My frown immediately opens into a soundless “Oh, shit!” as I throw my hands up in time to avoid a footballto the eye that hadjuststarted to look truly normal a few weeks ago.
I catch the ball and immediately chuck it right at Ry’s head. I’ve watched enough Chiefs games with Dad to know he’s got some major technique issues. “That was a freaking line drive, dummy. To make a field goal, you’ve got to kick up. Not out.”
“Hey, at least I got the distance.”
He drops the ball to Jesse, who balances the point in the turf, finger holding the tip in place. Ryan takes a few steps backward and smacks another one low—it’s slightly higher, but still dings into the goalpost and comes to a thud in the turf.
I throw it back to him. He kicks it low.
I throw it to him again. This one is waaaaay high and doesn’t have the distance.
Again. The ensuing kick glances off the left post, bouncing out.
Once more, but Ryan’s so frustrated he spikes the ball and whiffs at it. Kicking it down to the twenty-yard line all the way at the other end. When he retrieves it, his face is all scrunched up like he’s a four-year-old about to have a fit.
“Ry, just kick the ball,” I say. “Who cares if it isn’t the same motion? Don’t overthink it. You kick a balleveryday.”
Ryan gives me a choice finger and lines up a kick. Takes a step back. Lets it rip.
Straight through the uprights.
I catch it and hold it over my head. “FINALLY.”
I spiral the ball back at him, laughing. The pointy end smacks him right in the chest. “Jeez, Liv,” he shouts. “Take it easy on the man boobs.”
I grab the dormant soccer ball and chuck it at Ry, too. Jesse is inherently lucky that I’m not violent with people I’m not related to. Well, except for the one time it hurt me the most.
And, just like that, I’m done.
I sigh. “Ry, time to go home.”
We walk in the front door to the sweet-and-sour aroma of chicken pad Thai and the sizzle of Heather’s wok. It’s been a favorite this summer—cheap enough to feed six mouths, tasty enough to keep everyone satisfied. My sister’s wife has plenty of ideas for feeding us, having been the oldest of seven, and she’s mega-cheerful about it all. I wouldn’t say cramming her in-laws into her starter home was a dream come true, but feeding us sure is.
Ryan takes a deep whiff of tamarind and lemongrass, smiles conspiratorially at me, and whisper-shouts, “Caaaaaaaaarbs” before literally running to the kitchen.
“Whoa there! Shoes!” Mom snaps as he rushes past her spot on the couch. Mom may be on the downside ofrecovering from a mastectomy, but she’s not about to let Ryan track turf dirt into our newly adopted house.
Ryan shuffles back, head hanging dramatically as I slip off Danielle’s hand-me-down Nike Frees. “It’s a compliment to Heather’s cooking that I forgot the rules.”
“No one believes that, Ry,” Danielle yells from the kitchen where she’s playing sous chef. “You’d eat those shoes of yours if we had enough barbecue sauce.”
We all laugh, but I’m shocked when Dad’s baritone joins us from the half flight of stairs that leads to our bedrooms. “Ryan, don’t listen to them. I got the same crap from my sisters and I turned out just fine.” Dad isneverhome from work this early. But now he jogs down the stairs, changed out of his detective gear and into ancient basketball shorts and a Royals T-shirt.
“Dad, you’re here!” I say as he plops on the couch next to Mom and grabs the remote. “Uh, why?”
“Nice to see you too, Livvie. No case tonight, but there is a Royals game. Plus, you know, I like hanging out with you people when work doesn’t get in the way.” He suddenly, dramatically, shrinks back from my sweaty self. “Man alive, did you run six miles through an onion field?”
“Hey! I don’t smell as bad as Ryan.”
“Do too!” Ryan shouts from the kitchen, mouth full.
“You both stink,” Danielle says, before adding, “Liv, come here.”
I pad to the kitchen. Ryan’s standing over the wok with a fork, testing noodles, while Heather’s chopping peanuts for the final touch. Danielle finishes setting out silverware and yanks me out the sliding glass door and onto the deck.
The sun out here is unrelenting, even in the evening, cutting a laser-beam path through the trees. “Did you talk to Coach Kitt?”
I swallow. Putting on my lady pants and apologizing to Kitt was Danielle’s idea, of course. She had some harebrained notion that it would do me some good. “I did. But she’s worried about my teammate compatibility.”
