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She smirks. "I'm a good southern lady, if that's what you're asking," she replies.
The way she says it makes me want to show her just how bad a lady can be...which reminds me to get my head out of the gutter.
I'm supposed to be coaching kids here.
The students start to arrive a little after that--the Fern Hollow JV team. They're all between fourteen and sixteen, a co-ed team because the town is so small. They're all way more interested in Birdie than they are in me, and it takes me a while to get them wrangled so we can start practice.
As I start leading the practice, I can see Birdie out of the corner of my eye, interviewing some of the kids and taking pictures. She's in her element, and I can't help but admire the way she works. It's no wonder she's so good at her job.
"Okay, guys, let's get started," I shout, trying to get the attention of the kids.
They finally start to pay attention, and I lead them in a few warm-up drills. It's obvious that some of the kids are more interested in messing around than actually playing soccer, but I try my best to keep them focused.
As we run drills, Birdie moves around the field, snapping pictures and talking to the kids. I can tell that she's getting some good material for her article. She even joins in a couple times, giving tips to the players.
I watch her closely, admiring the way she moves. She's athletic and graceful, and I can't help but feel drawn to her. I try to focus on the practice, but my mind keeps wandering back to her.
After we finish the drills, we head to the sidelines to take a break. Birdie and I sit down on the bleachers, watching the kids as they chat and goof around.
"You're really good with them," I say, breaking the silence.
"Thanks," she says, smiling at me. "I used to play soccer when I was younger, so coaching these kids feels a little bit like coming full circle."
"Why didn't you go into sports as a player or coach?" I ask. "You've got a talent for it."
She shrugs. "I like telling stories," she says. "And writing...it's taken me all over the country. I couldn't ask for a better life."
I don't know why, but it feels like there's something hollow in her words--like there's more just beneath the surface.
I'm not sure if she means them.
And I have to wonder what the hell is up with that.
"Anyway," she says, putting her hands on her knees. "Let's get going again. I'm going to make the rounds and get photo waivers signed with the parents, just to be safe."
"Sounds good," I tell her.
I stand and put out my hand, then help her to her feet. She gives me a brilliant smile.
"Thanks, Johnny," she says.
I can't help but feel a rush of electricity at the sound of my name on her lips. As she walks away, I watch her hips sway and my mind instantly goes to all the things I would like to do to her.
I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. This is not the time or place for those kinds of thoughts. Plus, she's a journalist and I'm her subject. It would be beyond unprofessional to act on any of these impulses.
But as the practice goes on, I find myself struggling to keep my eyes off of her. Every time she walks by, I feel myself getting distracted. I can't help but notice how her shirt hugs her curves or how her hair falls in the perfect messy bun.
I try to focus on the kids, but it feels like a losing battle--and even they notice, at least two different kids coming up and asking if Miss Hart is my girlfriend.
It's going to be hard to quell that speculation.
Damn.
After the practice ends, Birdie approaches me with a smile on her lips. "Great job today, Johnny," she says. "So...how about that beer?"
"Sounds good," I say. "Snowcap okay?"
"Sure thing," she says.
