Gimme Everything You Got

by Iva-Marie Palmer

  That, and the agreement that right now, we were united in one mission against this redheaded asshole, and we weren’t going to be intimidated.

  The boys behind Ken murmured in disbelief, a chorus of “What the fuck?” and “She’s crazy.”

  “I’m not crazy,” I said, trying to look like maybe I was. I felt crazy. I was barreling over some unspoken rule of how I was supposed to act and how angry I could get. Flipping Ken off was one thing, but challenging him to a game without fear or apology was another. “What do you say, fuckwads?”

  Ken laughed again, but it sounded a little forced this time. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll play you. I just hope you can handle it. I think our balls are bigger than you’re used to.”

  “When?” I said, ignoring his comment.

  “A week from tomorrow. Our field. Nine a.m.”

  It was the day of the wedding, but the game would be done in time. And asking to reschedule might make him think I was afraid. “You’re on,” I said.

  “You’ll be sorry,” Ken said.

  “No, we won’t be,” I said.

  None of us moved until the boys dispersed. I put my arms down so the rest of the party wouldn’t see that I’d sweat through my shirt, then turned around and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  No one protested, and we made our way toward the door like we’d stolen something. A few girls we didn’t know spoke to us as we passed.

  “Good for you!”

  “He’s such a dick.”

  “I hope you kick their asses.”

  When we finally emerged onto the front steps, surrounded now by smokers and drunk people oblivious to what had just happened, my teammates huddled around me.

  “Holy shit,” Wendy said. “You’re out of your mind.”

  “It’ll be fine,” I said, not feeling fine at all. “We’ll make a plan.”

  “A plan that will get us ready to play those meatheads next week?” Joanie said.

  “All we have to do is show them we’re not scared,” Tina said.

  We were halfway down the front path when Joe burst out the front door. “Susan,” he called.

  I spun around and took the few steps to meet him on the walk. In a hushed tone, so my teammates couldn’t hear, he said, “What are you, crazy? Challenging those guys to a game?”

  I glared at him. “What, you think we can’t play them?”

  He put his hands up. “Hold on, Pelé, I never said that.”

  “Okay then,” I said. “But honestly . . . yeah, I think I might be crazy.”

  Joe threw his head back and laughed appreciatively, loud enough for my teammates to hear. They were 100 percent all watching us but pretending not to. When he met my eyes again, he said, “Mostly, I think I’m bummed because I have to go to Rachel’s dance recital that day. I’ll miss the game. But what are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Do you want to practice?”

  “I can’t—I’m helping my dad in the morning and then I’ve got band practice,” he said. “But are you busy at night? There’s an all-ages Tutu and the Pirates show at O’Banion’s. In the city. Do you want to go?”

  He was being so typically Joe that I had no way of knowing if he was asking me for a date or this was just hanging out.

  “What about whatsherface? Jeannette?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “Don’t you owe her a date? At least to give her back her tonsils?”

  He flipped me off. “The bassist has a guitar made of a toilet seat. It seemed more your style of outing.”

  Now I flipped him off.

  “It’s not a big deal, but if you want to go . . .” He held my gaze, waiting for an answer.

  “Sure. As friends, right?” I said, casting a look at Tina.

  “Yeah, of course. I’ll pick you up at five.”

  Twenty-Three

  I dreamed weird dreams. Me and Candace as little kids skipping onto a soccer field with our dolls, then Candace disappearing to be replaced by Bobby, all alone. Bobby asking me to kick him a ball that materialized in front of my feet, me kicking it as Bobby became Ken, asking, “Who the fuck do you think you are?” Ken, turning into my mom, saying, “And what do you want, anyway?” Me, surrounded by more soccer balls than I can kick, and my soccer clothes turning into a dusty peach dress. Joe, putting a hand on my shoulder and saying, “Just like that, champ, but different.”

  Then I woke up and lay in my bed, too tired to haul myself out and too anxious to stare at the ceiling.

  Had I really told St. Mark’s boys’ soccer team we wanted to play them?

  I shoved the covers off and got up. I was in the kitchen pouring a bowl of cereal when Mom came in, with her hair curled and a new blouse tucked into her jeans. “You look nice,” I said.

  “I promised the School for Starting Over group at the college I’d help run its bake sale,” Mom said.

  “That sounds like a waste of good hair,” I said, catching myself. I was trying to tread lightly on Mom’s interests. “Sorry. I really meant to say, can you bring me a cupcake?”

  Mom waved me off. “No, you’re right, it’s going to be awful. But I’m networking. The head of the group has a contact at a different title company and might help pass on my résumé.”

  After our argument the previous week, things had gone back to normal, more or less, and on Sunday night we’d ordered a pizza and watched TV together. But I still felt like Mom and I were trying to be more careful around one another, and any time soccer or her job came up in conversation, it put a wave of tension in the air.

  “Are you all set with your dress for the wedding?” Mom asked, changing the subject.

  “As set as I’ll ever be to willingly dress like produce that’s been left in an attic.”

  “Susan, it’s one day,” Mom chided.

  “I know, I know. I have one more fitting Monday night, and Polly will pick up the dress Wednesday. I think we have a game the morning of, but it should be fine.”

  Mom’s eyebrows went up over the top of her coffee mug. “That’s not too many things for one day, is it?”

  “It’ll be fine,” I said, hoping I was right. It was too many things for a year, the more I thought about it. Not to mention, we had to prepare for the game.

  Creeping in on my thoughts about Mom, the game, and the wedding was the argument with Candace. I was bothered by how I’d left things with her the night before. But as I tried to think of what I could say to her, an antsy sensation came over me and I couldn’t focus. First thing was first: I had the show with Joe that night. Tutu and the Whatevers. The toilet guitar. The city, which would be exciting. Besides a school trip to the Field Museum, I hadn’t been downtown in over a year, not since Candace had heard about a store on State Street that sold discount Jordache jeans. Mom had volunteered to take me, Candace, and Tina. We wandered awhile and never found the store, so Mom had taken us to the movies. We’d seen Saturday Night Fever, and all of us—including my mom—had fallen in love with John Travolta in it.

  I pulled out clothes to see what would be good for a punk show, but nothing looked right. Even if it wasn’t a date, I still wanted to look as with it as the other girls who went to the kinds of shows Joe went to. Around two, after pulling apart my dresser and trying and failing to make any progress on my Great Expectations paper for Ms. Lopez, I got the idea to make a shirt like the ones Joe had said he was making for his band. I set out for Sportmart.

  I was headed inside the store when I saw a familiar butt. Bobby’s. He was hanging one of his Personal Best flyers on a bulletin board next to the pay phones.

  “Hi, Coach,” I croaked out.

  He turned around and, seeing me there, offered up a big smile. “Hi, Susan,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  I wanted to impress him, so saying I was here to get a shirt to wreck for a punk show wasn’t the right answer.

  “I . . . I’m looking for gear to get better at soccer,” I said, but hearing how dumb my words sounded, I added, “Last night, I sort of challeng
ed the St. Mark’s team to a game. We play a week from today.”

  “Wait, what?” Bobby set the stapler he was holding on top of the pay phone and let out a breath. “St. Mark’s? You mean the private school?”

  I nodded.

  He squinted. “Are you sure the team is ready for that? They’re really good.”

  He didn’t say, “They’re boys.” Joe hadn’t, either.

  “I think we’re good, too,” I said. I waited for some kind of game-show buzzer to sound, signaling, “You’re wrong, dumbass!” But my statement floated to Bobby, uninterrupted.

  “You’re right,” he said. “But gear isn’t what will make the difference. Training is.” He used his thumb to point backward at the sign he’d just hung.

  “Maybe, since I’m not going to end up buying gear, you could show me how that works?”

  “I don’t have a client right now,” he said. “Maybe I can show you my setup and we can figure out how we’re going to prepare for this game.”

  “That would be great,” I said.

  “Okay, let’s go,” he said. We headed out to the parking lot, and between his shorts and my track pants, people probably thought we were a couple with a devotion to physical fitness.

  We got into his car, and as he started it, he turned to me and said, “You just need to promise me one thing.”

  Anything, I wanted to say in response to his dark, hopeful eyes. “Sure,” I said instead.

  “If you think the workout is helpful, tell me, because I’ll fight to get the team some time in the school weight room.”

  “Okay,” I said, flattered that he thought my input was valuable. “That’s it?”

  He let out a long breath. “Maybe one other thing. . . . Please keep this game quiet. It’s not that I don’t think you should play, but I’m a little worried that if the school gets wind of it, the administration might intervene, or it could threaten the team.”

  I hadn’t thought of that when I’d thrown the gauntlet down with Ken.

  We drove to his duplex, which was on Mansfield, as Dana Miller had told us. He hopped out of the car and opened the side door to an attached garage. As I followed him up the driveway, I tried to peer into the residence part of the duplex. Seeing Bobby’s things would give me insight. Maybe there were markers that would clue me in to what kind of man Bobby was when he wasn’t coaching. Or at least clues to how much sex he had. His curtains were closed, though.

  The inside of the garage was brightly lit, with no dead leaves or dust or junk littered in the corners like every other garage I’d ever been in. Instead of concrete, the floor was covered in carpet remnants that were mismatched but obviously vacuumed regularly. On a shelf was a stereo and next to it a calendar with names and appointment times filled in on a few dates.

  Bobby gestured grandly at the neat, piecemeal gym. “This is it. Personal Best Training,” he said. “For now.”

  “It’s nice,” I said.

  On the wall behind us were posters of the human body stripped of skin to show all the muscles. Bobby started to explain each muscle group, how they functioned separately and as a system, how strengthening them in a focused and safe way would enhance my game, and my whole life. I was trying to take it all in, but it was difficult to pay attention. I felt just like I had that night at the motel. It was hard not to admire Bobby even more when he talked about what he loved. He almost glowed as he told me about clients who’d never imagined the potential their bodies had. Normally, him saying something like that would make me instantly think of the potential our bodies could have together, but in his space, as he shared his excitement, I was just happy for him and wanted his business to succeed.

  He clapped his hands together, knocking me out of my thoughts. “Okay, if you were a client, I’d put you on a legs program and an upper body program on alternating days, but we’re going to try a few sets on a few different muscle groups,” he said. “If this game is next week, I have to say, I don’t think there’s much we can do. It’s not good to lift too frequently right before a big competition. But it’ll probably give you a nice confidence boost, which never hurts.”

  He turned on the radio and “Hotel California” came over the speakers.

  “Oh no,” I said, laughing to myself.

  “What’s that?” Bobby asked.

  “This song,” I said. “It’s funny that it’s kind of pointing out how messed up the music industry is but it comes on the radio all the time.” I was echoing Joe’s diatribe, and felt shitty for stealing his thought to share with Bobby.

  Bobby looked impressed at my observation, which wasn’t really mine. “The boys in your class must be terrified of you,” he said, and that pleased me. “Come on.”

  He led me to a big machine with a low chair that tilted back and faced two metal plates for your feet. A bar extended from either side. Bobby easily hefted a round fifty-pound weight and slid it onto one bar, then did the same on the other side. He sat down on the inclined chair and pushed against the metal plates with his feet, every leg muscle flexing. “This’ll build your quads, a very important soccer muscle.” He sat me down and used the side of his palm to gesture up and down my thigh, not touching it but so close to touching it that I clenched up, as though he could see how horny he was making me. “You want to always push from here. Not your back.”

  “This is a hundred pounds,” I said.

  “Yep, and the way you run, I’d bet you could do more, but this is a good place to start. Try it.” I pushed like he showed me, and watched the weights rise up as the chair slid away from them. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it’d be. Bobby still hovered right above me, staring right into my eyes. “You’ve got it—let’s do ten more.”

  I got a little woozy from the intense way he was looking at me. I knew he wouldn’t make a move on me or anything, but the look helped me imagine he wanted to.

  I would be carried away if I kept going down this road. I asked him, “Why do you want to have a gym?”

  He stepped back to look around the space. “I told you about my brothers, right? Well, that followed me to high school, and I was a second-string guy on the football team. I almost quit, I was so angry. It wasn’t very attractive. I didn’t quit, but I decided to learn soccer in college, to escape the whole football thing. And once I found my game, I realized it didn’t matter how good or bad I was, as long as I was growing. It was about finding my personal best. I think everyone deserves that.”

  “So you want to inspire people?”

  “That’s stupid, isn’t it.” He looked so vulnerable, like he was sure I’d agree. But I shook my head and said, “Not at all.” I wanted to hug him.

  He extended a hand to help me up from the weight bench. “Thanks for that,” he said. He guided me to a mat on the floor and said, “Have you ever heard of crunches?” He showed me how to lie down on the mat with my knees bent. “You lift from your shoulders up. You want to feel it here.” He gestured to his abdomen.

  “So you really don’t think it’s too crazy I challenged those guys to a game?” I asked as I tried to gracefully heave myself up from the floor. “They were making me so mad, acting like we shouldn’t be playing.”

  “And maybe you wanted another game to make up for what happened in Wisconsin?” He didn’t sound mad, more curious. Still, I blushed.

  “I’m sorry for what we did,” I said. “We didn’t mean to get carried away.”

  “We won’t dwell on it. But as for playing, if you shouldn’t play, then no one should. We can write sports off as silly, but they’re not. They enrich us on so many levels. But they should enrich all of us. Women, too,” he said. “As women, it seems like you get told you should do things for other people, not for yourselves. But screw what’s expected of you. Or not expected of you.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” I said. “But I think I do now.” Up until Bobby and soccer, I’d only let myself want impossible things within the confines of my own head, maybe because I assumed what was possible
in reality would only disappoint me.

  I must have been silent for a while, because Bobby said, “I hope that doesn’t sound like I’m coaching to give you permission to play soccer. The truth is—and this is corny—that it’s more like I get to be witness to you all giving yourselves permission.”

  “Are you a feminist?” I blurted out. Who asked a guy that? And did I even know what a feminist was? I still hadn’t read more than the dirty parts of Fear of Flying.

  “I don’t know. It hardly seems like my place to decide that,” he said. “I want to be a good coach and the rest is the rest.”

  I’d managed to control the physical response I had to Bobby, but this was new, and almost worse. I felt protective of what he had revealed, and the precious insights were more intimate than if he’d undressed for me. I wanted him to feel appreciated. “You’re a great coach,” I said.

  He seemed caught off guard. “Thank you,” he said. “I hope you feel like you can talk to me about anything.”

  Someone knocked twice and the door swung open. I lifted my head from the floor to see my mom’s friend Jacqueline standing there, outfitted in royal blue tights and a leotard that matched her eye shadow.

  “Jacqueline, hi,” Bobby said. “We were just wrapping up.”

  Jacqueline pointed with the inside of her hand up, causing her many bracelets to jangle. Why would someone wear jangling bracelets to work out? “This is my friend’s daughter,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “She’s a client?”

  Bobby wiped down the weight bench and looked at me. I tried to get to my feet as gracefully as possible. “Susan is on my soccer team. She’s a star. We bumped into each other and we’re trying to find the best way to train for a big game.”

  “Well, your real customer has arrived,” Jacqueline said, extending an envelope that must have been filled with cash. “So we can get started.” There was something in her tone and the look she gave me that made it clear I should go.