The following week, Coach McMann started off by running the same drills we’d done before. I wasn’t sure any of us had improved, but halfway through practice that Wednesday, he said we were ready to try a scrimmage, where we’d face off five on five with one sub in a kind of mock game on a short field. He explained what all the different positions did—there was a jumble of terms, fullback and striker and sweeper and forward—and though we all tried to follow along, I’d bet no one would have aced a pop quiz right after. In the first scrimmages that week, Bobby had me play as a forward—his position—a few times, but later he switched me to a midfielder, which was sort of a combination defensive-and-offensive position that Bobby said required a strong runner.
Even if that was true, I wanted to be a strong scorer. But any chance I got to shoot at the goal—in drills or scrimmages—I flubbed. The transition from running with the ball to kicking it into the goal felt like when Candace and Tina had learned the Bus Stop dance and I couldn’t get it. Bobby kept emphasizing that every position on the field had a purpose, but by now I knew that was just how Bobby talked. I sensed forward was his secret favorite position.
At first, it wasn’t a big deal. No one was a super scrimmage standout. But as we racked up more practice, some of the team started to improve. Dana scored a goal on Monday and Tuesday, and Tina had three for the week. Joanie had even gotten one, and she’d been playing defense. By Friday, I was frustrated. I sweated buckets running up and down the field, and was half relieved and half jealous when Tina scored a goal on Dawn Murphy to end the scrimmage. While I was congratulating her—I was glad it was her and not Dana—Coach McMann said the worst thing he could possibly say.
“Great job out there today, ladies,” Bobby told us as we walked off the field. “I’m seeing so much amazing potential from you!”
“Amazing potential” . . . the exact words he’d said to me the day I’d almost quit. I wondered if he still saw more potential in me, or just someone who couldn’t be a forward.
So there was that, plus Candace. Our friendship felt strange. It wasn’t like we never did anything without one another, but I think doing something with just Tina—something that wasn’t us waiting for Candace at parties—made Candace anxious. Since she’d quit, she hadn’t once asked us how soccer was going, and showed next to no interest in what she was missing. And in Kitchen Arts, Candace had mentioned that Reggie Stanton was going out with Karen Baker, but like it was funny and didn’t bother her at all. When Tina had teased her, asking who’d replaced Reggie, Candace had said “no one” and gone back to slicing peppers for our Denver omelet, but I could tell she was lying and I wondered what was up.
So I was in bad mood, or at least a blah one.
My mom noticed as soon as I walked into the kitchen after practice on Friday. She was scrubbing the sink in her big yellow gloves. They were the same ones Polly had at her and Dad’s condo. Yellow dishwashing gloves seemed like something you didn’t put in a bridal wish book but got anyway.
“You look like you had a rough practice,” she said.
“Not really,” I replied. Unless you counted the rude awakening that Bobby thought amazing potential was everywhere.
“Your shirt is filthy,” she said. “And you stink.”
I looked down at the grass-stained blue scrimmage jersey I’d forgotten to give back to Bobby as I skulked off the field. It was a castoff from the football team. Great—all I needed was to make the whole house smell like some freshman football player of seasons past.
“It’s not mine,” I said. “It’s, like, communal.”
“The community has not been kind,” she said, smirking. “I’m glad you changed your mind about quitting.”
“Me too,” I said, not sure I meant it. The confident, walking-on-air feeling I’d had when Bobby told me I had amazing potential had been replaced by the sense that I was missing something that everyone else had. But if I told my mom that, she’d probably have advice for me from one of her self-help books, or tell me it didn’t matter what everyone else did as long as I was doing my best. Ugh.
I opened the fridge to find that she must have gone shopping before coming home and putting on the yellow gloves, because there were two new packs of lunch meat, lettuce, mustard, and cheese from the deli. I pulled everything out to make myself a sandwich.
“Don’t you have class?” It was only five thirty, and she usually wasn’t home until seven or so on Fridays.
“Oh, it was a goof-off,” Mom said, now attacking one of the crusty casserole pans with a brush. “The instructor was sick so the fill-in told us to think about where we see ourselves in five years. And then pretty much sent us home.” She turned from the sink and looked at me as I took out three slices of bread to make a double-decker sandwich. “Can you imagine?”
“You mean, where I see myself in five years?” I asked, peeling several round circles of salami away from one another. Did all the salami slices have amazing potential, or only one?
“Sure, but the idea that someone is even asking me that question and there being more than one reasonable option,” my mom said. “When I was your age, if you’d asked me, I would have said, ‘I guess married and maybe with a baby.’ And I would have been right, since I was twenty when I had your sister.” She put the casserole dish in the drying rack and turned to me. “I hope I don’t need to tell you that I don’t regret that path for a second, since it got me you and your sister. I guess I just think it’s nice that your worlds can be bigger.”
“I wonder what Tonia’s five-year plan is,” I said. The last time I’d talked to my sister, she told me she was on her way to an aura-cleansing disco.
“You mean Chartreuse?” My mom laughed. I supposed it was good that she was taking my sister’s new identity in stride. “Well, I told her your dad would really like if she could make the wedding. It would be nice to see her.”
I had assumed my sister would be required to come to town for Dad’s wedding. In fact, I was counting on it. Wasn’t the point of having a sibling that you had to endure your parents together? I bit into my giant sandwich and caught the fuzzy look in my mom’s eyes as she swiped beneath them with the knuckle of her glove. Okay, maybe Tonia’s faraway life bothered her more than she let on.
“So where do you see yourself in five years?” I asked her.
“Management,” she said decisively. “And maybe attending your college graduation.”
College wasn’t something I’d necessarily planned on. Even my mom had never talked about me going to college until after the divorce, and I really couldn’t imagine it as something I’d do. If you asked me to look five years down the road, from my seventeen-year-old vantage point, my first thought was that I’d be twenty-two, and Bobby would be twenty-seven and not my coach anymore. But I couldn’t picture marriage or a white dress or, jeez, a kid. I also couldn’t picture management, whatever that meant. The surroundings in my future were a blur, but I could still see me. The same me who was standing at the counter, finishing her sandwich.
Then that me was on a soccer field. The wavy vision cleared up and there I was, playing forward, kicking that goddamn goal with Bobby looking on approvingly. I didn’t have five years to wait.
“You should think about your future,” my mom said gently as she picked up the next nasty casserole dish. “The possibilities are so much bigger for you than I ever thought they could be.”
Those possibilities scared me. It would be so easy to pick the wrong thing, wouldn’t it? “I know,” I told her, instead of coming up with something better.
My mom smiled faintly. In the kitchen light, the dark circles under her eyes stood out.
“Give me the gloves,” I said. “I’ll do this.”
She didn’t protest, just passed me the gloves, then put her arm around my shoulder and squeezed. I hoped she saw my offer as a way of saying thank you.
I washed the rest of the dishes and scrubbed the sink again until it shone. Then I went to my room and found the Wendy’s receipt with Joe’s number on it and called him.
When I turned the corner to Oak Meadows at eight a.m. the next day, I was jolted with surprise to see Joe already there. I would never have taken him for a morning person. He had a stack of cones next to him—did he and Coach McMann shop at the same cone store?—and was bouncing a ball off the top of his foot, with the quick repetition of one of those paddleball games.
Shit, he was good. I hoped I wouldn’t embarrass myself.
“Hey,” I said, and he turned around. He was wearing warm-up pants, but he still looked punk, with his spiked hair and a black T-shirt with holes that appeared strategically cut from the chest and shoulders. I felt nearly naked in my shorts. And cold.
“Hey,” he said. “I didn’t know there were goals here now.”
“They’re new,” I said. “Our coach got them.”
“Nice,” Joe said, gesturing to his cones. “I brought cones to make one. They might still come in handy if we practice footwork stuff.” Then, noticing my shorts, he added, “You need to get some track pants. Next time we practice, I’ll bring you a pair.”
Was he this easy around everyone? Bringing cones and offering pants? Maybe that was how he’d landed the “babe” from Sportmart. “You don’t have to but, um, thanks,” I said, not knowing what to say to him already mentioning a “next time.” He seemed too eager, I guess, to be a punk. Or at least what I thought a punk was. “And thanks for meeting me.”
“No problem, champ,” he said. “I’m a little rusty but I remember the basics.” At that moment, with me standing about ten feet away from him, he flipped the ball off the top of his foot and, nimbly tapping the ball with the inside edge of his Puma, sent a pass my way. Instinctively, I kicked it, but too hard. The ball flew over his head and landed on the playground.
“Good reflexes,” he said. “We just need to work on that control. What position are you?”
“I don’t exactly know yet?” I said. “Not goalie, though. That’s what you played, right?”
“Yep,” he said, clicking his tongue and tilting his head as he sized me up. “You look quick. Maybe a midfielder, or forward?”
“I’m fast, yeah, but I don’t have a great shot. I haven’t scored yet,” I said. “But I really want to. Score.”
Joe clapped his hands and winked. “Well, you’re gonna score today. We’re not leaving this park until it happens.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled. It was the first time I’d said it out loud like that, that I wanted so badly to score a goal, but it felt good, it felt right. And I wasn’t even embarrassed about the double meaning, that “scoring” was another word for having sex. It’s not like it mattered, with Joe. He was cute and all, and it was nice he was here to help me, but I could already tell he was the type of guy who was way too cool to take anything seriously.
I could hear Candace in my head, telling me that I found something wrong with everyone. And she wasn’t wrong—but that didn’t mean I was. There was something wrong with everyone. Michael Webster was too full of himself. Jeff Sipowitz was a gross, lechy pig. Joe seemed fun and funny, but these sorts of irreverent, flirty dudes rarely turn out to be boyfriend material (not that I had a lot of experience with boyfriend material), and besides, he already had a “babe.” Was it really some great mystery why I was fixated on Bobby?
Joe told me we’d run a passing drill and I’d work on scoring in the empty goal first; then later he’d let me try to shoot on him. “Don’t let me being a skinny dude fool you. I’m all legs and arms. You kick it at me and it’s a mess. For you.”
“We’ll see about that.” I grinned, even though I was already worried this would take all day and he’d regret offering to help me.
Joe passed me the ball again and we dribbled alongside each other, trading passes until we approached the net. Then he’d kick it sidelong to me and I’d have to kick it at the net. The transition from running to shooting messed me up immediately, just like at practice. Several times, I kicked the ball way too high, or too wide, or too lightly, so it stopped just short of the goal. A few times, I misplaced my kick and my leg sliced air.
“Maybe I’m not cut out for this,” I said. “You’d think one would go in by accident.”
Joe waved me off. “You know what it is? You’re rushing.”
“I only have a few seconds to kick it, though. Or less, if someone steals it.”
“Seconds are long, man.” Joe came up behind me. I tensed a little, sensing his body right behind mine.
“May I?” he asked. His tall frame cast a shadow on the grass next to mine. I came up to his shoulder.
“May you what?” I turned my head back to look at him.
“Like, put you in a good position? I don’t want to just grab you.” He put his hands up like he wanted to show me what he’d be using to touch me.
“Yeah,” I said. I thought of some of the romance novels I read, like Captive Bride, where the hero grabbed the woman all the time. I liked those parts, but it was nice to be asked, too. Especially because for Joe and me, it clarified that we were friends, even if he was a constant flirt.
He put a hand on each side of my waist and gently nudged me so I was at a slight angle. Then he got on the ground and moved my nonkicking foot so it was even with the ball and about a foot away from it. I was glad I’d shaved my legs.
“That’s your place foot,” he said, looking up at me. “Your body points toward the goal, not away. Then look up for a split second, see the goal and where you want to go. Do you see it?”
I nodded.
“Now, give the ball your full attention as you pull back and nail it. Use the inside edge of your foot—that’ll give you the most control.” He was still on the ground as he said this, and I was pretty sure Bobby had demonstrated something similar and I’d been focused on his butt and not the lesson. How much better I’d be at soccer if my coach wasn’t hot wasn’t even a question I could answer.
Joe sprang up from his crouch and nodded his head toward the goal. “Wanna try?”
I was already in position, so I let out a breath and said, “Yeah.”
“Okay, think about where you want to go and go there.”
I looked at the net and thought how Wendy and Dawn had both let by kicks into the bottom corners. I had a feeling those goals were as much about Wendy and Dawn being inexperienced goalies as about anyone on our field calling her shots, but if I could call a shot, how cool would that be?
I drew back and gave the ball a nice solid kick with the inside of my cleat. It cleared the grass, hurtling fast, and hit the back of the net—not the corner, but close.
“Yes!” I screamed. Even though I’d made goals standing still before, this felt different, as if being more intentional made the result more exciting. I wished the goal had made a noise like a pinball machine.
“Nice one, champ. So if you’ve got it”—he moved to stand in the goal—“now try to get one by me.”
“Already?”
“You’re ready.”
I did everything the same way, bringing the ball down the field toward the goal. But even though my kicks were better when I got into position, it was obvious I wasn’t going to get the ball past Joe. He moved way too fast, seeming to anticipate where the ball would go before I even kicked. He shot out a leg here, or an arm there, knocking away anything that came close.
“You weren’t kidding about the long arms and legs. But also, do you have, like, Spidey senses? How do you always know where I’m going to kick it?”
“Goalie secret.” He smirked.
“I don’t think I’m going to get one by you,” I told him.
“Not today, anyway,” he agreed. I pouted, but I had to admit I liked the fact that Joe wasn’t going to give me a goal. Other boys might have, and in a way that would let me know they were doing it to be nice because it was “cute” that I played. I thought about Bobby, and what he’d said about his dad and brothers after he was so rough on us at practice.
I really wanted another lesson. Fortunately, as Joe hefted his cones and tossed me the ball to carry, he said, “I have my car, so I can drive you back—and I can pick you up next time, if you want.”
“Next time?” I was relieved he’d said it again and I didn’t have to ask.
“Yeah, you’re not yet wise in the ways of the Force,” he said. “. . . Sorry, have you seen Star Wars?”
“Sure, but what, you’re Obi-Wan now, and I’m Luke?”
“I retain my claim to higher-ranking Jedi until you get a ball past me,” he said, stopping at the curb next to his car. “But anyway, the big thing you need to learn is, every goalie has his weakness. Like, Ken the Lame, this guy at St. Mark’s who took over my position? Fucker practically lays out a red carpet to the top-right corner of the goal for everyone who wants to take a shot on him.”
“Why didn’t you go back, after your leg got better?” I asked. I’d been thinking about it all morning, since it was so obvious that he loved to play. “You’re really good.”
He shrugged and pursed his lips for a second. I could tell immediately he didn’t want to talk about this but also didn’t want to admit he didn’t want to talk about it.
“Started my band, didn’t like the whole jock thing,” he said after a moment. “Especially at St. Mark’s. All that ‘Strength, Honor, Courage’ crap, but the best athletes are all the worst people. Being on a team mostly means blindly following whatever the shittiest guys want to do. Like the Webs, the guy you shot down. He’s a turd. The teams are mostly turds.”
He loaded the cones into the trunk of his old Nova and I threw the soccer ball in beside them. For the first time that day, he seemed unsettled, and I felt bad for making him talk about his ex-team.
“So what’s your weakness?” I asked as I opened the passenger door and dropped onto the ripped seat next to Joe’s.
He looked over and smirked. “Nice legs,” he said.
I slugged him in the arm. I’d called it. He took nothing seriously. “You’re lucky you’re a decent teacher.”