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She stood there, unmoving, even after she saw what I was doing and took the hit, trusting that I was not going to hurt her, or aim for her face. Her gaze stayed locked on me, quietly watching as I took two steps toward another ball. This time, she held out her right hand offering me a challenge to hit it.
Popping the ball in the air, I did the same movements as before and hit her hand, right in the palm. The anger on her face was waning and she was looking more intrigued than before. “Can you do that every time?”
“I fuck up every once in a while,” I shrugged.
“How?”
“Sweetheart, I have been playing soccer since before you were born, it is literally the only thing I know how to do.”
“You aren't that much older than I am,” she scoffed, pointing out the obvious instead of focusing on the endearment I accidentally used. Not that I meant it to be an endearment, but I certainly wasn’t trying to be condescending either.
“I came out of the womb playing this game.”
“It's impressive.”
“Sometimes I even impress myself,” I teased, kicking another ball and aiming for her hand again, although it was on her hip instead of being held up. The soft kick got her attention though, and she caught the ball in the air before it hit. “Let's do this.”
Dropping the ball, she kicked it back to me and nodded, “Okay, Coach.”
“Don’t call me that.”
She laughed as we both took off running. I dribbled the ball to get past her and she screamed in frustration. But there was a hint of laughter in that scream, and I reveled in making her feel so much at one time.
For almost two hours, we barely spoke, kicking the ball around, and moving the way it came naturally to us. There wasn't much I could ‘coach’ her on. Like the night before, as long as she stayed focused, she was dominant and trusted her instincts. She moved how I would have moved, and made the same decisions with the ball that I would have.
By the time we finished, I fell down onto the grass and looked up at the sky, catching my breath. I thought she would gather the balls and leave me there, but instead, she fell down next to me.
“So what’s wrong?” I asked her, hoping she knew I wasn’t talking about soccer.
“Ready to be done,” she admitted.
“Pro?”
“I told you I just use soccer to pay for college.”
“If not soccer, what are you wanting to do? Settle down? Have kids?” I cringed to myself a little, hoping she didn’t assume I thought of that because she was a woman. Those were just my own goals, and it always popped in my mind as a logical question to ask.
She sat up, placing her hands on her knees and pushing them into a butterfly stretch. She didn’t seem fazed by my question, and my head had turned in the grass to watch her as she spoke.
“My degree is in finance. I love math more than anything. I would love to be a CPA, or CFO one day. I don't know, just something with money and math. Stable. Self-sustaining. I want to be settled, but definitely no kids.”
“You know what pays well? Pro soccer.”
“Not as much for women,” she eyed me. “But making it isn't the point. Managing it, saving it, and spending it appropriately, is my goal.”
“That sounds boring.”
“I’m good at math. Good at figures. I love things that are reliable.”
I didn’t say it, but I thought that her goals for independence and no kids was a good one if she wanted something reliable. Trying to have that dream was unsafe, and risky to one's mental health.
“Then you can be my CPA when you graduate. Manage my money.”
“Are you a reckless spender?”
I sat up so I could look into her eyes, getting lost in familiarity and feelings of ease. Something about that girl felt comfortable, simple. She wasn’t a fan, or a threat, just another person to talk about life with, play soccer with, and enjoy being around.
Everything I had been missing, and pushing away since Mel left.
