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I bow. “Extremely.”
“I can’t believe I fell for the period stunt.”
“Don’t go blaming your defeat on some words I uttered. I beat you because I’m better.”
“At trash-talking.”
“Better is better, Jo.” I lean down, getting up in her space. “Just admit I’m a superior soccer player.”
“Okay,” she says, looking smug. “You’re better at playing with balls than me. Guess you’ve had more practice.”
She glances down at my crotch, then strolls toward her side of the field, leaving me laughing.
“Killer moves,” Javier says when I return to the group. “Told you your presence distracts Jo.”
“Nah,” I say. “She’s only watching me to make sure I’m having a good time. My first game and all. I just know how to rile her.”
And she knew today would be a blast for me.
chaptereight
Callahan
A couple of hours later, we’re at Jolene’s bar, nearing the end of our post-game drinks. Easy banter and jokes pass between our diminishing group. I’m more relaxed than I’ve felt in ages. Loose and happy as I sip my beer and enjoy the company.
Jolene pats my shoulder. “You should stretch when you get home. Losing so badly can tense your muscles.”
Yeah, my team lost in the end. As predicted, Jolene has been lording her win over us like a ruthless queen.
I cross my arms and ignore her. Responding to Jo’s taunts only eggs her on.
“No one likes you when you’re like this,” Javier tells her.
He’s on the opposite side of our table with Lennon and Delilah—the last stragglers hanging out after our match. They all grumble their agreement. Even Lennon, who was on Jolene’s team.
“When I’m like what?” she asks innocently.
The replies come swift and decisive.
“Intolerable.”
“Insufferable.”
“A poor winner.”
I don’t contribute to their rapid-fire jabs. There are better ways to end Jolene’s poor sportsmanship. I lean across the table, speaking quietly to the group, like she can’t hear me from six inches away. “We should have a league flower.”
Delilah squints at me. “Why would we have a league flower?”
“It would be nice,” I say. “A friendship symbol for all the camaraderie.”
“Are we also making friendship bracelets and braiding each other’s hair?” Lennon asks, clueless to the groundwork I’m laying.
Jolene, however, is very attuned to me and my odd flower suggestion. Her dark eyes narrow even more. I’m thoroughly enjoying the lead-up to what will invariably be her explosive reaction.
“We don’t need flowers or bracelets or braided hair,” she says. “Just fresh air and after-match beers.”
“Bracelets are actually a solid idea,” I tell Lennon, edging her further out of the conversation. “We can weave our team flower into them.”
