Rock Bottom Girl(31)

“Good.” She patted me on the back. “Look at this as a fresh start.”

“Really? Because this feels like more of the same. Another place that I don’t belong. Another job I’m not good at.”

“Uh, I realize this is contrary to the example set by your robot sister of perfection, but most people have to work really hard to get good at something. There’s a lot of work that goes on behind-the-scenes before anyone gets any good at anything.”

I tightened my ponytail, scrubbed a hand over my nose. “By the time I get even marginally better at this, the semester will be over, and it’ll be time to move on again.”

“There’s a lot of time between now and December. Don’t you think it would be good for you to leave a job on good terms? Maybe with a few glowing references? What if you find out you like education or coaching? What if this is the start of something instead of the end?”

I eyed her over the glow of my cell phone. “When did you get so good at pep talks?”

“When I had a thirteen-year-old daughter who looks at me like I’m the dumbest human being on the face of the planet. I had to step up my advice-giving game. Even if most of it is ignored.”

“Coach!” A group of girls rushed up, giggling. “We finished that side of the field.”

“Good work, ladies.” I rose. “Finish this side off, and I’ll go reprogram the timer.”

Thanks to a lengthy article in last year’s Culpepper Courier, I knew exactly where the controller was. I patted the pocket of my cargo shorts, making sure my toolkit was still there.

I jogged around the bleachers, the gravel crunching beneath my feet. The field house was a big, blue brick tower built into the back of the home team bleachers. At the top was the announcer’s booth. On the ground level was a maintenance room. A locked maintenance room.

And beneath those bleachers was the spot that Jake Weston kissed me until my knees gave out.

“How’s she going to get in?”

I whirled around on the whisper to see the team gathered behind me.

Sigh. “Forget you saw any of this,” I cautioned, pulling the toolkit out of my pocket. It was bad enough that I’d involved them in vandalism. Now they were accessories to breaking and entering.

“What’s that?”

“What’s she doing?”

Vicky cracked her gum and smirked. “Shh.”

I pulled the tiny tension wrench and pick out of their holders and inserted them both into the lock. “Can I get a little light over here?”

A flood of cell phone flashlights lit my way. So much for covert ops. We could land a plane here.

“What is she doing?”

“She’s picking the lock.”

“No way. Only people in movies do that.”

“Let her concentrate.”

“Five bucks says she can’t open it.”

I felt the last pin give and turned the knob. “Ha. In.”

Their jubilation was hushed but enthusiastic.

I ducked inside. It was a large room with block walls and a dirt floor. There was a collection of groundskeepery implements and industrial-sized trash cans on the far wall. And there, wired into the block next to the light switch, was our pretty little irrigation system controller.

The boys’ practice started at 3:30 p.m. tomorrow. We’d already be on the bus to our first away game, far away from the accusing fingers. It was diabolical, if I said so myself. I keyed in the required changes, double and then triple checked it, and then locked the door and stepped outside before pulling it closed behind me.

“Well?” one of the girls whispered.

I gave them a thumbs-up.

“No, no, no. This is cooler than a thumbs-up,” Sophie S. insisted. She made a heart shape with her fingers, holding them over her chest. One by one, the other girls followed suit. A silent, heart-shaped salute. Damn if I didn’t feel a little teary.

“Shit! What’s that?” Vicky hissed. She pointed in the direction of a single light bobbing in the dark. Bobbing our way in the dark.

“Crap. Okay, everyone go over the fence at the end of the field. Quietly! Go!”

They took off, a roiling mass of adrenaline and good old-fashioned teenage fear.

“Vicky! Go,” I said, shooing her with my hands.

“No way. What if it’s a murderer? I’m not leaving you here to be murdered! What kind of a friend and assistant coach would I be?”

The answer to that would have to be debated later because the bouncing light was getting closer, and it was attached to a fast-moving, muscled form.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I breathed.

“What?” Vicky asked, batting at me as I tried to push her into the shadows of the bleachers.

“Out for a stroll around the maintenance room, ladies?”

Jake fucking Weston slowed to a stop in front of me. He was sweating, shirtless, and smiling. A combination I found perilously attractive.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m starting to think you’re following me.”

“Clearing my head with a night run,” he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Huh. Us, too,” I said.

“Yeah. Us, too,” Vicky said, mimicking my stance. He eyed us with amusement and suspicion.