by Iris Parker
She’d put me in charge of the girls’ team.
I felt glued to my seat, trying to calmly digest the news as quickly as possible.
Right.
Holy hell.
The guys, sure. Violence, brutality, repressed anger. I could handle all that. It was the story of my life. I’d been there myself when I was young, and after that, I’d coached a bunch of boys everyone else had given up on. Shaped them up. Helped turn them around.
I’d been planning on doing the same thing here, before my lovely stepsister had pulled the rug out from beneath me.
“How many of them?” I asked, trying my best to hide the strain in my voice as I scrambled to come up with some semblance of a plan.
“Twenty. All older teens. They’re real sweeties, you’ll see,” Emilia said lightly.
“I’m not sure ‘sweeties’ is the word I’d use to describe them,” Adam interjected with a raised eyebrow. “But Em told me about the fantastic job you did yesterday, particularly with Shauna. I think they could all use a good male role model for a change, and it makes sense for a man of your obvious talent to deal with the more difficult team.”
The more difficult team, I echoed silently, fixing my eyes on Emilia. The smugness on her face spoke volumes, like she was barely refraining from making some acerbic remark at my expense.
Well, fair enough, I was thinking a few of them myself. I’d been anything but a good male role model for her, after all.
I heard giggling from the hall. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Shauna’s orange mohawk peeking into the room just before she poked her head through the open door.
“Hey, Coach,” she said, snickering. “Theo said you brought muffins?”
“I sure did! Take as many as you want,” I said, locking my eyes with Emilia’s and smirking a little myself. She might’ve ambushed me, but at least I’d brought plenty of freshly-baked bribes.
An instant later, six young women invaded Adam’s small office, poring over the muffins and grabbing different flavors without a glance in my direction. Two minutes later they were gone with barely a mumbled “thanks,” and Emilia’s wicked smile turned undeniably mocking as I examined the carnage.
All the blueberry and chocolate chips were totally gone, replaced by a mountain of crumbs over Adam’s desk. The banana muffins were untouched, dispelling my dreams of people appreciating tropical baked goods.
Noted.
I stood up slowly, staring at Emilia as she grabbed a roll of paper towels and handed them to me with a smirk. Before I could think of a suitably witty remark, she was gone.
“So, uh,” Adam said sheepishly. “Like I said, I’m not sure sweeties is the word I’d have used to describe your team.”
“Apparently not,” I quipped, wiping his desk clean with an apologetic smile.
“Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I said, wondering if I’d need it. The truth was, I had never worked with girls, and I certainly had my work cut out for me. Even so, I knew that I’d get a handle on the situation sooner or later. The team I could deal with.
What I wasn’t sure about, however, was how to handle the one-woman army that my sweet little stepsister had become.
Leaving Adam’s office, I headed straight for the gym and called for my team the same way Emilia had called for hers. After a couple of minutes, no one had come along, so I called again.
Nothing.
Sighing, I turned to walk down the long, winding corridors in search of my sweeties.
After trying a few doors, I found most of them loitering in the so-called computer lab, which seemed like a generous name for a room with little more than three bulky PCs and a couple ancient dot matrix printers, complete with stacks of paper that had holes lining the sides. A few girls huddled together in the corner, reading a magazine, while the rest were crowded around one of the computers.
“Hey Coach,” Shauna greeted me again, this time with markedly less sarcasm in her voice. Her smile seemed sincere, though she was the only one in the room to acknowledge my presence.
“What is everyone doing?” I asked, and a wave of giggles echoed through the room.
Oh boy.
One of the older girls in the corner, who looked to be perhaps in her early twenties, rolled her eyes and snorted.
“They’re all drooling over JBJB’s Twitter account, clucking about what he did, who he did it with, and where they did it,” she said, stretching back across an old couch, her feet propped on the coffee table. “Like anyone still cares,” she muttered with another eye roll.
“No we’re not, Jessa! Whatever,” one of the younger girls at the computer spat back, her eyes never leaving the screen.
“Huh. Isn’t he British, too? Something like that?” I asked, feigning ignorance. The truth was, I knew full well that the latest hip-hop lothario heartthrob was English.
From Hackney, actually.
I’d met him a few times.
We partied in the same circles. He seemed nice enough, surprisingly grounded despite his success. He certainly had his act together better than I ever did at his age. We weren’t exactly close friends, but that had never stopped us from the occasional pub crawl together.
“Ohmygosh, he is! Do you know him?” one of the girls squealed excitedly, and I knew my time had come.
“Actually, yeah. He’s quite fun to hang out with,” I said, biting my lip as I confirmed to them a ‘fact’ that many Americans seemed to be born knowing.
All Europeans know each other.
I wasn’t exactly proud of myself, and the moment of silence that followed felt downright awkward as every face turned straight towards me. It was like being in the eye of a hurricane, and I had just enough time to second-guess myself before pandemonium erupted.
Screams, questions, total chaos. Jessa launched to her feet and beelined straight towards me, apparently deciding that maybe JBJB wasn’t so played-out after all. I nodded and smiled, doing my best to keep up with the tide of shouting that followed.
I needed to remember that this was war. If Emilia could fight dirty, so could I.
Once the din had calmed enough that they could hear me, I answered in quick succession. Yes, I knew him. Yes, he was a sweetheart. Yes, his music was indeed quite innovative. No, I had no idea if anything the tabloids claimed about his secret marriage were true.
“How about we hit the field and practice for a couple of hours, and after that, we can see about contacting him through my agent?” I suggested, rattling the heavy bag of rugby equipment I’d brought with me on my search.
Perhaps, between JBJB and some creative drills, we could make rugby palatable.
Maybe even fun.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Shauna muttered as the younger girls were jumping around the room enthusiastically.
Yeah, maybe it wasn’t the best move I could’ve made.
Maybe it was the banana bread muffin of motivational techniques.
But right now, it was the only strategy I had, and it seemed to be working.
Maybe this was going to go well after all, who knew?
After all, stranger things have happened.
Coaching at the summer camp has gone really well. I’m actually really proud of those kids, they’re doing great.
I’ve learned a lot, too.
Next year is going to be brilliant.
The boys and I had been on the field for a little under an hour, slowly easing into practice and trying to make sense of rugby. I was having a good, and decidedly Simon-free, time when I saw him emerge on the slope in front of Johnnie’s, a cluster of girls following behind.
Shauna and Jessa carried heavy sports bags, while Ellen and Domenica toted plastic goals. The rest of his cohort bounced around with more enthusiasm than I’d ever seen, and even in the distance I could make out their smiles.
I struggled to stay focused on my side of the field, but after a few minutes, I couldn’t help but stare. The group had set out for a slow jog around the pa
rk, following closely behind Simon.
All the girls were running.
My girls.
The ones who hated running.
Who always had a reason to balk or renege. Headaches, heartaches, broken sports shoes, forgotten sports shoes, pedicures, tummy aches, Aunt Flo, or sometimes just refusing outright.
And now, after half an hour with Simon.
They.
Were.
All.
Running.
With smiles on their faces, to boot.
I wanted to turn my head and ignore Simon, but as the girls jogged up closer, that became hard. They looked so excited, so proud of themselves, and they were enthusiastically waving in our direction. How could I look away from that? They were finally doing what I’d spent years encouraging them to do.
So I bit my tongue, swallowed my pride, and plastered a grin on my face while waving back with every bit of enthusiasm I could muster. It wasn’t hard; I really was genuinely proud of them. This was real progress, and I was happy.
Of course, I still did my best to ignore him.
When he ran past me, his whole body tense from the jog, he winked triumphantly in my direction. I could’ve sworn I felt my brain melting a little, there and then, as I stared at the way his tight shorts rode up his muscular thighs and hugged his tight ass.
Yeah, I hated him.
I would always hate him.
Still, I had to admit, he was doing a damn good job.
And even worse, he was damn freaking sexy while doing it.
Back to the States.
Back with my so-called father.
Is it really ‘back’ with him?
I don’t even remember the fucker.
Robert is as much my family as his new wife, or my so-called sister.
I’d rather just spend the summer six feet under.
Twenty teen girls. No violence, but plenty of catty comments. No brutality, but an endless gulf of defiance. No repressed anger, just an unshakable assumption that they couldn’t handle sports and there was no point in even trying.
How could I manage that?
Pretty fucking well, as it turned out.
I’d loved the new challenge, and I’d grown to love working with them. Not that it had been easy. They’d been reluctant to even try. They’d rebelled at the mere mention of sports bras, let alone cleats and shin protectors.
But slowly, over the last three weeks, we’d made it work.
Three weeks of building stamina and appreciation for sports, three weeks of me learning that sometimes intricate updos counted more than a nice try.
Three weeks of learning to accept each other.
Three weeks of gawking at Emilia in the far field, coaching her tight little ass off.
She avoided me whenever possible, of course, and both of us were extremely busy managing our respective teams. We barely said two words to each other in a day.
It should’ve been easy for me to keep up the lie, the one I’d been struggling with for so many years. But no. The truth was rapidly rearing its ugly head.
I had a thing for my stepsister.
Bad.
I hate it here.
The other day, he actually had the nerve to call her my sister.
A sister. Out of thin air. Just because he said so.
We’re not even related, not really.
I fucking hate it here, and I fucking hate her.
After three weeks of sustained sleep deprivation, my body had decided it’d had enough. I had blissfully overslept, waking up at the decadently late hour of eight in the morning. It wasn’t exactly spoiling myself, but it was a good way to start the day. Even better, Simon hadn’t made a single appearance in my dreams last night.
Neither in nightmare nor erotic dream.
Talk about a change of pace, I thought, shivering as I remembered the last time he had shown up in my sleep. My lips had been wrapped tightly around him, showing that there was now a grain of truth to the rumors he’d started so long ago.
After pilfering a coffee from Adam’s office at the rec center, I reviewed the list Simon had left for me. It detailed every piece of gear we’d need for our first game this afternoon.
So far, collaborating with him had been easier than I expected. He was strangely courteous and friendly with me, even the couple of times we’d been alone and there was no need for him to put on an act. On the field, I’d been observing him closely, and found that he was surprisingly charming and even-tempered with his players.
The whole thing had seemed fishy as hell in the beginning, but now I wasn’t so sure. The lightness of his blue eyes when he smiled felt so sincere, real and warm enough to give me goose bumps when I thought about it.
Which, I admit, was way too often.
Once I arrived at the small storage room I used as an office, I clicked my desk fan on and opened the window to get some much-needed fresh air into the stifling, still heat of the cramped space. Outside the building, I could faintly hear Simon’s voice coming from the dirty and run-down patio area.
“No, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it tonight. But we’re still on for the game this afternoon, right? Okay. Great. I love you, too. Bye.”
I planted myself against the wall and froze, trying to be still and unseen as he walked by the window with his phone still in hand. My heart was pounding through my chest as I tried to reassure myself that there was nothing I could’ve done to avoid the eavesdropping. It had been an honest mistake, and not something that any reasonable person would get upset over. Even so, a dark, painful twinge lingered in my stomach, sending waves of guilt and fear through my body.
Still plastered against the wall, realization crept up on me.
Simon was seeing somebody.
Simon was seeing somebody, and I cared.
I shouldn’t have cared. At all. If anything, I should’ve been grateful. Sometimes love can make even a total bastard grow up, and maybe that’s exactly what had happened to Simon.
Why did I feel so small, so short of breath? Why was I dizzy?
I could hear his footsteps outside my office, in the gym, coming closer.
I needed to regroup, fast.
“Hey,” he began, peeking his head through the door.
“Come in,” I squeaked, regretting the words immediately as his large body filled up all the space of the tiny room. I was suddenly, painfully, acutely aware of every little thing. The warmth of his body radiating off him in waves, the scent of his aftershave, the way he was dressed. With an old pair of jeans and a grey linen shirt, his muscles bulged and rolled beneath the fabric. He looked gorgeous, and I swallowed hard.
Then I became aware of myself, the way that every little move I made suddenly felt deeply incriminating. Was I making too much eye contact? Not enough? Dammit, I needed to pull myself together. Neither bizarre jealousy nor lust had any place in the professional relationship we’d been slowly building over the weeks.
“Are you ready?” he asked, and I couldn’t tell if the suspicion in his voice was real or entirely my own imagination.
“For?” I stammered, and the look of utter confusion on his face finally snapped me back to my senses. Today was the first game for both of our teams, two back-to-back matches that heralded the proper beginning of the season.
“Sorry, just a bit nervous. Yeah, I’m ready,” I finally answered.
“That makes two of us,” he said softly, and for some insane reason, I actually believed him. Never mind that he was a professional player who’d faced off against the best teams in the world. Somehow, in that moment, it seemed perfectly plausible that he actually cared about the fate of a bunch of amateurs who’d barely even heard of rugby a month ago.
Imagine that. The same bastard who had terrorized my teen years with his incessant bullying. Somehow, he actually cared about a bunch of poor kids and our dilapidated little rec center.
He’d grown a heart.
Somehow, he’d grown in my heart, too.
I needed air. Fresh air. Clean air. Air that wasn’t tainted by the smell of his sweat. Air that didn’t make my stomach rumble when I got a whiff of the muffins he’d brought me from Johnnie's this morning, the same as he’d brought every morning.
What was this? Lust? Longing? An elaborate, cruel joke from my subconscious to make me hurt myself?
It was bullshit, that’s what it was.
With one last furtive glance at Simon, I grabbed the bag of muffins and left the room.
“Let’s go sort the gear we need for the match,” I said, faking merriness and trying to forget the image I’d just seen. He’d been running his hand through his dark hair, looking at once like a competent professional and an excited kid. A youthful, happy expression I’d never seen him with when he actually was a kid.
Oh, man, was I in deep shit.
Who does she think she is?
Who the fuck does she think she is?
Like she can just be nice to me.
Like she can forgive me.
Oh, fuck her.
She’s going to learn I’m unforgivable.
I’ll make her pay.
The players began trickling in a little before one, just in time for me to lead them through a set of warm up exercises while Simon generated a little pre-game excitement and bloodlust. Once everyone was sufficiently limber — and rabid — Simon sent them off to West Field.
Everyone cheered, rushing out of the rec center with all the enthusiasm of a monsoon.
It was an inspiring sight. So inspiring, in fact, that it took me a second to remember the game wasn’t at West Field.
“Why did you do that?” I asked, staring at Simon in confusion.
“You look fucking adorable right now, you know,” he laughed.
“It’s in the wrong direction, you know,” I said testily. This was more like the Simon I remembered from before. “It’s hot, and they’re running. By the time they get there, realize the mistake, come back, and hurry to the right place, they’re going to be exhausted.”
