Rock Bottom Girl

by Score, Lucy

  “Apology accepted,” I said.

  “Do you forgive that easily?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

  “Let’s find out.” I dipped my fingers into the V of her shirt and yanked her up against me. I’d been thinking about it since I woke up with her this morning. Feeling the weight and heat, the press of her body.

  Before she could complain or take a swing at me, I crushed my mouth to hers.

  I told myself I was just doing a little PDA duty, putting on an act. Maybe making her forget all about Travis Hostetter and his alligator shirts.

  But then her tongue danced around mine. Her hands gripped my shoulders. Her hips rocked into me. Blindly, I stumbled over to one of the library’s pillars at the foot of its stairs. I pressed her against the brick and tasted her. She made my blood sing with those sexy little moans.

  I went hard in the blink of an eye and shamelessly thrust against her. My dick demanded to be let loose, and I had trouble remembering where we were. My hands were everywhere. Skimming her sides, teasing the undersides of her breasts. I wanted them bare and crushed against me. I wanted to rut inside her and hear her say my name, breathless and needy.

  Loud throat-clearing yanked me back to reality. I stopped kissing Marley but couldn’t bear to step away from her and give her some space.

  “The library is not for necking,” Mrs. Ritter, the head librarian, said crisply. She was dressed in schoolmarm brown. Brown clogs. Brown dress. Brown cardigan. Disapproving look on her face. When I was a teenager, I’d been a little obsessed with wondering whether letting her hair out of her tight bun and taking off her nerd glasses would transform her into the sexy librarian. I never got my answer, but I liked to think at home Mrs. Ritter would let her hair down and do naked Pilates or something.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Ritter,” I said sheepishly.

  “Ms. Cicero, I would have expected better from you,” Mrs. Ritter sniffed before toddling off with her tote bag that said, “DON’T INTERRUPT ME. I’M READING.”

  “Sorry,” Marley croaked after her. She turned her attention back to me and punched me in the arm. “What the hell was that?”

  “I kissed the hell out of you, and then we got yelled at by the librarian,” I recapped.

  “You’re a jerk.”

  I stuffed her into the passenger seat of my car. “Do swans really need a mate?”

  39

  Marley

  It was our first home game under the lights in the stadium, and the dozen or so spectators, mostly parents, spread out in the stands trying to look like a bigger crowd. The opposing team, the Blue Ball Blue Jays—Lancaster County had some weirdly named towns—arrived caravan-style with parents and friends pouring out of cars behind the team bus. We Barn Owls were officially outnumbered on our home turf.

  It was not an auspicious start.

  My parents were there holding a Coach Cicero is Our Snack Cake sign. I waved weakly at them, and Dad held the sign over his head.

  Libby tugged her new socks into place over the shin guards I’d sweated over for thirty minutes before making the decision to buy. I was trying to weigh the expense of name-brand sports equipment with the nasty snark that came from generic second-hand stuff.

  “Is this normal?” she asked, nodding toward the nearly empty stands.

  “Got me. I’m new.” When I was in high school, the girls team didn’t draw the crowds that the boys soccer teams did. But I didn’t remember it being quite this dismal.

  “They don’t have a reason to come see us,” Morgan E. said, threading her fingers through her purple mohawk.

  “Yet,” Vicky corrected her from her bottomless well of delusional optimism. “They don’t have a reason to come see us yet.”

  “New girl’s playing varsity, isn’t she?” Angela asked, sticking her chin out in Libby’s direction.

  “Name’s Libby,” Libby corrected.

  “Whatever,” Angela grumbled. “Just don’t embarrass us.”

  “Nice attitude, Suzy Sunshine,” I told Angela.

  I sent the varsity team, with Libby, up to the stands to spread out and make it look like there were actual fans present. The JV game went reasonably well. In a year or two, they’d be a solid team since they hadn’t had as much time to be scarred by the varsity assholery of Lisabeth.

  At the end of the first half, we were down 1-0, but I’d seen a lot of potential on the field. I took Rachel, the shy forward, aside while everyone else was taking the field for the second half. “Listen, you’ve got everything you need. Speed, footwork. Go out there and put the ball in the back of the net.”

  “I’ll try, Coach.”

  “Don’t try. Just do it.”

  Rachel nodded and jogged out onto the field.

  “You’re mixing your Star Wars with your Nike slogans,” Vicky observed.

  “Shut up. I’m new at this rah rah shit.”

  The ref blew the whistle, and the second half began. Twenty seconds in, one of our midfielders stripped the ball from a Blue Jay and fired it up the line to Rachel.

  Vicky and I grabbed each other and started shouting. “Go!”

  Rachel took off, her little feet a blur as she drove down the field. “TAKE THE SHOT!” I screamed. I was going to need to drink a jar of honey after every game to soothe my throat.

  In slow motion, Rachel cranked her right leg back and fired away.

  Vicky and I held our breath with the rest of the team and the five or six people in the stands who were paying attention.

  The ball soared through the air. The Blue Jay goalie dove for it. I swear, even from fifty yards away, I could still hear the victorious swish of ball meeting net.

  I was screaming. Vicky was screaming. The JV team was on its feet. The varsity players were pounding the bleachers. And Rachel was standing on the field frozen as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just done. And then her teammates tackled her.

  “My daughter taught her to do that,” my dad howled from the stands.

  * * *

  We won 3-2. Rachel had two goals and an assist and couldn’t wipe the dazed smile off her face. I wanted to cry happy tears and eat celebratory chicken corn soup and nachos. But I still had an entire varsity game to get through.

  “Yo, Coach!”

  I turned my attention away from the varsity’s warm-up on the field. Floyd waved from behind the field’s fence. Guidance counselor Andrea and French teacher Haruko Smith were decked out in Barn Owl gear next to him. I waved back, grateful for their support and hoping they weren’t going to witness anything humiliating.

  They took their seats near the JV team that was busy squealing and giggling their way through a recap of their first victory of the season.

  “Not much of a crowd, Coach.” I heard another voice call. This one immediately raised my hackles.

  Coach Vince, flanked by a couple of his players, stood behind my bench, smugly taking in the empty bleachers. The red had faded to a dull pink on their hair and complexions. Now they just looked sunburned.

  “Nice of you to show your support,” I said dryly.

  “Support?” he scoffed. “I’m here to witness your humiliation.”

  Nice job, universe, bringing my greatest secret fears to life.

  “Be sure to buy some soup and hot chocolate to support the Booster Club,” I said, rubbing my eye with my middle finger. Like a toddler with a temper tantrum, he kicked gravel in my direction and stormed off.

  “Good luck tonight, ladies,” Milton said to Angela and Ruby.

  I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or just a dumbass. But I collared both girls and pushed them back toward the field just in case they were feeling particularly blood-thirsty tonight.

  I sent Vicky to round up the team to go through the lineup and snagged Libby from the circle. The field lights banged on overhead.

  “You ready?” I asked her.

  “Relax, Coach. It’s just a game.”

  I heard a wolf whistle and turned around. Jake—looking studly in jeans,
a thermal, and a down vest—waved from the middle of most of the cross-country team. “Lookin’ good, Cicero,” he called.

  I sent him a weak wave before turning back to Libby. My heart had kicked up a notch, and I couldn’t tell if it was pre-game jitters or “Jake Weston looks fine” hormones.

  “I really want to win,” I confessed to Libby.

  “Then tell the team that,” she suggested.

  I huddled everyone up on the field and eyed the clock. “Okay, guys. This is where I’m supposed to tell you to play hard and have fun and be proud of yourselves.”

  They looked at me skeptically.

  “This is also the part where I’m going to tell you I really, really want a win tonight. Coach Vince and half of the boys team is here ready to watch us implode. I don’t want to give them the pleasure. So I’m asking you, selfishly, unfairly, to do your very best out there tonight so I can rub this in his face. Make me look good tonight, and I won’t make anyone run tomorrow.”

  “Well, I do hate running,” Ashlynn the goalie said, clapping her gloved hands.

  “Then let’s go out there and kick Blue Ball’s as—butts,” Vicky said. “Hands in, ladies.”

  “Three, two, one. Go, team!”

  “Go, team!”

  “We need a way cooler call to action,” I said, as the first string took their positions on the field.

  “How about ‘destroy the enemy’?” Vicky suggested as we walked back to the bench. The stands were still mostly empty, but the number of spectators was growing, slowly.

  “How about ‘fuck off, Coach Vince’?”

  Jake was sitting with my parents, and it looked like Dietrich made it out tonight too. I gave them all a little wave and tried to swallow the nerves that were turning my stomach into a roller coaster.

  I felt a shiver run up my spine. Evil was near. Turning around, I spotted Lisabeth Hooper, flanked by the bronzer triplets and… “Is that? It can’t be?” I murmured.

  She was still blonde. Still had a terrifying resting bitch face. She was fifty pounds heavier but still annoyingly attractive.

  “Steffi Lynn?” Vicky supplied. “Yeah. Didn’t you know she’s Lisabeth’s mom? After she flunked out of cosmetology school, she moved back in with her parents and took a job as an assistant to an insurance agent in Centerville. She got knocked up by her boss, which was a shame because he was married. Anyway, she’s been married and divorced like three times. She was a massage therapist until she got sued when her essential oil blend ate the skin off of a couple of her clients. Still lives with her parents. She’s broke and going through another divorce.”

  “Wow.”

  Steffi Lynn took a step closer to the fence and glared down at me. “Once a loser, always a loser,” she said snidely.

  There was something less monstrous, more sad about her than I remembered. Had I somehow cursed Steffi Lynn all those years ago at our showdown or was it just cumulative karma?

  Lisabeth stared me down coldly and mouthed “fuck you.”

  “Thanks for coming to show your support,” I said, giving them a little finger wave.

  “Didn’t she get suspended? Should we call security?” Vicky whispered out of the side of her mouth.

  Stadium security consisted of a seventy-year-old partially deaf man who carried a walkie-talkie and napped in the ambulance.

  “It was a day of in-school suspension. And let’s just rub her face in our victory,” I said grimly.

  40

  Marley

  My heart was pounding away in my throat when the ref blew the whistle to start the game. I’d always felt like this before my own games. Nerves. Anticipation. The hope that I’d somehow magically unlock my untapped athletic ability and be the team hero.

  I guess twenty years wasn’t quite long enough to dull the muscle memory of a home game under the lights. And now I had even more riding on the game. I had three enemies in the stands and a point to prove to everyone else.

  I watched the Blue Jays mount a credible offense and move the ball into our territory. We were nervous, clunky. The team’s collective horror was palpable as, pass by pass, the Jays advanced on our goal. A tall forward trapped the cross and lined up her shot.

  “Please no. Please no. Please no,” I chanted helplessly from the sidelines.

  She fired a wild shot on goal, and Ashlynn dove and rolled.

  “Did she—”

  Vicky’s question was cut off by the roar of the crowd. Okay, more like approving murmur. Ashlynn climbed back to her feet, ball safely clutched in her hands.

  “Oh, thank God!”

  I wondered if most coaches were on anxiety medications or if they just played fast and loose with potential heart attacks.

  The Jays dominated the next run and the next, but every time they crossed half-field, our defense got tougher. They were warming to the challenge. In both of our previous games, we’d been down by two goals already. This was improvement. However, I greedily wanted more than improvement.

  I wanted victory.

  The ball rolled out of bounds at half-field, and I felt my phone vibrate against my hip. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

  Jake: You look crazy tense. Chillax. Be encouraging.

  I responded with a thumbs-up emoji and took the time to roll out my shoulders, shaking out my arms. He was right. Taking a deep breath, I did my best to relax. I high-fived the midfielder that came out of the game on a substitution and shouted words of encouragement and athletic brand slogans.

  Little by little, our offense started to come to life. Natalee mounted our first attack on the Blue Jays’ goal. We came away with a corner kick. Something we’d practiced hundreds of times. But never under the lights during a home game. Never in front of an audience.

  Our midfielder paced off the ball, eyeing the goal. My front line had forgotten our practiced formation of starting at the penalty box and running at the goal. Instead, they stood flat-footed and nervous in front of the goal, jockeying with the defense for position.

  “MOVE, LADIES!”

  “Get your rears in gear!” Vicky echoed.

  As if awakening from a trance, the girls backed off the goal.

  “We’re going to have to run that drill a million more times,” I grumbled.

  “Or give up and drink margaritas after school every day.”

  “That plan has merit.”

  The whistle blew, and the midfielder booted the ball up, up, up. My line was moving.

  “Get a head on it!” I shrieked.

  It looked like a clump of Jays were going to come up with it, but then I saw Libby’s dark head moving gracefully through time and space.

  Everything went silent in my brain except for the laborious ca-clunk ca-clunk of my heart. I saw forehead meet ball. I saw the goalie jumping, arms outstretched, and then—

  “What the fuck just happened?” Vicky screamed.

  “I don’t fucking know!” I was screaming, too. So was the rest of the stadium.

  “Holy shit! She fucking scored!” Vicky howled.

  “Watch your mouth, Coach,” the linesman said as he jogged down the sideline.

  “Can’t fucking help it, Clarence,” Vicky squealed.

  The players were off the bench and on their feet. Libby was jogging back to midfield blasé AF, like she was just out for a stroll under the lights.

  One by one, the girls on the field approached her for dignified high-fives.

  It was 1-0, and we were winning.

  She did it again five minutes later. When her left purple cleat sent the ball into the lower corner of the net just inches from the goalie’s gloves, I peeked a look over my shoulder. Steffi Lynn was glowering from her seat in the bleachers. Next to her, Lisabeth brushed her hair over one shoulder and took a duck-lipped selfie and ignored the world around her. Coach Vince looked constipated.

  The celebrations were slightly more enthusiastic this time. Slaps on the back and fist pumps ensued.

  At half-time, we were tied
up 2-2. But it felt like a win to me.

  “Sophie G., really nice tackle last quarter. 87 keeps beating you down the field. If you need to, swap coverage with Angela on number 43. Ruby, great job getting open in the middle. Offense, keep an eye out for her. See if you can feed her the ball,” I said, guzzling water for my sore throat. I wasn’t used to forty-five straight minutes of shouting.

  They were all looking at me like I’d just ridden up on a unicorn.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You’re being really coachy,” Phoebe observed.

  “Well, you guys are being really teamy. You’re working together.”

  Vicky put her arms around me and two of the players. “We’re working as a team! Isn’t that exciting?” she squealed.

  “Don’t make this weird, Coach V,” I warned.

  The Blue Jays’ coach must have given one hell of a halftime pep talk because they came out swinging. Their offense was tighter and more bloodthirsty. But damn if our defense didn’t rise to the challenge. We were scoreless for another twenty minutes, each side battling for domination. Back and forth. Both defenses were getting tired, and I subbed in some fresh legs.

  The clock was ticking down. Ties meant overtime, and I didn’t know if we had it in us. At least the crowd was more invested this half, and the attention seemed to feed my players.

  Angela executed a sliding tackle with the precision of a pro and did a little celebratory shimmy when she popped back up. The crowd hooted its approval.

  There was one minute left in the game, and I had no fingernails left to chew.

  “One minute, ladies,” I yelled, clapping my hands.

  It didn’t look good for us. A Blue Jay snaked her way around our midfield and started charging for the goal. I slapped a hand over the heart that was trying to explode out of my chest. Angela must have heard my fervent prayers. She stepped in front of the runaway forward and got mowed down.