Rock Bottom Girl(35)

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.”