Kids are dropped off one by one, and once they’ve been separated into groups, Mia hands me a whistle and tells me to have some fun.
The kids look at me with wide eyes, hanging on my every word as I teach them how to stretch properly and explain some of the basics.
But the craziest part? It’s the most fun I’ve had in years. And passing along knowledge I’ve somehow picked up along the way is the most rewarding thing I’ve experienced since blowing out my knee in high school.
Seriously. It feels good. Really good.
To be seen.
Appreciated.
Hell, these kids practically worship me. And by the time their caregivers come and pick them up, Mia’s grinning from ear to ear.
When I catch her staring, I point my index finger at her. “Not one word.”
“Not even I told ya so?” she quips.
“Those are four words.”
“You’re a genius, Mia is four words too,” Ash interjects as she gathers the balls on the grass.
I snort and toss a soccer ball at her as Mia leaves me with a knowing grin and starts collecting the orange cones from around the field.
Maybe they’re right.
Maybe I’ll be okay after all.
36
BLAKELY
“Dude, great job,” I say, hip-checking the cute little eleven-year-old named Bridger.
His cheeks turn pink as he drops his gaze to the ground. “Thanks.”
The rest of the group was picked up over an hour ago. And now, it’s only me and Bridge. Well, Mia’s sitting on the grass near the parking lot with her phone pressed to her ear trying to figure out how to get ahold of Bridger’s foster mom, but she doesn’t really count since she’s a little preoccupied.
We’ve been passing the soccer ball back and forth across the field for the past twenty minutes, but it’s easy to see how uncomfortable the kid is from being the last one here. In fact, it breaks my heart. How could someone just forget to pick him up? Like, come on, lady. Have a heart, would ya?
When Bridger catches me glancing at Mia and the nearly empty parking lot, he mutters, “Sorry she’s late.”
“It’s okay. Gives us more time to practice.”
“I can wait by myself,” he offers, kicking at the grass with his hands tucked in his pockets.
“No deal. I’m having too much fun.” I jog a few feet away from him and kick the neon yellow ball at him again. We’ve been working on ball control for the past forty-five minutes, and the kid’s legitimately talented.
When he passes the ball back to me, I ask, “Seriously. Have you played a lot of soccer in the past?”
He shrugs. “My dad would play with me sometimes.”
“Well, you’re a natural,” I tell him.
Another shrug.
“Want to play another round? Maybe practice hitting toward the goal? Or we can try to see how many times we can juggle it before the ball hits the ground?”
His little shoulders bounce up and down again.
“Or we could just sit and chat while we wait,” I offer.
Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, he kicks at the grass. “Whatever you want, Miss Blakely.”
My eyes crinkle in the corners.
Miss Blakely.
This kid is way too adorable.
“I’m a sucker for twenty questions,” I murmur. “Wanna play?”
He peeks up at me, his brown eyes tugging at my heartstrings. “Sure.”
“Alrighty, then.” I plop onto the grass and cross my legs in front of me, patting the ground beside me.
Cautiously, he sits down and cradles the soccer ball in his lap.
There are so many questions I’d love to ask, but I refuse to let him get lost in his own head when it’s clear he lives there far too often.
I start the game. “Favorite candy?”
“Snickers.”
“Ooo, those are good. Personally, I’m a sucker for Take 5s.”
“What’s a Take 5?” he asks, looking up at me.
I gasp and clutch at my chest. “You don’t know what a Take 5 is?”
Shaking his head, he says, “No?”
“Dude. You gotta try a Take 5. I’ll see if I can bring some to the next practice.”
“You don’t have to,” he mutters. He looks back down at the grass, picking some of it with his fingers.
I nudge his shoulder with my own. “I want to. I’ll even bring a bag of Snickers, and we can compare with the rest of the group. Does that sound okay?”
His shoulders lift in another shrug, but his cute little lips tilt up in the corner, too, and the sight gives me hope. Like maybe he’ll be all right after all.
“Okay, what’s your favorite soda?” I prod.
“Orange Crush.”
“Shut up! Orange Crush was my best friend’s––” I snap my mouth shut, surprised by the declaration and how much it hurts to think of Theo or the fact that I look at him like my best friend instead of my brother’s.
“Your best friend likes Crush?” Bridger asks.
I clear my throat and clarify, “Technically, he was my brother’s best friend before he was mine. But yeah. Crush was his favorite growing up. He used to have it all the time.”
“I only get it on special occasions or if I save up enough allowance,” Bridger admits.
Oh, my heart.
I continue asking him questions, and he continues answering them for another few minutes when a familiar red Toyota truck pulls into the parking lot.
It takes me a second to place it, but when I do, the hair rises on the back of my neck.
“What about you, Miss Blakely?” Bridger asks me.
I tear my gaze from the parked truck and back to the little boy beside me. “I’m sorry. What was the question?”
“What’s your favorite sport?” he repeats.
“Oof. Tough question.” My lips purse as I weigh my options. “Not gonna lie. I kind of love hockey, but you can’t tell anyone.”
“Hockey?”
“Yeah. My brother’s a hockey player, so I was kind of raised watching him play.”
“My brother’s in prison,” Bridger mumbles, his lips pulling into a frown.
Shit.
I’d done my best to stay away from anything family related, but apparently, I slipped up. It’s like the kid’s a minefield. I wrap my arm around him and pull him into a side hug without saying a word.
But the silence only spurs him on.
“He was dealing drugs. Ended up in juvie.”
Damn.
I didn’t even know what juvie was at his age, let alone how to get drugs.
My throat constricts, but I clear it. “I’m…I’m sorry, buddy.”
“It happens.”
My heart pinches, but I bite my tongue to keep from arguing with him. Because he’s right. It does happen. But it shouldn’t. Especially not with kids.
“Trudy’s here,” he mutters, pushing to his feet while still cradling the soccer ball to his chest. I’d been so focused on our conversation, I hadn’t noticed the seafoam green van pulled up next to the curb. The windows are rolled down, and Mia’s talking to the driver, though they’re too far away for me to hear what’s being said.