by Score, Lucy
Hmm. Tempting.
“I have an away game today. Rain check?”
“Soon then,” he said with a flash of dimple. “I’ll save you a seat.”
20
Marley
I forgot how much I hated school buses. The vinyl seats smelled like farts, and the suspension made me feel like I was enjoying a leisurely cruise in a tank over desert boulders. My internal organs were bruised, and I felt queasy. But at least the girls were in good spirits.
Vicky was sound asleep in the seat across from me, her mouth open, daintily snoring.
Natalee, my cute Korean striker, slid into the seat behind me. “Okay, so we didn’t want to miss all the fun, so Leslie’s cousin Brad is at the stadium, and he’s going to record it.”
“I thought we weren’t going to tell anyone about this.” I glanced around the bus before remembering that Lisabeth had been on the absentee roster today. Apparently, she had parents who felt she didn’t actually need to attend school.
“Brad isn’t going to tell anyone. He hates Tyler on the varsity team because Tyler told Mr. Vandish that Brad was copying off of his trig test when really it was Tyler copying Brad.” Natalee was extremely well-informed, and I was probably already fired.
“I hope he’s at least subtle about it,” I said dryly, but I moved closer to peer at Natalee’s phone. It was 3:29. My fingers danced on the clipboard that held the first quarter’s lineup. We were playing the Huntersburg Bees. A warm, fuzzy name for a team that systematically dismembered its opponents. The Huntersburg Bees were from an all-girls private school. To get to them, it was a forty-five-minute drive through Amish country. But the peace-loving Amish weren’t enough to dilute the Bees.
They were as evil as teenage girls could get. At least, that’s how I remembered them after they trounced us on the soccer field every single time.
Was I nervous about my very first game as a soccer coach? Hell yes. Did I think there was a possibility that this prank would get me fired? Definitely. Especially since everyone was waving their phones around talking about vandalism and breaking and entering. High school-aged girls were not good at keeping secrets.
Was I also still thinking about Jake telling me he was flirting with me? Yes. A lot.
Someone squeaked toward the back of the bus. “It’s Brad,” Leslie said, brandishing her phone. “He said ‘It’s starting’!”
The excited squeals woke Vicky. “Huh? What’s going on? Where am I?”
“You’re halfway to Huntersburg, and the sprinklers just went off.”
Vicky bolted from her seat and ran down the aisle screaming, “I wanna see!”
“She’s super weird,” Natalee confided.
“Aren’t we all?”
Phones started dinging all up and down the bus aisle.
“I got video! I’m sharing,” Leslie announced.
Natalee’s phone signaled a message.
She pushed play, and I watched with satisfaction as the sprinklers erupted, arcing red water into the air. The varsity team was on the field, running some complicated footwork drill. There were the usual noises of surprise and then panic when they realized this wasn’t just water.
Ah. Nothing felt as good as watching a plan come together. Perfect execution. And we were miles away from the scene of the crime. Even I was impressed with myself.
The girls were celebrating with a cheery “Suck it” chant. I hoped the bus driver wasn’t taking notes for the administration. But he was a beefy guy with a bologna sandwich in his shirt pocket and earbuds in his ears.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw Jake’s name on the screen. I’d been given access to the teacher’s directory which included phone numbers. I may have plugged Jake’s name and number into my contacts just in case.
Jake: I had a hunch there might be some excitement up here today.
Attached was a picture of a snarling Coach Vince waving his arms in the air while his players scrubbed their faces on their shirts. They were all cherry Kool-Aid red.
I debated replying. But I couldn’t help it.
Me: Huh. Imagine that. They must have really pissed someone off.
Jake: It’s not permanent is it?
Me: If I had to guess—seeing as how I have no personal knowledge of the situation—I’d say it was one of those semi-permanent prank dyes. It can hold up to water for a couple of days, but baby oil will strip it right out.
Jake: I don’t feel inclined to share that information right now.
Me: I like that about you.
Jake: Good luck today, Coach.
I felt a smile spreading across my face. If we could take down the entire boys soccer team and their shithead coach, maybe we had a chance today. Starting out the season with a win? Now, that would be pretty great.
* * *
We lost.
So badly that the Bees’ head coach apologized to me when he shook my hand after the game.
7-0. And the last two goals had been scored by the Bee’s junior varsity second string.
We hadn’t been able to string passes together. Our communication was nonexistent. And while our defense worked harder than they should have had to, the offense couldn’t get anywhere near the goal.
The team mood had gone from jubilant over our secret revenge plot to dejected in ninety minutes of terrible play.
Even worse. My parents had surprised me and stood in the bleachers with a handmade sign that said Coach Marley in glitter and calligraphy. After halftime, I wanted to climb up into the stands and rip the sign into pieces. How many more ways could I disappoint them before they gave up on me completely? How many more ways could I fail before I gave up completely?
We trooped back on the bus in silence, except for Vicky, who was doling out pep talks like a panicked life coach on espresso.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day, ladies!”
Ruby and Sophie S. were back to ignoring each other after the two had gotten into an argument at center field. They had to be separated by the ref, and I’d benched them both.
We really could have used Lisabeth’s beefy aggression on the field.
It felt like we were missing something. Some key component. Even worse, I worried that whatever tools I was missing in my personal life were exactly what the team was missing. It was my fault. I had a gap in my leadership. I could tell them to run and dribble all day long. But that wouldn’t lead to a W.
I had the distinct feeling that, until I figured out what was wrong with me, I wouldn’t be able to fix what was wrong with them.
Vicky flopped down in the seat next to me. “Well, that was a shit show,” she said cheerfully.
“I don’t know how to fix this, V,” I told her.
She patted me on the leg. “Some things aren’t fixable. Maybe you should just quit while you’re behind.”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
She smirked and yanked her hair out of her crooked ponytail. “Babe, it’s gonna be fine. You’re not the first coach to lose a game.”
Yeah, but I had a feeling I was the first coach who had no clue how to win.
* * *
We stopped for a fast food dinner, which I skipped. The recent progress around my middle and the fact that I no longer felt like I needed a nap every day at noon and again at two felt like a move in the right direction. I had Crock-Pot chicken waiting for me at home and a beer. A big one.
The mood on the bus lightened a bit by the time we got back to the school. Apparently news of the now bright red boys soccer team had spread far and wide. The girls gleefully took turns sharing pictures and Snapchat videos of the aftermath.
“There’s a rumor going around that it was Middletown’s team that did it,” someone reported from the back of the bus. “Their school colors are red and white.”
“Do you think Coach did that on purpose?” someone else asked.
I sighed and stared out the dark window. The loss was a distant memory to everyone but me.
; We got back to the school, and I waved the girls off. The parking lot slowly emptied, and I loaded the balls and my gym bag into my hatch. The night was warm, and I couldn’t believe I had to be back here in less than twelve hours. Who knew teachers worked so much?
A vehicle pulled into the lot, and I was suddenly aware that I was all alone at night in a poorly lit parking lot.
The windows were down, and I could hear Bon Jovi wailing through the speakers.
Jake Weston.
21
Jake
She looked dejected, tired. Like someone who had been knocked down one too many times. I wanted to fix it. To work the kinks out of those slumped shoulders, tell her everything would work out.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I thought you might want one of these,” I said holding up the six pack I’d pulled out of the fridge.
Marley nodded solemnly. “I do. I really do.”
I pulled in next to her car and popped the hatch on my SUV. A little late-night tailgating in the high school parking lot with a pretty girl would go far in reminding me I hadn’t entirely lost my rebellious ways.
She finished stuffing things into her car and joined me. I sat, patting the lip of the hatch next to me.
Marley obliged. I twisted the top off a beer and handed it to her.
“Did you bring me pity beer because you feel sorry for me?”
“Why would I feel sorry for you?” I asked, incredulous.
“Because we lost. Badly. They put the second-string JV in against us. And we still lost.”
I winced. “Thems the breaks in sports. You should be celebrating.”
She looked at me skeptically with those pretty brown eyes.
“Celebrating what?”
“Right now, Coach Vince is standing in a shower that’s gone cold and scrubbing his misogynistic skin.”
That brought a ghost of a smile to her face, but it was gone just as quickly.
“Do you know what my sister does for a living?” she asked.
“I have no clue. Macramé shit and sell it on Etsy?”
She laughed, and I decided I wanted to hear the sound again.
“She works for a human rights organization and applies for grants to bring refugees to the U.S. for life-saving surgeries.”
“Cool.”
“I hypothetically dye teenagers red.”
“I don’t think you’re grasping the pure poetic justice of what you just pulled off…if it was indeed you. I still haven’t heard an actual confession.”
“I’m admitting to nothing,” she said, taking a sip of the beer. “But tell me more about this poetic justice.”
“Vince Snavely is a sniveling, steroid-eating weasel. The only thing he cares about is winning, and he imparts that lovely wisdom on impressionable teenage boys.”
“Huh. He really does look like a weasel,” Marley said.
“Come on. Admit it. Tell me you did it. It’ll make you feel better,” I told her, nudging her with my elbow. I liked the way it felt when our skin brushed. There was something chemical there. A reaction every single time.
She sighed. “When am I going to learn that pranks never make me feel better?”
I had a feeling she was thinking back to Homecoming our senior year. People still talked about it. “Still waiting for a confession.”
“How do I know I can trust you? Are you a narc?”
“I brought you beer that I’m drinking on school property,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but maybe you’re wearing a wire,” she joked.
“Do you want me to take off my shirt?” I offered.
She paused mid-swallow and coughed.
“Because I’d be willing to do it. If it convinces you to trust me.”
“Keep your shirt on, Flirty McGee.”
Playfully, I tugged at the hem of my t-shirt and watched her eyes follow the movement.
“Marley, do I need to remind you that you’re not the only one with prankster cajones? Remember junior year when I built a ramp and jumped the principal’s car with my bike?”
She cocked her head to the side. “Oh, that was you?” she asked innocently.
Damn right it was me.
She looked me up and down. “You don’t look much like that guy anymore. You look…well-behaved. Like a Boy Scout.”
It was an insult, and we both knew it. “I may portray myself to be an upstanding adult during school hours. But I assure you, after school I’m a little rougher around the edges.”
“Hmm.” She considered me, then shook her head. “Nope. Don’t buy it. There’s no sign of the teenage rebel.”
Challenge accepted. “Allow me to reacquaint you with him.” I leaned into her space, happy when she didn’t retreat. I remembered that about her. She didn’t back down or give up.
“Oh, so you’re going to kiss me?” she asked. Her tone was lighter now, her eyes sparkled.
“Yeah. Get ready.”
“I’m ready. Impress me.”
I started to lean in, slow. Building the anticipation. She parted her lips, and I could hear that little intake of breath. Almost like a whisper. Oh, I was going to enjoy this. Marley put a hand on my chest, and I stopped just an inch shy of her mouth.
“You’re going to be better at this than you were in high school, right? I mean, I assume you’ve had some practice since then.”
I laughed softly. Yeah, I liked this woman. She was sneaky funny, and there was something a little sad about her. Both were my personal kryptonite when it came to women.
“I think I was pretty damn good in high school,” I argued.
She smiled at me, and I felt my heart take a nose dive right into my gut. I really liked that smile.
“What does this mean?” she asked suddenly.
I didn’t pull back, instead I held my ground. We were so close I could feel her body vibrating.
“What does what mean?”
“You showing up here, with a beer, a kiss? Is this a pity thing? Is this a one-time thing? Are you gonna suddenly give up your bachelor ways and fall head over heels for me? We work together. I’m only here for the semester. And given our history, you’ll forgive me for wanting a clarification.”
“You worried I’m gonna want to put a ring on you, Mars?” I asked reaching out to take her long, slim fingers in mine. I let my thumb trail over her ring finger. “Get my heart broken?”
Her breath hitched, and I felt my heart rate kick up a notch.
“I just want to know what I’m getting into.”
“How about we start with a kiss and see what happens?”
She hesitated. “Okay. As long as you make it a good one.”
“Hey, it takes two for a great kiss. You better hold up your end,” I teased.
I set my beer down and took hers, placing it next to mine. Taking my time, I cupped her face in my hands. I could feel the tension in her, the impatience, and that delicious little sliver of nerves. This was a pretty stupid move on my part. We worked together. I never dated anyone I worked with.
But I really wanted to kiss her. And I didn’t like not doing what I really wanted.
I let my thumbs stroke her jawline, noted the way her bottom lip quivered. Her neck was soft, smooth, warm. It made me want to sink my teeth in. But I was knocking on forty. That was a little too old for hickeys.
“Why aren’t you kissing me yet?” she asked.
Our mouths were so close. Her lip brushed mine when she spoke.
“Because sometimes it’s more about the journey.”
“I’m more about getting there—”
I closed the distance, cutting her off.
Her lips were ridiculously soft and inviting beneath mine. I had to bite back the urge that rose up and took me by the throat to deepen, to take, to chase.
Forcing gentleness, I moved my lips over her mouth in a caress. She was trembling against me, and every cell in my body was lighting up and paying attention. Just a kiss, I reminded myself
. Just a freaking kiss. But I wanted more.
Her hands were on my chest, fisted in my t-shirt, and our hips and legs were pressed up tight against each other, seeking flesh. The way she responded to me was fucking mind-blowing. I was painfully aware of everything. Every breath, every tremor, every whimper that worked its way up her throat.
I was hard. Like “welcome to puberty, you have no control over your body” hard.
“Jesus, woman. Where did you learn to kiss like—”
But she didn’t give me room to finish the question. Marley was pulling me back to her mouth and sinking her teeth into my lower lip. That little nip of pain was all it took to shove me right over the edge of civility.
I pushed one hand into her hair and hauled her into my lap with the other. If the kiss made me want more, this position with her sweet round ass centered on my uncomfortably hard cock made me want to set our clothes on fire and howl at the fucking moon.
I wasn’t into overthinking things. I liked her. I was attracted to her. Very, very attracted to her.
But there was one tiny sliver of my brain that wasn’t fully dedicated to sexual pleasure, and it was beating out an emergency message in Morse code reminding me that I was in the school parking lot with a woman I wanted to get to know a bit better before I stuck my needy dick in her.
“Mars.” I drew back and then dove in again, raining kisses down her throat.
She wiggled against me, and the friction made my vision go black around the edges. Fuck.
I gripped her hips and tried to hold her still. “Marley,” I said again. My voice was rough.
“Hmm. What do you know? Maybe there is a little bit of teenage rebel in there after all,” she said. She nipped my bottom lip one more time and slid off my lap. “Thanks for the beer, Boy Scout.”