Page 76 of Only and Forever
The kid blinks, gaping at me, then runs off on a shrill scream.
Viggo bites his lip. “Wow, Lu. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“What? A backbone? Everyone’s too soft on kids these days. They can handle a firm talking-to, here and there.”
A wide smile breaks across his face. “I was actually referring to the goalie skills. You play soccer?”
I shift on my feet, setting the ball on my hip. “Used to.”
Soccer used to be one of my few happy places. It gave me a community in high school, where my brutally competitive, cold determination was an asset, something that actually earned me friends. I got to escape my parents and their drama, traveling for soccer. It helped me find community in college, a competitive co-ed league. But it was also where I met Clint and most of our friends. Another thing that dissolved slowly as people moved away. I haven’t been able to find my way back to it since.
“You play?” I ask. “And... coach?”
Viggo sighs. “Yeah, I play. I got a little busy with the store to play on my team this past session, though.”
“And yet... you had time... for coaching... kids?”
He grimaces, scrubbing at the back of his neck. “Long story. For now I gotta get these kids into some kind of organized chaos. Practice will be over in thirty.”
“You’re not done? I figured you were trying to leave and you realized the car wouldn’t start.”
“No, I realized Ashbury wasn’t feeling like himself when theytook their first water break and I took two to cool off in the car. He wouldn’t turn on. I’m sorry to make you wait—I just didn’t know how soon you’d get here, and I didn’t want to be stranded any longer than absolutely necessary.”
Beyond him, a dozen or so kids are bouncing around each other, kicking balls, screaming, like feral animals.
I squint up at him. “You were going to make a break for it, weren’t you?”
“No,” he says way too emphatically.
He was definitely thinking about it. I don’t blame him.
I swallow a laugh. “Is it just you? No co-coach?” Growing up, playing soccer, I always had a couple of coaches running my practices and games.
His expression turns the closest to angry I’ve ever seen. “Ihada co-coach. Until that traitor, Jeff, up and quit on me.”
A ball flies toward the back of Viggo’s head. I lunge and catch it. “Gee, I wonder why.”
“I’m screwed,” he says bleakly.
I drop the ball at my feet and set my pristine white street sneakers on it. I’m not giving those kids any more ammunition. “Why in the hell, with all you have going on, are you coaching kids’ soccer?”
“Jeff begged me to help,” Viggo explains. “And I suck at saying no.”
“Who is Jeff?”
“A guy whose bike I fixed last fall. I passed him on the trail and offered to help. He bought me a beer in thanks afterward, and while we were drinking at the bar, soccer was on the TV. We started talking about the game, realized we both played. I invited him to join my co-ed league, since we were short on numbers that session. This spring, he invited me to coach his kid’s soccer team with him.”
I blink. “You, my friend, were bamboozled.”
Viggo laughs emptily.
“Wait, if this is Jeff’s kid’s soccer team,” I ask, “where ishe? And his kid?”
“Max broke his foot two weeks ago, jumping on the trampoline, so he’s out. Jeff was still coming and coaching, but...” Viggo glances out at the kids, now pelting balls at each other in the net. “He texted me this morning and said he’s out. Apparently, their spring calendar ‘suddenly got very full.’ ”
“Very full,” I mutter, rolling my eyes as I shrug off my jacket.
Viggo frowns at me as I hand it to him. “What are you doing?”