Risky Play

by Van Dyken, Rachel

  “You know it, bitch.”

  Matt narrowed his eyes. “I think I found the common ground.”

  I snorted in disbelief. “Oh yeah, what’s that?”

  He pointed between us. “You both live to piss me off.”

  Jagger was silent, like the idea of us being friends again made him uncomfortable.

  I frowned at him and then shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I still don’t want to kill him on a daily basis.”

  “Still upset over my date, I see,” he announced just as one of the volunteers walked up with cones and a bag of soccer balls.

  “She says you’re just friends. I call bullshit.” I shrugged.

  Matt bit back a curse. “Stop with the language.”

  I turned and grinned. “And bullshit’s what? A dirty word?”

  “Fucking hate my job most days.” Matt kicked the dirt.

  Jagger burst out laughing. “Poor Matty.”

  Matt’s eyes widened.

  I burst out laughing. “I forgot about that nickname.”

  “Oh, it’s a gem,” Jagger added. “Remember? I’m Jaguar Jagger, you’re Slade the Striker, and then we have . . . Little Matty.” Nostalgia hit me hard and fast as a memory of us playing in our early twenties reared its ugly head. Game after game, bars filled with friends and food. We’d been poor as hell but happy.

  Matt gritted his teeth and then flipped us both off, though he was cracking a smile as he turned around and jogged toward the volunteer.

  I took a sip of coffee. “How do you want to do this? Start with some drills?”

  “Sure.” Jagger was looking at the grassy field. “Camp goes until eleven every morning—which means we can still get in our afternoon practice with the team . . . I say we go through a few drills, and you can teach them all about balls, that is, if you still have them after Saturday night.”

  “Good one,” I said in a dry tone. “And that shitface deserved every punch I slung his way, plus I didn’t see you jumping to your feet until my balls and I stepped in.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” He swallowed and looked down. “We used to be friends, remember? My first instinct isn’t to hit my friends. You wouldn’t know what that’s like, since you don’t really have any.”

  “I have Matt,” I said defensively.

  “You pay Matt,” he pointed out. “When was the last time you even hung out with the guys?”

  I started getting hot and itchy as I stared him down. “I hung out with my old team all the time. Look how that turned out for me.”

  Jagger’s eyebrows shot up. “Funny, I heard a bit of a different story from a few people . . . especially about your ex.”

  “I know the truth,” I said through clenched teeth.

  Kids started shuffling onto the field.

  You could tell the minute it registered that we were on the field. There was no way to brace for the onslaught of elementary school kids running at us full speed with no plan of stopping.

  Jagger’s eyes widened.

  I closed mine briefly.

  And then felt stickiness against my legs, arms. There was lots of jumping up and down, so I just went with it.

  I started jumping up and down.

  Jagger burst out laughing and joined me.

  Soon we had all fifty kids jumping with us, and the adults watching in disbelief, before I blew a whistle and kicked things off with a game of freeze tag.

  It was an easy way to get them warm. And it helped them loosen up around us instead of being starstruck.

  Jagger blew his whistle after about twenty minutes of running around and basically getting bulldozed by all the tiny humans.

  “Alright, everyone, I’m going to count you off in ones and twos. Ones go to Slade, since he’s the number-one striker in the world.” Cheers sounded around us. I actually laughed out loud when some of them started practicing their own kicks.

  My ones were more than pumped to be on my team. The twos didn’t seem to mind being on his, so all in all, it was a good start.

  “Alright, ones,” I called out. There was no way I was going to remember everyone’s names at this point, but I could try. “We’re going to run a quick feet drill. I’m going to line up the cones, and I need you to weave the ball through the cones like this.” I demonstrated what I meant with ease while they all stared at me slack-jawed as though I’d just performed brain surgery.

  “Alright, one by one, I want you guys to follow each other. When your friend gets to the end, you start. I’m setting up ten lines.”

  Once I was done, I blew my whistle and they started.

  Everyone seemed to be having fun except one little boy who stood with the ball in his hands.

  I tapped one of the kids on the shoulder. “Hey, who’s that?”

  “Oh, Danny?” He said his name under his breath like he was afraid someone would hear. “He, uh, his papaw died yesterday. His parents made him come still, they thought it would cheer him up.”

  My heart sank past my knees and onto the ground.

  “And what’s your name?”

  “Mitchell.” He puffed out his chest.

  “Cool.” I pulled off my whistle and handed it to him. “You think you can handle the team while I go talk to Danny?”

  Mitchell’s eyes widened. “For real?”

  “For real.” I grinned. “Once everyone finishes, blow the whistle, have them line up again, and run lines between the cones.”

  “But, Mr. Slade, what if they don’t listen?”

  “You have the magic whistle, they will,” I said encouragingly, ruffling his hair. “Plus I’ll be right over here watching.”

  “’Kay.” He pulled the whistle cord over his head and crossed his arms, somehow managing to look very adult. I cracked another smile, then jogged over to Danny. He was still holding the ball close to his chest, like it was a teddy bear or security blanket.

  “Hey.” I gave him a head nod and then sat on the grass and patted the spot next to me. “Have a seat.”

  He lowered to the ground and crossed his legs, still holding the ball, still not saying a word. His sadness was palpable; I could feel it winding its way through me. Choking me.

  Had anyone walked up to me and asked me how I was doing after my father died, I was embarrassed to admit I’d probably have burst into gut-wrenching tears at the time.

  “It’s Danny, right?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “I heard you’re having a rough time . . .”

  He scowled. “No offense, stranger that I don’t know,” he said sarcastically. Kid was probably eleven tops. “But I don’t need to hear it. Any of it. It doesn’t make it better.”

  “It doesn’t,” I agreed. “It sucks.”

  He looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “I’m not going to tell you it’s okay, I’m not going to tell you that you should be happy or that you’ll see him again—I’m not going to tell you that sometimes life happens and we can’t control things . . .”

  He gulped as a wave of fresh tears ran down his cheeks. “Good.”

  “Yeah. Good.” I nodded. “Screw ’em, right?”

  His eyes widened.

  “All the people still here that love you, that are in pain too, that want you to feel better—screw ’em.”

  He gulped. “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded, suddenly feeling like I had more in common with an eleven-year-old than anyone else in my life. Ironic. “My dad died . . .” My voice shook a bit. I couldn’t stop the tiny tremors or the goose bumps that broke out on my arms. “He died of a heart attack a few weeks ago.” Danny didn’t say anything, so I kept talking even though it hurt my throat to get the words out. “He was at every practice, every game, he was supposed to be at all my new games. We were supposed to go on a trip.” I choked over the word. “He was upset that I decided to come to Seattle, and when he called, I didn’t answer the phone, Danny. I just . . .” Tears stung the back of my throat, but I couldn’t stop talking. “I blamed e
veryone, including the person I was with when he died.” I toyed with the grass in front of me. “I blamed everyone but myself because it hurt too much. Because it hurts, Danny. Because sometimes I don’t think it will ever stop hurting, and sometimes we hurt a little bit less on the inside when we’re mean and sad on the outside.”

  I felt something sweaty touch my hand.

  I looked down.

  Danny had his hand on mine.

  I turned it over and squeezed it.

  He stared down at my hand and then looked up at me. “You were Papaw’s favorite player.”

  Shit, this kid was going to make me bawl in front of Jagger and elementary school kids.

  “Oh yeah?” I rasped.

  “He said you were the most inspirational . . .” He frowned. “Inspirational person, that if you could play for a league, someday I could too.” He blinked back another tear. “Was he right?”

  Typically, I didn’t give kids false hope.

  I liked to inspire but not make it so they thought they could wrangle the moon if they wanted to.

  But with this kid?

  I’d tell him he could be Captain America if that’s what it took for him to believe that it could get better.

  “Danny, he’s right. It sounds like he was a good man, and I know he’d want you to be here playing your heart out—he wouldn’t want you sad.”

  Danny put his head on my shoulder and whispered, “I don’t think your dad would want you sad either, Mr. Slade.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut to keep the tears in. “I think you’re right.”

  “I don’t hear that a lot.”

  I laughed and then released his hand. “Danny, thanks for listening.”

  “I’m a good listener.” He squared his shoulders to sit a bit taller and then grinned. “Do you think I can go play now?”

  “I think you absolutely should.” I stood and offered him my hand. He took it, dusted off the grass, and went flying.

  He left the soccer ball.

  I picked it up and flipped it over and nearly dropped it. In black marker etched across the white was the name Pablo.

  My father’s name.

  I shook my head as fresh tears stung my eyes. I gave myself a few seconds to gather my emotions then trotted over to Mitchell. “How’s it going?”

  “I think I’m going to be a coach someday, I like bossing people around,” he announced.

  I burst out laughing, tears replaced with humor. “Yeah, yeah, give the whistle back, little boss.”

  He pouted but gave it back and joined the ranks.

  And when Danny made his way through the next drill with a smile on his face, I had to ask myself if that talk was for him . . . or for me.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  MACKENZIE

  Something was different.

  First of all he was whistling when he came home. Alfie even tilted his head in disbelief. I almost asked him if he was on drugs.

  Especially when he swept into the kitchen, saw dinner on, and pulled me in for a hug, then kissed my cheek. “I was going to sell my soul for a nugget on the way home, then got your text that you made dinner.” His eyes bored into mine. “Thank you, Mack, you’re the best.”

  My heart did a little flip as I waited for the other shoe to drop, like You’re the best but there’s too much salt, or You’re super great, but this isn’t working out.

  Instead he just grabbed a plate and then called over his shoulder, “Did you want any?”

  “Uh . . .” I almost scratched my head and turned around in a circle. “Must have been a good day? Did you get a bonus or something?”

  He stopped piling food onto his plate and turned, bracing himself against the counter. “Bonus?”

  “Money,” I clarified. “You know, green stuff. You buy things with it, in your case probably prostitutes.”

  He grinned and snorted out a laugh. “No. I spent the first half of my morning teaching elementary school kids which goal to run toward, and fought with your friend”—he made air quotes—“Jagger for the first fifteen minutes of camp.”

  “Ah.” There he was. Air quotes and all. “It’s a shame your community service includes teaching this generation’s future.” I grinned.

  “Hah-hah.” He wagged his finger at me. “I’d like to think we put our differences behind us when the kiddos are watching. Case in point, I didn’t even swear.”

  “Wow! Turning over a new leaf, huh?” I teased.

  He dug the fork into his chili, then dipped his corn bread in right after. “You know you’re spoiling me, right?”

  “That’s my plan . . . you know, next to the shrine I keep by my bedside and the candles I light around your picture. Fingers crossed one of them works.” I grabbed my purse and coat.

  “Hey, I had a stalker email me a picture of her shrine—I doubt yours has a light show.” He shrugged. “And she had at least twenty candles to your few, so you may need to up your game.”

  “She sent you a picture?”

  “Over Instagram. You know how it blocks pictures? Her name was an old teammate’s, clearly on purpose. I clicked and haven’t gotten the image out of my mind for a solid three years.” He took another bite and then nodded to the table. “Stay, hang out.”

  “You don’t pay me to hang out.” Keep it professional, keep it friends. He was being nice because . . . because he doesn’t like Jagger. Focus!

  Slade frowned. “What am I? The worst company in the world? The worst friend?” He pulled out a chair for me. “Sit down and tell me . . .” His eyes roamed over my body a bit. “Tell me . . . about your day.”

  “Curious, it seems like you’re trying to have a conversation with me without sliding in the term NDA, kissing me, insulting me, or forcing your friendship on me . . . are we . . . adulting today, Slade?”

  He grinned wide. “You’re a smart-ass, you know this, right?”

  I nodded. “I come by it honestly.” With a huff I got up, grabbed a bowl, and made my way over to the stove. I put in two heaping spoonfuls and was already taking a bite out of the corn bread when I sat down.

  “That was possibly the biggest bite I’ve ever seen another human take out of corn bread up close,” he observed, making me almost choke.

  I reached for his water.

  Drank.

  And then put it back.

  “Get any corn bread floaties in there?” He jerked his head toward it.

  “If I did, it will be a special sort of surprise,” I fired back.

  He laughed. “I like this.”

  “What?” I blew across my chili. “The risk of backwash?”

  He set his spoon down and stared at me so hard I started getting uncomfortable. Those golden eyes were like laser beams, and they saw more than I wanted him to.

  They saw past my humor.

  Past my sarcasm.

  Sometimes I thought they saw through to the hurt girl who just wanted someone to see her and say, “You, I want you. Nobody else.”

  “You,” he said like he could read my mind. “Me.” I deflated a bit. “Us.” He shrugged. “I like us getting along . . . I, um . . .”

  “Don’t.” I shook my head. “Don’t ruin things by getting serious.”

  “This is serious.” He half growled. “I’m trying—no, scratch that, I want to try . . . with you. I want to be better, I don’t want to be the guy who lets one tragic thing in his life turn him into a man he doesn’t recognize . . . I guess I just wanted you to know I’m trying.”

  I gulped. “I know.”

  “And I’m glad we’re friends.”

  My heart crashed against my rib cage, then sailed to the ground. Why was I stupid enough to become friends with the guy whose kisses were seared into my soul? Why?

  “Me too.” I forced a smile.

  He returned it with a wink. “Hey, Mack?”

  “What, Slade?” I reached for my spoon.

  “You’re a bad liar.”

  I glared. “I’m not lying.”

 
“That would be lie number two.”

  “I’m not . . .” I huffed. “Of course I’m happy we’re friends.”

  “Is that why you’re gripping your spoon the way you gripped my—”

  I shoved a piece of corn bread into his mouth. “Sorry, you looked hungry still.”

  It fell onto his chili.

  He shook his head and chewed the part still in his mouth, then whispered so low that chills erupted down my arms. “I’ll wear you down, Mack . . . and look at the bright side. If you don’t want my friendship . . . and you don’t want me as an enemy, there’s only one logical choice.”

  “I refuse to be your mother.” I smirked.

  “Got one of those.”

  I shifted in my seat a bit as he pointed his spoon in my direction and said, “Game on.”

  “Good luck finding someone to play with,” I said in a sweet voice.

  “Looks like I already did. And she’s days away from throwing in the towel, and I can’t wait for the minute that happens—when you realize that he isn’t what you want . . . that he won’t make you scream the way I did—that he never could.”

  I ignored him for five straight days after that conversation.

  And for five straight days.

  He asked me to stay for dinner.

  For five straight days I wondered if his kiss still tasted the same.

  Five days of avoiding the media firestorm of the fight that broke out at the restaurant and the questions regarding Slade’s interest in me, as well as Jagger’s. Five days of wondering if he was right about Jagger. I knew in my soul, there was really only one way to find out.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  SLADE

  I woke up extra early to make sure I didn’t make an ass out of myself and ruin her surprise.

  She seemed so focused on making sure I was fed that I figured food must be important in her life—like wine. It was at least worth a shot.

  I mentally braced myself and then physically grabbed the countertop and repeated out loud, “Don’t be a dick.”

  I’d spent five days trying like hell, and every time I saw Danny I tried a little bit harder. If he could make it through, I could make it through. But I still had my moments, hell, I had a lot of moments. It helped that she stayed for dinner but I think that was only because she didn’t trust me to clean up after myself, considering the way she found the house on that first day. It also helped that I had no choice but to play nice with Jagger every day this last week.