Just do the freaking work.
Shanks uses the soccer cones to set up a pocket-size square at the ten-yard line and calls over Smith and Tate, the tight ends we worked with on Thursday and straight A teamers.
Coach demonstrates what he wants—a conscious seven slide-steps back and then a zigzag through the far end of the box before planting a foot and releasing to one of the guys in the end zone.
Grey lines up, ready to go, but Shanks waves him off.
“Let’s go youngest to oldest today.” He holds the ball out for Brady, who has a look on his face I would never, ever give a coach. It’s dripping with disdain. The glare my sister would give me if she caught me with his expression would singe my eyebrows to ashes.
“Why don’t we do ladies first?” Brady offers, gesturing to me, though that’s obviously completely unnecessary.
Shanks frowns. “Excuse me?”
Amazingly, Brady thinks there’s room for an actualconversation here. “I think Rodinsky should have to do something first for once.” It’s suddenly very obvious that his shitty agility isn’t the only reason Shanks bought into my recruitment.
Shanks purses his lips, anger deepening on his features. I’m not sure if Brady is smart enough to know he’s about to get yelled at or dumb enough to think that his power play here is opaque. Or all of the above.
“Coach, it’s fine, I’ll go first,” I say. Shanks glances at me, but I’m glaring at Brady. “I don’t care when I go. I just want to get the job done.”
After a pause, Coach hands me the ball. For an instant, a winsome look crosses Brady’s face, but as he lines up next to Grey, it seems to dawn on him that he might not have tasted victory there.
I start at the top edge of the box, launching myself backward.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Slinging myself forward, I cross around the cones in measured steps, eyes up the whole time, watching the receivers shoot back. The second I’m back to the top of the box, I plant my foot and release, aiming to strike Smith straight in the heart.
When it makes contact, the ball thumps off his chest before bobbling into his hands.
Caught.
I have to bite my lip to keep down a smile as I stalk past Brady’s bowed head.
The angels have smiled upon me, because our afternoon practice runs short. Which means I’m home and hopping into the shower by six o’clock.
Which is of supreme importance because it’s Sunday night. Aka Rodinsky family dinner night. When we had a house of our own, my parents would host, Danielle and Heather making the trek across town to our place. Now that we’re all together, we still do it—it’s literally the only way to guarantee all of us are at one table at the same time. Mom still insists on cooking, but if that’s more than warming up pizza, it’s too much for her, even though she’s crap at admitting it. So, for pretty much the entire summer, Heather’s made up some excuse about having a new recipe she wants to try, or wanting to make something she’s already bought the ingredients for. Mom plays along, “making salad,” but not trying to do much more. It’s a game and we all know it and it sucks.
But it works. So we go with it.
Tonight’s meal is pot roast, something Heather culled from a compilation of recipes from the 1970s. Which means dessert is probably elaborately molded Jell-O, because she loves to go all out on a theme.
While setting the table, I catch Heather glancing at meand then twisting to lean into my sister’s ear, her moving lips barely disguised by Danielle’s wavy bob.
Something’s up.
And the only thing I’m keeping secret from everyone but Ryan is football.
Which makes me extremely nervous, even if it kills me to be keeping secrets from my sister. Because I don’t think there’s been a single thing about my life I haven’t told her. Okay, maybe not my entire life. Maybe just my athletic life. But up until boys started getting interesting, there was nothing we didn’t share.
Until now.
Part of me thinks Danielle might actually be proud of me if she knew I was playing football. But most of me doesn’t even want to attempt that conversation.
So, though present at dinner, I’m slightly off my game, letting conversation swirl around me.
Dad’s asking Mom about her doctor’s appointments next week, so he can make sure to be there. Heather and Danielle have gone from whispering to making eyes at each other. Ryan is on his third helping of pot roast and has totally splattered meat juice on his white T-shirt—thatI can’t keep quiet about.
“Ry, what the hell? You look like pot roast Jackson Pollock.” I laugh and toss my napkin at him.
