Rock Bottom Girl(43)

“I can’t decide if this is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard or if it’s marginally less terrible than letting Amie Jo publicly crucify me at the next pep rally.”

“Your choice, sweetheart. Though I should warn you, the district takes their contracts pretty seriously. If you go back in there and tell Eccles it was all a lie, well, let’s just say neither one of us can afford an unpaid suspension.”

She mouthed a string of four-letter words, and I tried not to laugh.

The bell rang inside.

“Dammit.” Marley trudged up the steps toward the door. She paused, her hand on the handle. “Jake? How many of those contracts have you signed?”

“Counting this one?”

“Yeah.”

“One.”





25





Marley





Thanks to a mishap with the field hockey equipment in the storage room, I was late for practice. I’d managed to get my foot stuck in a volleyball net and fell into the cage, knocking the door open. Sticks and balls went everywhere. I fell two more times before I managed to wrangle everything back into its home.

Sore, battered, and psychologically exhausted from the day, I climbed the concrete steps to the practice field.

I don’t know what I expected to find—perhaps a wrestling match between disgruntled teenage girls or a homicide in progress—but it sure wasn’t my team lined up and applauding me.

The surprise was so sharp that I turned around and looked over my shoulder to see who they were clapping for.

“Let’s hear it for Coach Cicero,” Vicky shouted through megaphone hands. She had a voice that carried whether it was in study hall or the library or across fifty yards of grass. She could have made a living out of announcing sports for teams that couldn’t afford audio equipment.

The girls whooped it up, and I approached cautiously, not trusting their enthusiasm. They encircled me, and I braced for an attack or at least some spitting and pointy elbows.

“Did you see Austin’s face today? It was like Hawaiian Punch red,” one of the girls squealed.

“You should have seen Coach stare down that ass Coach Vince this morning. He came at her like a bull in a field, and she was all ‘ho hum, you bore me,’” Angela said with…was that respect or sarcasm?

“And then Mr. Weston is all ‘let’s calm down now,’” Morgan E. said, doing a decent impression of his rumbly baritone. “You guys are, like, dating, right?”

“He’s so gorgeous,” Phoebe swooned.

“I really am, aren’t I?” This time it wasn’t someone impersonating the baritone. It was the real deal. Jake strolled into our circle.

Vicky elbowed me so hard in the gut that I lost the air in my lungs.

“Mr. Weston, are you and Coach dating?”

“Can we be your bridesmaids?”

“Mrs. Hostetter did not seem happy today. Do you think it’s because her son’s hair was pink for picture day or because Coach stole her crush out from under her?”

“Shhh! We’re not supposed to talk about the red thing!”

“She can’t have a crush! She’s married!”

“My mom has a list of celebrities she’s allowed to sleep with if she ever runs into them.”

“For the love of God, everyone shut up, or you’re all going to run laps,” I said. I really needed to get a whistle. The giggles and peanut gallery comments quieted. “You,” I said, pointing at Jake. “What are you doing here?”

“My team has a long run on their own today. Ends back here. Thought I’d observe you in action.” He winked at me, and I wanted to punch him in his smug face.

“Oooooh,” the team squealed with delight.

“We have a lot to talk about later,” I warned him.

The “Ooooh” was now more “someone’s in trouble” tinged.

“I’m all yours, Miss Cicero.”

Vicky fanned herself while I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly popped out of my head.

“Okay, everybody line up. We’re going to practice throw-ins and corner kicks,” I snapped.





“Well, that was probably our best practice yet,” Vicky observed, slinging a bag of balls over her shoulder as we waved the girls off. The sun was getting a little lower in the sky, and it was almost cool enough for the warm-up jacket I had in my back seat. Jake was huddled with his cross-country team, doing whatever it was that a cross-country coach did.

“Yeah. Not horrible,” I agreed. It hadn’t been the usual disaster of in-fighting and bitching and moaning. I doubted that we’d made any real progress on moving the ball back into play, but at least there hadn’t been any fistfights. Lisabeth had sauntered in twenty minutes late with a bogus “I was at the gynecologist” excuse and a bunch of snide comments. I hadn’t realized until she’d arrived how nice those twenty Lisabeth-free minutes had been.

The scrimmage at the end of practice still highlighted our complete lack of offensive strategy. But at least we were starting to communicate on the field. Jake had been taking mental notes, and I was maybe a little interested in hearing what he had to say.

“Sooooo…” Vicky did a little shimmy with her shoulders. “Heard you and Jake had to sign the We Promise Not to Be Dirty Little Whores contract.”