepperoni without swallowing. Two years older, I’m (barely) an inch taller at five foot ten, and probably ten to twenty pounds heavier—puberty, softball, and estrogen keeping me from the same geometric fate.
“I’ve got a backup plan. Get in the end zone, Liv.” He hoists the football over his head and jogs onto the turf with way more energy than he should have after a second two-hour practice and the (supposed) inability to walk this morning. He turns around, jogging backward, smile wide and bright and exactly like Mom’s, pre-chemo. “The football team is down a kicker. And I can kick.”
Suddenly, I wish I’d taken up soccer. There are female kickers in both high school and college. If I’d spent the same amount of time on the soccer field that I had on the softball field, I might have a decent fall sport to play.
I also might not have punched a first baseman at state.
It might have been a midfielder instead.
Or maybe all the soccer players in Kansas City are smart enough to know that gay people aren’t pedophiles. How is that stereotype even still a thing these days?
I scowl. Stupid-ass Stacey Sanderson.
Though, if I took up football, I most definitely wouldn’t be able to avoid Jake, even on the C team.
“Heads up, Liv!”
My frown immediately opens into a soundless “Oh, shit!” as I throw my hands up in time to avoid a football to the eye that had just started to look truly normal a few weeks ago.
I catch the ball and immediately chuck it right at Ry’s head. I’ve watched enough Chiefs games with Dad to know he’s got some major technique issues. “That was a freaking line drive, dummy. To make a field goal, you’ve got to kick up. Not out.”
“Hey, at least I got the distance.”
He drops the ball to Jesse, who balances the point in the turf, finger holding the tip in place. Ryan takes a few steps backward and smacks another one low—it’s slightly higher, but still dings into the goalpost and comes to a thud in the turf.
I throw it back to him. He kicks it low.
I throw it to him again. This one is waaaaay high and doesn’t have the distance.
Again. The ensuing kick glances off the left post, bouncing out.
Once more, but Ryan’s so frustrated he spikes the ball and whiffs at it. Kicking it down to the twenty-yard line all the way at the other end. When he retrieves it, his face is all scrunched up like he’s a four-year-old about to have a fit.
“Ry, just kick the ball,” I say. “Who cares if it isn’t the same motion? Don’t overthink it. You kick a ball every day.”
Ryan gives me a choice finger and lines up a kick. Takes a step back. Lets it rip.
Straight through the uprights.
I catch it and hold it over my head. “FINALLY.”
I spiral the ball back at him, laughing. The pointy end smacks him right in the chest. “Jeez, Liv,” he shouts. “Take it easy on the man boobs.”
I grab the dormant soccer ball and chuck it at Ry, too. Jesse is inherently lucky that I’m not violent with people I’m not related to. Well, except for the one time it hurt me the most.
And, just like that, I’m done.