Rock Bottom Girl(108)

It would take a miracle to beat them. And we had a week to figure out exactly what that miracle would look like. And a week to find a stupid Homecoming dress.





Coach Cicero: Okay, gang. Breaking news. Our home game Friday is the new Culpepper Homecoming.





Phoebe: Awesome!





Morgan E.: I’m wearing my tux to play!





Ruby: Wait a second. Friday? We’re playing the Bulging Buglers. They’ll murder us and paint their faces with our blood while everyone else is too depressed to go to the dance.





Angela: Crap.





Natalee: I think I’m coming down with something. *Cough cough cough*





Ashlynn: Guys, we’ve been winning this season. There’s no reason we can’t beat the Bugling Bastards.





Sophie S.: Are you drunk right now, Ashlynn? We’ve never beat New Holland. Not in the entire history of girls soccer in Culpepper.





Libby: First time for everything.





Coach Cicero: That’s the spirit.





Morgan W.: Coach is drunk.





Natalee: Coach and Ashlynn are drunk!





Coach Cicero: Excuse me. This is how people get fired, jerks. I AM NOT DRUNK. NOR AM I FURNISHING ALCOHOL TO MINORS.





Sophie P.: Who is Coach yelling at?





Libby: Big brother.





Ruby: Coach has a big brother?





Libby: No, whoever supervises this message board to make sure no one does anything inappropriate or illegal.





Sophie S.: We’re being watched??? Deletes entire collection of duck lip selfies





Phoebe: Why is it furnishing alcohol? Like here’s a Zima and an ottoman?





Coach Cicero: Oh my God. Are Zimas still a thing?





Coach Cicero: NEVER MIND! I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT ALCOHOL TO A BUNCH OF MINORS! STOP TRYING TO GET ME FIRED!





“Ladies,” Jake clapped his hands and shouted over the din of thirty-some girls, ages fourteen to eighteen, crammed into his living room. Girls were stacked on the couch, sharing the arm chairs, sprawled out on the floor. There were a handful of parent chaperones, mostly hanging out in the kitchen with bottles of wine and frozen eggroll appetizers. After hearing my predicament—impending public humiliation—Jake insisted on getting involved.

Also, he had the biggest TV of anyone I knew.

I climbed up on the coffee table and blew my fancy whistle. “Yo, Barn Owls.” That shut them up.

Vicky started distributing the pizza my very generous boyfriend had ordered for my bottomless pit of a team. Her two-year-old, Tyler, was on a leash that she kept double wrapped around her wrist.

“Since our practice field is a mud pit from the rain, we’re here to watch tapes of the Buglers games so we can anticipate their moves on the field,” I announced.

“Can’t we watch The Great British Bake Off instead?” Morgan E. asked.

“No GBBO! We are watching game tape and making thoughtful observations that will help us win Friday,” I said.

“Maybe we should set our expectations a little lower,” Natalee suggested. Tyler lunged for her pizza, and she held it aloft out of his reach while Vicky reeled him in like a fish.

“Yeah, like instead of winning, we should focus on not humiliating ourselves,” Angela grumbled.

“Shut up and eat your pizza,” I snapped.

“Coach Cicero, if I may,” Jake said.

I stepped off my coffee table pulpit. “By all means.”

“Ladies, what’s the point in aiming low with your expectations? You know what low expectations get you in real life?”

They stared at him enthralled.

“Low expectations get you lousy boyfriends—or girlfriends,” he said nodding at Morgan E. She pressed her palms together and gave him a little bow of thanks. “Low expectations get you crappy jobs that never pay you what you’re worth. They get you friends and co-workers who walk all over you. Is that what you want?”

They were shaking their heads, pizza forgotten in their laps. Jake Weston, gorgeous hunk of man, was talking.

“There’s no point in aiming low. You think you’re protecting yourself from disappointment, but what you’re really doing is setting yourself up to never have the best.”

I sat down next to Rachel on the floor and listened raptly.

“He should totally be like a life coach,” Rachel whispered.

“Totally,” I agreed.

“What if we don’t win?” Ruby asked, still not sold.

“What if you do everything in your power to win and you still lose?” Jake asked. “What if you try and fail?” He scanned the crowd that filled the room to capacity. “What if you put it all out there and have nothing to regret because you did your very best?”

I had goosebumps. The man was wasted on teaching history. He should be inspiring high school-age girls everywhere. And thirty-eight-year-old temporary soccer coaches, too.