Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(49)

Ma’am, there’s an escaped fugitive I have to kill. Just tell the kids to work on their passing.

But I heard the team yel ing behind her, and the primal fear closing up her throat as she pleaded, “Coach .

. . ?”

“I’l be there in five minutes.”

“Oh, okay,” her voice quavered. “Thank God. I mean, we’l see you in five minutes.”

She either hung up or a child broke the phone.

Seventeen minutes later I was on the field—which again had dried out just enough to avoid canceling practice. It was as if God had declared divine protection over this small patch of ground, and scheduled His Flood around practice times, just so I could get my twice-weekly punishment.

Except for Jem, the whole team was there—fifteen miniature tornadoes who’d been cooped up indoors since the last time I’d seen them, two days ago, and were desperate to unwind every ounce of energy at my expense.

A few mothers waited impatiently on the field. No doubt I’d made them late for their manicures at Patricia’s.

I circumvented their disapproving looks by brandishing the soccer shirts.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Trouble getting these.”

In fact, the plastic bag ful of neon-orange clothes had been sitting in my truck for a week, but the distraction worked.

The kids yel ed, “Uniforms!” and mobbed the bag like Somali refugees. The mothers had to retreat or get trampled.

“First game Saturday against Saint Mark’s!” I cal ed to the mothers as they left.

My grumpy inner voice: And I hope you have fun without me.

The kids were running down the field holding bright orange tube socks from their ears like streamers. The Garcia twins were tackling each other. Laura and Jack were playing leap-frog.

I blew my whistle. “On the line!”

Nobody got on the line, but the chaos moved into a tighter orbit around me. I was making progress.

“I’ve been practicing my kicks, Coach!” Paul told me. “My dad said you were teaching us wrong!”

“That’s great, Paul.”

Kathleen pointed at me and giggled. “You look like a cat’s been sleeping on your head!”

“Scrimmage!” the Garcia twins screamed.

“We’ve got to do some dril s first, guys,” I said.

“Scrimmage!”

Pretty soon the whole tribe had taken up the cal .

I relented.

We went eight on seven. Jack took Jem’s place as keeper.

Two scrimmages and twenty-seven water breaks later, the rain started coming down—just in time for the end of practice.

I blew my whistle. “Circle up!”

To my surprise, the whole team responded. They sat in a circle around me on the wet grass.

“The game is at ten on Saturday,” I said. “What time is it, Laura?”

“Ten on Saturday!”

“Who are we playing, Paul?”

“Saint Mark’s!”

Two right answers in a row temporarily stunned me.

One of the Garcia twins tugged at my sock. “Where’s Jem? Is he sick?”

“He’s . . . out of town.”

“He’l be here, right? He’s our best goalie!”

I blinked, and wondered if they’d been practicing in some alternate universe last time.

“I don’t know,” I said. I didn’t add that I probably wouldn’t be there, either. “Listen, just play your best.

Practice your kicks. Saint Mark’s is supposed to be a good team, so don’t be discouraged . . .”

“We’re gonna win!” Paul yel ed, and bounced the bal off Maria’s head. She didn’t notice.

“Yeah!” said Kathleen. “Best coach ever!”

Jack gave me his best loyal dog bark.

“Okay,” I said. “Wel . . . your parents wil be here soon. So . . . let’s clean up the equipment.”

The team spirit was too good to last. They gave a cheer and went screaming en masse toward the playground.

I watched them go. Then I stared down at the extra uniform in my plastic bag. I’d saved Jem his favorite number: 13. I’d saved him the yel ow goalie vest.

Somewhere during the night, I’d decided not to cal Maia’s. Despite the time crunch, I had to go in person.

I had to talk to Jem, face-to-face, find a way to tel him what was going on. He deserved to know.

It would be better not to bring the uniform. The kid wouldn’t be playing in Saturday’s game. Even best- case scenario—no way.

I shouldn’t waste another minute on soccer. I’d lost half the morning and done nothing to help Erainya. I needed to get Ralph Arguel o working on my problem. Now. Immediately. Then I needed to get to Austin.

But I took the time to walk the rainy field. I col ected the bal s the kids had kicked to the far corners of creation. I locked up the supply shed. And I stayed at the playground until my last player got put safely in her parent’s car.

“Vato.”

Ralph Arguel o held out his arms. His gold-ringed fingers and white guayabera shirt and fan of black hair across his shoulders made him look like the Brownsvil e version of Jesus.

He pul ed me into a bear hug, which disconcerted me. I wasn’t sure I’d ever touched Ralph before, except maybe for the time I’d pul ed him back from kil ing our high school footbal coach.