The whistle blew, but before I could spring into action, Coach Sams caught my arm. “Take charge out there today, Katie . . . no holding back.”
Steely determination reflected from my eyes. “You can count on me, Coach Sams.”
She smiled widely back at me before blasting the whistle. “Okay, play ball!”
Our team, it was decided, would kick off first due to the fact that we didn’t have Pete Davenport, and therefore, the obvious underdogs. A stoner by the name of Jake (who might could’ve been athletic at one point in life) took the lead. He kicked it out in one predicable line towards another guy on our team. Pete easily intercepted the ball, dribbling it around players— trucking to their field positions—like they were standing still. He would be halfway to the goal before anyone could catch him. So I held back from the throng going for the ball, hiding out behind lagging players, ready to make my move.
I didn’t have to wait long because Pete dribbled it back my way, around a knot of inadequate defenders. While his focus was momentarily distracted by a junior boy, who vainly attempted to steal it, I sprang forward like a panther, coming up as he kicked it left to intercept it right out from under him. It was a split-second sneak attack that caused him to crash into me so that I toppled over and fell. It wasn’t pretty, but it got the job done. The ball went sailing back to our side, where it shot straight out to an unprepared team member . . . to roll out of bounds. The whistle blew.
It was an opportunity lost by Team Two, but a big opportunity to stick it to one Pete Davenport by Kate Connelly.
His head whipped around to see who’d finally gotten the better of him on the soccer field. When Pete saw me sprawled on the grass with a triumphant smirk on my face, he looked absolutely dumbfounded for a split second. Then he threw his head back and laughed. It was so mesmerizing I momentarily forgot to be mad. A hand was quickly offered, which I accepted, and he hoisted me up. I immediately withdrew from his grasp but couldn’t find it in me to move yet—it was the first time I’d seen humor transform his glorious face in a fortnight.
I couldn’t help the curve of my lips. We stared at each other—all animosity momentarily forgotten—until awareness that I was already getting sucked back into his vortex nudged me. Wordlessly, I turned and trotted off towards my team. I heard him jog up behind me, and then watched as he blew past in a swirl of colors before slowing to a backwards jog.
“Somehow . . .” he said, eyes dancing, “I don’t think that was a lucky shot.” I just smirked back at him, and he flashed me a grin before turning himself around to join his team.
The ball was put in play again, and I was determined to stick to my game plan: focus on the ball and not the man. Because if I didn’t implement that strategy, I’d definitely lose my concentration on the field. And I had to work twice as hard as Pete, being the fairer sex and naturally not as fast or muscular. So I’d have to outwit him, if I could.
It was frustrating, hard work, playing defense against the master. I held him off better than anyone else from getting a clean shot at the goal. But that only lasted for as long as it took me to realize he was laughing, deep in his throat, as he took me back and forth across the field. Soon, it became an itch I just had to scratch. Infuriated, I shot him a dirty look. He took advantage of my lapse in concentration to bypass me, then sent the ball hurtling toward the goal before I could so much as blink. I didn’t even have to turn around to know it hit the net.
The whistle blew, the cheerleaders jumped, I ground my teeth in frustration.
Pete took one look at my face and busted into a grin. “That’s for cutting me off,” he said.
And I knew he was referring to more than just cutting him off on the soccer field. A guy like Pete was used to getting his way in life. Everything was probably gift-wrapped and handed over to him on a silver platter. But I’d proven more difficult than he’d anticipated. Most likely even getting him in trouble with his organization, I realized with a small pang. So he was mad at me, and using my former best friend to punish me. It just dawned on me that he probably didn’t even like her. How could he? I glanced over at her blowing kisses at him. Puh-lease. I didn’t even like her . . . and she used to be my best friend.
It occurred to me that the best revenge would be to simply sit back and let him be with her. That was punishment enough—just allowing him to marinate in her high-fructose life until he rotted from all the sugar. I barked out a laugh.
His head tilted my way, a smile already forming. “What’s so funny?”
“Your girlfriend.”
He obliged by looking over to where Ashley-Leigh was busy tying up her shirt with the assistance of one of her minions. Never one to miss an opportunity, she smiled and blew him a kiss, just in case he missed the first three. He turned back to me for a laugh, but I was already gone.
Coach Sams called for a timeout, and we huddled up, most of the misfits already wheezing. “Jake, I want you to fake right to Diego, but get the ball to Connelly instead. He can’t man the field all by himself, so let’s take advantage of the sleepers out there. “Okay Team Two . . . let’s break!” Team Two couldn’t even manage to clap our hands in unison; I shook my head in dismay.
I also knew my own limitations on the soccer field so grabbed Shelby-from-the-locker-room and whispered in her ear while I watched Pete idly bouncing the soccer ball from knee-to-knee then foot-to-foot, as was his custom. Unable to help myself, I trotted over.
“Showin’ off again, Cadet Davenport?”
He laughed and caught the ball. “Trying to impress a girl.”
“Anyone special?”
“Oh, she’s special alright.” Pete stared into my eyes, all traces of humor gone.
The way he said this made my stomach feel funny. I swallowed, feeling guilty even though I didn’t quite know why. And I didn’t have time to dwell on it, because we were up to kickoff. Jake was the kicker again, and he made an obvious eye-intent to Diego that anyone with half a brain would realize was a fake out. Sure enough, Pete pointed two fingers at his eyes and then at me—he was watching me.
I rolled mine and feigned looking off into the distance, trying to keep the smile I was feeling inside from creeping on to my face. Jake did his best imitation of a fake-out then kicked the ball to me. But instead of immediately intercepting, Pete allowed me to safely get the ball before getting in the game. He was throwing his game, which was so galling because I was bringing my best.
Dodging in front of me, arms hanging loosely by his sides, he said, “Okay, Connelly, let’s see what you got.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, trying not to focus on how exasperating he was. And hot. Gah! That word just popped right in my head. I made an effort to refocus and set forth my very best effort of moving the ball forward without him taking it away. As I had foreseen, he easily stayed with me, so I was unable to move it more than a few feet. Time to implement my plan: tapping a toe on the ball, I halted it then kicked it backwards to a (hopefully) waiting Shelby. She was back there, but immediately botched the play because of nerves and general lack of know-how, kicking it directly out of bounds. Honestly, it was like playing with fourth-graders, but I didn’t care—I’d managed to hold my own with Cadet Davenport.
Pete’s face lit up at my little maneuver. “Lady’s got moves,” he said, twisting his baseball cap around and leaning, hands on his knees, so that we were eye-to-eye. “. . . Looks like I’m gonna have to bring my A game today.”