Gimme Everything You Got

by Iva-Marie Palmer

  “Oh, heh,” the coach said, lifting his shirt a bit to scratch his hairy stomach. “We’ll watch our language with a lady present.”

  “Okay,” I said, only because I didn’t think I could say “fuck off” to a teacher.

  Bobby was sitting alone at a small desk in the corner of the office, and when he looked up and saw me, he beamed. My insides went into overdrive.

  “Susan,” he said. “What brings you here?”

  He was so happy compared to yesterday, the speech I’d memorized left my brain. “Um, hi,” I said, tilting my head to one side. “I . . .” Alone with him, but not alone, I didn’t know what to do. I looked at his lunch—two sandwiches on some sort of unpleasant-looking brown bread. I crushed my lunch bag in my sweaty palm.

  He stood up and reached for something behind me, his wrist lightly brushing my bare arm. Then he backed into his seat and put an overturned bucket next to his desk. “Sorry, I don’t have another chair, but have a seat.”

  I sat, trying to remember the exact words I wanted to use as I scanned the room, with its old calendars and schedules, the Green Bay Packers poster that served as a dartboard. I was turning up a blank. “Um, so, I . . .”

  “I think I know what this is about,” Bobby said, and his voice was deep but soft. He leaned across the desk toward me, and I was so startled, I drew in a sharp breath. “Can I tell you a story?”

  I nodded, relieved he was going to talk since I couldn’t remember how.

  “When I was a kid—not in high school, younger—I was pretty small for my age, and kind of uncoordinated. My brothers played football, just like my dad, and they never let me join in because I was the runt. Every now and then, they’d let me be kicker.”

  He looked somewhere over my shoulder, like he was trying to see the memory clearly. “And that’s how you started playing soccer?” I said.

  He shook his head. “No, I hated being kicker. Mostly because my dad would be yelling at my brothers to run faster or take a harder hit or whatever and then he’d pat me on the head and say ‘good job’ even if I hadn’t done one. Like I wasn’t even worth the trouble to yell at.”

  “So you yell because you care?” I said. God, did he hear how dumb that sounded?

  He nodded. “I’m not proud of it,” he said, “but, yes, I was being hard on you guys because if I say ‘good job’ when I know you can do better, that’s like lying to you. And to me, that’s worse. Do you see what I mean?”

  He was looking right into my eyes, like I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Or like he really cared what I thought, which was almost better. Maybe it wasn’t so dumb after all.

  “Anyway, you didn’t tell me why you stopped by,” he said, as I was trying to pull my stare away from the faint stubble along his jaw. He was so foxy.

  “I, uh . . . ,” I stammered. I forgave him. Not only because he looked so gorgeous, like he was a prince trying to convince me to come down from my tower. It was because he’d apologized, and he’d also explained. And his explanation wasn’t to blame something else, like his freshman algebra class had been shitty that day. He’d given me a real reason. Something personal. He’d told me. How could I not forgive him?

  “Will we get uniforms?” I finished.

  “I wanted us to have goals first. But I’m working on uniforms,” Bobby said. He looked at the piles of football uniforms on the shelf across from his desk. “I know, it seems like the boys’ teams have more than enough equipment, but that’s how pioneers like us have to operate. You might want to consider getting a pair of cleats in the meantime.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said, getting up, because I had no other reason to be there. “That’s a good idea. Thank you.”

  I turned to go, but my heart caught when he said, “Susan, can I say one more thing?”

  I’ve been noticing you and I can’t stop thinking about you.

  I don’t know if I can be your coach for much longer, because these thoughts I have are inappropriate.

  You have an amazing ass and I dream of it at night.

  I know you’re special, but we can’t be together—at least, not now.

  “Sure,” I said, only turning halfway toward him so I didn’t look too eager.

  “I thought you were going to quit the team just now,” he said, standing up and putting one hand on my shoulder as he looked into my eyes. My whole body got warm. “I know it’s a lot to learn, but I’m so glad you’re sticking with it.”

  His voice was soft and . . . significant. It was important to him that I believed him, I could tell.

  “I’m going to stick with it . . . ,” I said, trying to load my voice with as much meaning as I could. It was like speaking in code, my words saying a simple thing while the way I said them had to convey something much more complex.

  “Do you think anyone is taking it seriously? I don’t know if I’m getting through.” His eyes looked hopeful, not unlike Polly’s when she’d asked me to be her maid of honor. “It’s new territory for me, and I want to be a good coach.”

  What could I say? No, we’re mostly hopeless jerks who think you’re hot likely wouldn’t be the right response. And he was asking me what I thought. It was somehow way better than if he’d asked me for a date. “I think . . . I’m very happy to be on your team.”

  “I’m very happy you’re on my team, too,” he said. “You have amazing potential.”

  Eight

  I told Candace and Tina at lunch that I’d changed my mind and decided not to quit. Tina tried to hide her grin as she said, “That’s cool.”

  I hoped Candace might reconsider, but she seemed bewildered. “I thought you said soccer was a drag.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I started to feel like maybe I have some potential, and I don’t want to give up so fast.” I wasn’t going to mention the one-on-one meeting with Bobby, but I liked putting his word—“potential”—in the air, like it linked us somehow.

  “Um, okay,” Candace said. We were used to being on the same wavelength, and my sudden shift from leaving the team to staying on it clearly didn’t make sense to her.

  “Maybe you don’t want to quit, either?” Tina suggested.

  “No,” Candace said, putting a straw in her Tab. “I’ve been so happy all morning knowing I don’t have to go back today.”

  Tina caught my eye across the table and gave a slight shrug.

  That afternoon, we had a short practice. Bobby was obviously trying to be a touch gentler after the way things went yesterday, but we were all trying harder, too. We didn’t dwell on the day before, but when he sent us home for the weekend, he said, “I’m glad to see most of you back. Keep showing up and I promise it will be worth it.” We all managed not to giggle at the many ways we could interpret that. But I also took it to mean he’d noticed Candace hadn’t returned, and also that we’d lost Sharon Henderson and two of the three Lisas, Lisa J. and Lisa K. (which probably at least made things less confusing for both Bobby and Lisa Orlawski). I also noticed that he hadn’t told the entire team he saw potential in them. That he’d chosen that word specially for me made me even happier I’d decided not to quit.

  I kept turning the whole conversation in Bobby’s office over and over in my mind. When Tina dropped me off at home, I saw a pine cone on the sidewalk and tapped it from my left foot to my right, then dribbled it back and forth as I headed to my front steps. I felt competent, even if it was a pine cone and not a soccer ball, and I’d only dribbled it about twenty feet.

  Though the sun was starting to set, I went inside, washed my face, and went back out, walking the few blocks to Ninety-Fifth Street and crossing to Sportmart, where I’d bought my soccer shorts. I had babysitting money in my pocket. It was a perfect time to buy cleats.

  “Can I help you with something?” A guy with a lot of chin acne whose name tag read “Greg” came up to me. “Shopping for your boyfriend?”

  I play soccer, asshole, I was tempted to say. But in all honesty, I’d never really played soccer.
I’d run across a field a bunch of times, and kicked a ball around, and tried to get my coach to look at my tits and ass for a week. But I hadn’t actually played. Not yet.

  “No. I need soccer cleats. For me,” I said.

  “Oh. Girls’ cleats. They don’t make those,” Greg said, and just stood there, like I’d led him to a dead end and he didn’t know where to go.

  “Well, where are the men’s cleats? I’m sure there are some small sizes.”

  “We don’t have a lot of soccer stuff. Soccer cleats are down aisle fourteen. Assorted gear and clearance.” Greg pointed toward the back of the store.

  The aisle had several racks of raglan-sleeved baseball shirts that were on sale for the end of the summer, and some really random stuff, like Greg had promised: Ping-Pong paddles, a few marked-down beach towels, a pair of flippers, and several shelves of cleats. There was dust on top of most of the boxes. I knew Powell Park Sporting Goods would have a better selection, because they sold jackets and jerseys to all the high schools, including the Catholic schools with soccer teams. But everyone said Powell Park Sporting Goods was really overpriced.

  I was holding up one of my Keds to a cleat in a men’s size six when a voice behind me said, “Hey, killer. I knew I’d see you around.”

  I dropped the shoe onto the shelf and turned around to see Joe, the spiky-haired kid from Dan’s party. His mouth was turned up at the side, like he had a joke he could tell me but was trying to decide if I’d get it.

  “Hi,” I said, turning back to the shoes. I’d been buzzed the night of the party but now that I was sober, I had a strong feeling that what I’d thought might have been flirting was just his personality.

  “Whatcha buying?” He stuck his nose between me and the aisle and reached for one of the shoes I’d put back for being too expensive.

  “Cleats, in, I guess, a men’s size six,” I said. I reached past him for the cheapest pair in my size and sat down on an empty shelf to try them on. When my mom took me to Carson’s for new shoes, someone fetched them out of the stockroom. I was kind of relieved that I could do it myself here.

  “For soccer,” Joe said. “You must be good.”

  I shrugged. “Not really.” He didn’t need to know about my amazing potential.

  “Hmm,” he said, and went about pulling an armful of baseball T-shirts from the shelf a few feet away.

  I started to slip on the shoes and lace them up. “You play baseball? You don’t seem the type.”

  “Not very open-minded for someone trying on men’s cleats,” Joe said, but he smiled. “But you’re right, I don’t play baseball. I’m going to make these into band T-shirts. I hate capitalism, but I love the idea of someone wearing my band’s name on a T-shirt.”

  “What are you called?” I asked.

  “The Lady Soccer Players,” he said, his eyes twinkling as he waited for me to react.

  “Screw you,” I said, but I laughed.

  “I’m kidding. We’re the Watergate Tapes,” Joe said, coming closer. He put a finger under the lid of my shoebox. “But really, soccer, your own cleats . . . It’s very punk rock of you.”

  “Punk rock?”

  “You know, The Clash, the Stooges, the Buzzcocks. I love the stuff.” With his finger still beneath the box lid, he looked right into my eyes.

  “Yeah, I know what punk rock is,” I said. “I was questioning your use of it as an adjective.”

  He grabbed his heart like he was wounded. “Ouch, grammar police,” he said. “Punk rock is an adjective, because it’s a way of being.”

  “Whatever you say,” I told him and, satisfied that the shoes I’d tried would be good enough, put them back in the box and stood up to go pay.

  “Don’t get those,” Joe said. He pointed at the box I was carrying. “Never skimp when it comes to shoes. Your feet will thank you.” He pulled the more expensive ones off the shelf.

  “What do you know about cleats?”

  “Enough. I used to be a goalie for St. Mark’s. I can play forward, too, if called upon.”

  “You? Played soccer?” I took in his black jeans and ratty black T-shirt.

  “So into appearances, aren’t we?” he shot back. “But yeah, I played for two years. Hamstring injury took me out for a while, and seeing myself act like a single-minded jock who didn’t know what to do with himself when he couldn’t play soccer took me out permanently.”

  “Oh,” I said, wishing I knew how to reply to that. I picked up the pricier cleats. “These are only five bucks more, I guess.” Two extra hours of babysitting Randy the Terrible down the block, but I could swing it.

  “Good luck,” Joe said.

  “Thanks,” I said, turning to go. I wanted him to say “See you around” again but he was examining the shirts.

  “Joey, they didn’t have my gum at Walgreens,” came a female voice behind me. I turned to see a slim girl with dark blond hair slouching against the end of the aisle. Her bored expression looked like a permanent condition, but it almost made her glamorous, like Jerry Hall. “Hi,” she said to me, clearly not bothered I was talking to Joe. Maybe it was his sister.

  “We’ll try somewhere else, babe,” Joe said. Babe. So she was not his sister but his . . . babe. And he clearly wasn’t worried about being found talking to me.

  “Did they have the shirts?” the babe asked. She didn’t have to put any effort into not looking at me. It was like I wasn’t even there.

  “Got ’em.” Joe slung his arm loosely around the babe’s neck and steered her down the aisle.

  “We need to get to Jeff’s,” she said, a little whiny, as she leaned her head on his shoulder. “And I’m hungry.”

  But he turned back and looked at me. “Enjoy the cleats, punk rocker.”

  As he rounded the corner, I waited in the aisle a minute. I didn’t want to be standing in line at the register next to Joe and his girlfriend.

  I finally picked up the shoes and left the aisle to go pay, but almost crashed into Joe. “I just thought of something,” he said, grinning at me. “If you wanted, we could, you know, train together. At soccer. I don’t do the team thing anymore, but I wouldn’t mind kicking a ball around. Here . . .” He fished a Wendy’s receipt and a pen out of his pocket and scrawled his name and a phone number on it. As he thrust the paper into my hand, I opened my mouth to say something. But he spoke first. “I’m pretty good, so if you’re serious about getting better, think about it.” He closed my hand around his number. “Ball’s on your pitch, killer.”

  He spun around and jogged to the front of the store as I looked down at his scribbled number, wondering what the hell a pitch was.

  Nine

  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 f
or 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.”