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A chorus ofyeps rings through the group.
Tvisha gives me a reassuring nod. “You can do it, Cal. She’s off her game when you’re near her. She nearly tripped over the ball once.”
She did, but I didn’t see the full fumble. I was on the sidelines while another player subbed in. Dripping sweat, I wiped my forehead with the hem of my T-shirt. When I dropped my shirt, I saw the near spill. She was focused on the ball at the moment, not me. Clearly, these folks are messing with my head. They don’t want to be the ones in Jo’s crosshairs.
Ben slaps my back. “Take one for the team, bro. Just don’t go rushing in on her. She’ll expect it and dodge you.”
“That,” Javier says, pointing at Ben then at me. “When you’re closer to her, get into her space with smaller steps.”
“Crowd her and get her head down,” another teammate adds.
“Be patient and dare her to move,” Tvisha says. “But watch her for fakes and feints. She loves mind games.”
Like miming my death before we return to play.
“Get your butts on the field!” Lennon calls.
He’s our unofficial referee, even though he’s playing on the other team. Jolene wasn’t lying when she said this group is only out for a fun time. The competitiveness is good-natured. People smile and laugh when they screw up. They’re a nice bunch of laid-back people, getting outside and being active, but they seem intent on throwing me to the wolf, otherwise known as Jolene Daniels.
“I’ll do it,” I say, “but you all owe me beers.”
“That’s the spirit! Hands in.” Tvisha shoves her hand into the center of our circle. We all follow suit, stacking our hands on top of one another’s. She counts down and calls, “Operation Break Jo!”
We cheer. I shake my head, knowing I’m about to be in big trouble.
The game resumes. I replay everyone’s advice while keeping my focus on Jo. Her expression is intense, her body loose but nimble as she waits to nab the ball. Single-minded is the best way to describe her right now. As kids, whether playing sports or board games or adventuring in the woods, Jo always embodied the dedication of an Olympic athlete. My only saving grace was trash-talking to distract her. A skill I’ll need to resurrect.
The second she gets the ball, I follow my team’s advice and encroach on her with smaller steps. “Your shoelace is undone,” I say.
She feints left, not missing a beat. “Your fly is undone.”
I almost look down, only to remember I don’t have a zipper on my workout shorts.
Time to take off the proverbial gloves. “I hope you don’t cry when you lose the ball,” I say, mirroring her moves.
“The only balls you can handle, Bower, are your own.”
My face gets hotter. Her smile is pure evil as she tries to blow past me.
I block her way. “When you lose,” I huff, breathing harder, “I’ll make sure they report it inThe Jangler.”
“The only thing I’ll be losing,” she says, keeping in control, “is your too-slow shadow.”
“Arrogance doesn’t become you.”
“I’m not arrogant. I’m good.”
“Cocky.”
“Confident,” she says as she fakes right.
“Shit, Jo.” I drop my voice. “Did you just get your period?”
Eyes suddenly wild, she looks down, and I steal the ball.
I spot Javier, open and ready for a pass. I kick the ball to him and watch with a pounding pulse as he bears down on the goalie and scores. I whoop. My team erupts, everyone sharing high fives and back slaps. Swear to God, I haven’t had this much carefree fun in years.
Jo saunters up to me and crosses her arms. “Proud of yourself, are you?”
