by Score, Lucy
Sophie S. was glowering hard at Ruby. If I were Ruby, I’d be feeling around between my shoulder blades for a knife.
Marley gave the girls a long look and sighed. It was the sound of overwhelm. Of utter helplessness.
That Hooper jerk wandered by one of the smaller JV players and slapped the ice out of her hand.
“Hooper,” I bellowed.
“What?” she asked, batting her spidery eyelashes.
“Get her another one and don’t dick around with it.”
The girl stomped off.
“I don’t know why I thought I could do this,” Marley muttered to herself.
“Because you can. If you get your head out of your ass and start thinking about the good of the team.”
“Please tell me teaching is easier than coaching.”
I laughed. “Ain’t nothing easy about either one. They’re just hard in different ways.”
“I can’t even make easy work.”
She had a worry line between her dark eyebrows. There was a tiny freckle next to it.
“Maybe if you spent less time throwing yourself that pity party, you’d be able to figure some shit out.”
“Is that Marley Cicero?” Mariah popped her fuzzy head out of the shed window.
“Oh my God. Mariah?” Marley asked, her face lighting up. She slid off the bench and made her way over to the shed.
I watched them share a hug and wondered just what the hell had happened to the Marley I kissed a thousand years ago.
10
Marley
I felt less wobbly and more embarrassed on the short trip back to the school parking lot. Jake walked next to me, making small talk with the students who all thanked him effusively for the treat. No one thanked me for almost killing them under the scorching summer sun.
What had I been thinking?
“You always disappear in your head like that?” Jake asked.
I blinked, realizing we were standing next to my car, my team dissipating into waiting vehicles. I hadn’t even asked them if they were coming back for the second practice. I wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t.
“Hey. Yo, Coach,” Jake waved a hand in front of my face. “You want me to run you by urgent care?”
My stomach rolled at the word “run.”
I shook my head. “No, thanks.” My feet felt like they were rooted to the spot.
“Do better, okay?” he said, frowning down at me.
The frustration bubbled up without warning. “How? How do I do better? I have no idea what I’m doing!”
“You don’t have to know what you’re doing. You just have to act like it,” Jake shot back, looking amused. “You’re holding the wildcard. You’re the adult. You can bench them or send them to the principal’s office. That’s all the authority you need. Now you gotta figure out how to communicate with them.”
“How did you figure it out?”
“I failed a whole lot and felt like crap. Then I did better. You can do better too, hot mess.”
“That is not a nickname I’m going to accept.” Even if it were true. Dammit, I had potential!
“Tough shit, Mars.” He reached out and booped me on my nose. My jaw dropped. I’d been fireman carried and booped by this man, and he still wasn’t wearing a damn shirt.
What a weird ass day.
“See you around. Stay hydrated,” he called over his shoulder as he headed toward his SUV. I blinked and stared after him.
“I’m the adult,” I repeated to myself.
Technically, yes. I was an adult. Had been for many years. But I never felt like I’d actually achieved adulthood. Sure, I carried stamps in my purse. And I could cook food that didn’t come from boxes. And I understood the importance of eight hours of sleep. But did that make me an adult? I didn’t sit up straight in chairs. I still rocked out with the windows down to songs that reminded me of the community pool in the summer.
But I was thirty-eight. I had experience. I’d been through high school and survived it. Barely.
Maybe I could use that? Maybe I didn’t have to be the hard-ass that my coach had been. Maybe there was another approach.
* * *
I headed home and dove straight into an icy shower, scrubbing every inch of my skin and hair to remove all traces of the epic puke fest fail. I ran the washcloth over the back of my thigh and thought about the four-leaf clover birthmark there. I’d always thought it meant that I’d be lucky.
So far though, I was still waiting for my dose of luck to kick in. It seemed as though my sister had landed both our shares. Important job with her own assistant. Gorgeous, heart surgeon husband that doted on her. Three well-mannered genius kids.
And here I was, vomiting in front of high school students.
When I got out, I downed another bottle of water and opened my laptop at the dining room table.
“How’d it go, snack cake?” Dad asked, peering into the room.
“I nearly gave the team heat stroke, and then I threw up on Jake Weston’s shoes.”
Dad’s eyebrows winged up.
“Upside, I ran into my friend Mariah when Jake took the cross-country team and my girls out for Italian ice to rehydrate them.”
“Um…” Dad wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “And how are you feeling about that?”
He’d read a lot of “raising teen girls” books back in the day.
“Embarrassed. Hopeless. A little nauseous.”
“Well how about I warm up some Hamburger Helper, and you tell me all about it?” My parents were as committed to convenience food as they had been in the eighties.
“Do you want to watch some sports movies with me?” I asked. “I have a few hours before the next practice. Maybe I can find some inspiration?” It sounded stupid. Really stupid.
But his eyes lit up behind his glasses. “That’s a great idea. You fast forward through the previews, and I’ll warm up the leftovers.”
We ate and watched while I took notes of anything that seemed remotely feasible. I was not going to encourage my team to spend all night at a strip club or bond against an evil coach, thank you very much, Varsity Blues. Nor was I going to get a DUI a la The Mighty Ducks. Fun seemed important and music. The music montages were when everyone got along.
I made a note. I knew I was grasping at straws. But I was desperate. I honestly wasn’t sure I could survive another failure. I’d reached for the stars so many times and been smacked back down by the tennis racket of fate. Over and over again. Every time, it was harder to get back up.
Was this my story? Was I just a hot mess?
I yawned and thought about Jake. He was familiar and strange at the same time. The twenty years since high school had clearly been very, very good to him. Of course his attitude was brash, his personality was know-it-all. But he’d treated my entire team to hydrating Italian ice. There was also a good chance he’d run straight to Principal Eccles with a complaint about me. I might be fired before the first day of school. A new record even for me.
I wondered if Jake remembered me. Remembered that kiss…remembered how much I’d despised him after. I obviously didn’t hate him anymore. I mean, I didn’t want to be judged based on my teenage shenanigans so it wasn’t fair to hold his against him.
An hour later, I woke to an alarm thoughtfully set by my father. There was a blanket draped over me and a sports drink with a sticky note that said, “Drink me and have a good practice, snack cake.”
I really didn’t deserve such great parents.
Groaning, I sat up and stretched. I could be the first coach in Culpepper history to have an entire team quit on them. One for the record books. But I was at least going to try to do something good.
* * *
This was quite possibly one of the stupidest ideas I’d ever had. Including the time I thought hosting an employee appreciation karaoke event for a bunch of work-from-home hospital billing coders would be great. Introverts, it turned out, do not enjoy karaoke. Or work events.
&nbs
p; I unloaded my supplies, closed the trunk of my car, and trudged to the top of the hill. No one was on the field yet. I was still early, but the sense of foreboding was heavy. Would anyone show? Or was this the end of my very brief temporary career?
A human being shouldn’t have this many brushes with failure.
“Do better?” Easy for him to say. He had a team that respected him, students that loved him. What did I have? Looking around the empty practice field I had…not much. I had my water bottle. Two of them actually. A full cooler for the girls who probably wouldn’t show up and my mom’s genius idea of a food storage bag full of cold, wet paper towels for sweat-mopping during breaks.
Plopping down on the hot metal bench, I waited. The sky was full of dull, gray, humidity-laden clouds. We could use a good rainstorm. My parents’ yard was turning brown. The Hostetters’ lawn was still a brilliant emerald green. Either their lawn service worked mid-summer miracles, or swan shit was the caviar of fertilizers.
Enough wallowing and whining, I decided. It was time to count the ol’ blessings.
I had a car that ran and cooled and heated—even though I couldn’t afford the payments. I had my parents and my sister. My health, such as it was, I thought, pinching the flesh at my waistband. I hadn’t been unceremoniously fired this afternoon. I was kind of like a human version of Schrodinger’s cat, both fired and unfired. Employed and unemployed. But in this exact moment, I was okay.
A car door slammed in the parking lot, and I perked up. Another door slammed, and my heart burst into a hopeful little ditty. Was that a giggle? God, half my team was the giggling little sister from Pride & Prejudice that I’d wanted to punch in the giggling face. But I could forgive them for that since they were showing up.
One by one, they wandered up the hill. In groups and twosomes, gabbing as if I hadn’t almost put them all in the hospital this morning.
All was forgiven.
11
Marley
Nothing was forgiven. They lined up in front of me and eyed me suspiciously in that way only teenage girls can. With disgust and pity and annoyance in their mascaraed eyes. Ah, youth.
“Since we had such a rough morning—” I began.
“You mean puke fest,” one of the girls interjected helpfully.
Ha. Hilarious. I was already well aware of the fact that I’d committed the ultimate faux pas when it came to being in charge of teenagers. I’d shown my weakness, exposed my underbelly.
“Anyway. I thought we’d have a little fun this afternoon with a scrimmage.” Were those actual smiles on their judgmental little faces? It felt like a very small, very satisfying win. I’d loved scrimmaging when I played. We got to let loose and forget about drills and just play the damn game. For fun. And I’d hoped that feeling was mutual with this generation.
“I’d like to see you all play your assigned positions and be open to moving around the field a bit to see what you can do. Oh, and I brought some music.” Fishing the phone out of my pocket, I queued up the playlist, and the Spice Girls warbled to life through my Bluetooth speaker.
Those were full-fledged grins now, and I patted myself on my already sweaty back.
“Line up and count off,” I instructed. I thought I was being smart not letting them choose their own teams. However, Sophie S. ducked behind one of the Morgans and made herself a 2 instead of a 1. Putting her on the team opposite Ruby.
So they didn’t like each other. They didn’t have to. They just had to play together. I’d let it go for now, I decided.
Ruby and Sophie S. were immediately nominated team captains, making me swear under my breath.
I started play with a clap of my hands since I was still a coach without a whistle.
The Spice Girls gave way to Pitbull and then Macklemore as the JV and varsity girls soccer teams danced, skipped, and jogged their way down the field. They weren’t taking it seriously, but at least they were playing. I could determine who had footwork, who had speed, and who was a brick wall to get around. Who just wasn’t very good.
And who was the Marley of the team. It seemed to be the small-statured, quiet sophomore named Rachel. She hunched her shoulders when she ran as if she were warding off the spiritual blows of unpopularity. I watched that damn Lisabeth with her curly ponytail hip check Rachel after the play, sending the much smaller girl to the ground.
“You!” I shouted.
“Me?” Lisabeth pointed to herself innocently.
“Laps.” I hooked my thumb over my shoulder, mentally switching her from first string to bench warmer for the first game.
“For what?” She crossed her arms over her chest, challenging me.
“For being a shitty team player and having a craptastic attitude. Newsflash, you want to act like a jerk, do it at home to your parents who made you this way. Now, run.”
The rest of the team was staring at me openmouthed as Lisabeth lumbered off under a cloud of rage. Damn. That felt good. Really good. I felt like I’d finally stood up to my own bullies.
“What are you waiting for?” I asked the rest of the team. “Play!”
I took notes on my clipboard and swiped at the sweat as it beaded my forehead. I’d spent the last few years in Illinois and Colorado and had forgotten how oppressive Pennsylvania summers could be.
There were some hoots and cheers from each team as two of the girls tangled for the ball. They laughed it off and high-fived. Nice sportsmanship, I noted. But there was no communication. No camaraderie. It was like the teams were made up of two- and three-person cliques. Ruled from a distance by dictators including Ruby, Sophie S., and Lisabeth. I wasn’t sure what to do about it.
I let them play another ten minutes before calling them back over. I really needed to get a whistle. The yelling was hell on my throat. We took a drink break, and I shuffled around a couple of players on the field. Sophie S. had the fast footwork to strip the ball from the defense, but her shots on goal were weak. Juggling her to fullback, I realized my mistake five minutes into the game.
Ruby’s long legs were eating up the field as she dribbled toward the goal. She’d shown signs of deadly accuracy straight on in the penalty area. Sophie S. was aware of this and hunkered down and charged. She took the ball and Ruby in a slick sliding tackle that had her team whooping it up.
The tangle of limbs started to flail as Ruby rolled and mounted Sophie. They grappled and clamored, and I was in a dead run. By the time I crossed the fifty yards, I had to push my way through the team of girls encircling the fight. Sophie S. had Ruby by the hair while Ruby worked some weird WWF wrestling move on her.
“I hate you!”
“I hate you more, you pathetic, extra bitch!”
The rest of the team watched horrified and enthralled at the violence. Wading in, I grabbed Sophie first since she’d worked her way back on top. I shoved her in the direction of Team Sophie and pulled Ruby to her feet. Ruby tried to get around me, and I saw stars when her bony elbow connected with my cheek.
“Knock it off, or you’re both benched,” I yelled. Sophie broke free of her friends and tried to climb over my back to get at Ruby. It was my turn to throw an elbow, right into her stomach. She deflated like a popped beach ball. Ruby laughed with a taunting grin.
“Both of you to the damn bench!”
“But coach, she started—” Sophie wheezed from the ground
“Do I look like I give a rat’s ass who started it? You’re both acting like…” Teenage girls who haven’t yet learned women are on the same team. “Idiots.”
“Why don’t you do us all a favor and quit?” Ruby said to Sophie.
“Why don’t you quit? Then you’ll have more time to chase after Milton like the pathetic loser you are,” Sophie shot back.
“Do not even tell me this is over a guy named Milton,” I said. “Both of you. Bench. Now. The rest of you, let’s finish this game without the drama queens.”
The rest of the team seemed relieved to get back to the scrimmage and jumped back into pl
ay. I kept a wary eye on the two girls pouting on the bench. I couldn’t believe they stayed. Didn’t they know there was nothing stopping them from getting in their cars and driving off? Was this the perceived authority Jake told me about?
I slapped a damp paper towel over my throbbing cheekbone and cursed my life.
* * *
Me: OK, Ms. Psychology Major. I’ve got two girls on the team battling it out over the same boy. How do I fix it?
Zinnia: I do not miss those teen years. We were so dumb.
Me: Come on. You never stooped to the normalcy of obsessing over a boy. You were too busy being brilliant.
Zinnia: Don’t be a jerk.
Me: Sorry. Rough day. I vomited in front of my team, was carried off the field by a very attractive cross-country coach who ruined my life in high school, and earned a black eye from breaking up a girl fight.
Zinnia: Apology accepted. And I’m definitely going to need the full story. Call me Tuesday? In the meantime, I’ll send you some resources on team-building and the scarcity mentality.
Me: Thanks. I need to find out if this Milton is worth the There Can Be Only One shitshow. Everything good with you? How are the kids?
Zinnia: The usual craziness here. Think we’re going to squeeze in a quick trip to Paris over Christmas break. Edith is really doing well with the violin. First chair in the children’s orchestra! The other two are drowning us in A’s and accolades. And Ralph is being wooed by a shall-not-be-named medical center in NYC for a department head position.
Me: …
