Chapter 18
Fable
Fable: Things you left at the A-frame this week:
Fable:
Theo: In case we get to spend the night again!
Fable:
Theo: Would you rather me have not brushed my teeth the other night?
Fable: I’d rather you took it HOME with you.
Fable: You’re not moving in here. We’re in a FAKE relationship.
Theo: Thing you left in my heart just now: ??
Theo has always been unreasonably attractive.
He effortlessly stands out as the most handsome guy in the room every time.
Maybe it’s the way his chestnut hair always seems to be the perfect amount of charmingly messy.
Or those eyes that sparkle with so much mischief.
Or the sharp jawline and annoyingly big muscles he stole right from a Greek statue.
Right now, though, he’s at least tripled his attractiveness.
He’s running around with ten five-and-six-year-olds, in a lavender T-shirt with a sparkly white unicorn on the front, a matching flag tied around his neck, and the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.
He’s beaming sunshine straight out of his face, leading the girls in a curvy, loopy jog through the field.
“Follow the unicorn,” he shouts, sounding like he’s having the time of his life.
He got those shirts made so quickly, he must’ve bribed Brenda at the screen-printing shop. Or at the very least, flashed those dimples at her. They say Coach Theo and Coach Fable across the back, with a logo from the team’s sponsor, Carlos’s Taco Truck.
Dammit if these shirts aren’t the cutest thing ever.
He spent all last Saturday replacing the broken steps while I was at work. The stairs are mismatched now, some with new, raw boards, and some the finished older ones, but Theo is going to gradually replace them all to match.
The rest of the house was exactly how I left it other than a note taped to the downstairs bedroom door.
On a torn piece of notebook paper, he’d scribbled, “DO NOT ENTER! Birthday present loading!!” with a little hand-drawn loading symbol.
Then at the bottom in tiny letters: “I’ll know if you peek, Fable Oaks! ”
I’ll be honest—I almost peeked. Even turned the doorknob. But I didn’t push it open. Something in my gut told me not to, and I’m pretty proud of myself for listening.
“Water break!” Theo calls, leading the giggling girls to the sideline.
The crew of parents behind me pushes closer, handing out water bottles and telling the girls how amazing they’re doing.
Theo sits beside me in the grass, long, tan legs stretched out in front of him. “You coming back out there with us?”
I tip my head, staring out at the field. “The view’s better from here.”
He clears his throat pointedly, highly unimpressed with my excuses. “When was the last time you kicked a soccer ball? Are you allergic now or something?”
The grass prickles under my palms as I lean back on my hands.
The reality is, I love soccer. For many years of my life, I lived and breathed it.
On any given night in high school, you could find me watching recaps on my laptop.
I followed all my favorite players on social media, kept up with their stats, and knew who was looking good for the next Olympics.
My life consisted of soccer and books. The end.
Then I went to college and everything changed.
I wasn’t good enough to earn a soccer scholarship, but I did get a spot on the team.
Once I got there, though, I felt overwhelmed by all of it.
I was a tiny fish in a big pond, and there were so many people who were better than me.
Faster on their feet, more consistent at scoring, exceptional at moving the ball where it needed to be.
There were amazing, kind people on my team, and watching them shine so bright made me feel dim in comparison. And ultimately, useless.
I couldn’t find the joy in it and didn’t feel like there was any point in me being there. Between the two or three practices a day, time in the gym, eating a strict diet, and letting it consume so much of my time . . . I started to wonder if it was even worth it at all.
So . . . I quit. Things felt hard so I left, which became a trend for me.
I definitely haven’t earned the right to teach these girls how to play. What kind of example am I to look up to? Here’s Coach Fable. Soccer got hard, so she quit and ran away. But, hey, do as she says and not as she does, and all that.
When I still haven’t answered, Theo bumps my shoulder with his. “Come on. You could stand out there and laugh at me for all I care.”
I exhale sharply. “I can do that from here.”
His gaze burns my cheek as he appraises me, but I don’t meet his eyes.
I set my jaw and stare out at where a few girls are kneeling beside the goalpost, plucking tiny flowers from the grass, just like Mia and I used to do.
Mom and Eva would hold on to every flower we brought them during practice, then we’d press them into the pages of books when we got home.
“Enjoy the show,” he says, patting my thigh before he stands and jogs toward the goal.
A few minutes later, I’m watching Theo in the center of the field, wondering who the hell decided he was qualified for this.
“Yeah, like that,” he instructs, squatting to position Priya’s foot to where her toes are pointed at the sky. “You’re gonna kick with the bottom of your foot.”
My head tilts. What the fuck is he doing?
He rises and steps away. “All right, go!” Her foot draws back then punches forward, her heel catching on the grass. She makes enough contact with the ball to move it a few inches.
Voices murmur behind me, the parents probably wondering the same thing I am—has Coach Theo never kicked a soccer ball in his life?
He takes the ball and tries the technique himself, then laughs when it barely makes it to the goal. “Just need a little practice,” he assures them, the wind whipping the flag on his back.
A mom comes to stand beside me, her arms crossed as she watches him line up another child’s foot. “What the hell?” she mumbles.
The little girl side-eyes the parents, her expression clearly asking, Are you seeing this?
Blowing out a sharp breath, I stand and cross my arms to match the woman beside me. Theo glances over for a beat, eyes dipping down my frame, then looks back at the kid. His instruction gets her another failed attempt.
“That’s okay. We’ll get there,” he says, waving the next player forward, a girl named Emmy. “Sometimes you can even try with your heel. If you can get your toes pointed up enough, and the back of your foot pressed into the ball—”
“For fuck’s sake,” I grumble under my breath and take a step over the sideline. For a moment, I freeze, looking down at my blue tennis shoes against green grass. They’re startlingly out of place. I should back up, hope no one noticed, and sit down. Let Coach Theo figure this out himself.
But then I hear oh no in the sweetest, little disappointed voice, and it snaps me back into gear. I jog toward them, ignoring the nerves itching under my skin.
“Hold on.” I kneel at the front of the line and look up at Emmy.
“Okay if I help you?” She nods and I smile.
“Perfect. So, listen. We’re actually not going to kick it the way Coach Theo said.
” I shoot him a pointed look. He shrugs.
“There are a lot of ways to kick a soccer ball, but none of them are with the bottom of your foot. Let’s start with this one. ”
With her hand on my shoulder for support, she lets me position her foot correctly and swing it back to show her where she wants to hit the ball. Then I stand and let her try. All the girls let out a whoop of victory when the ball travels much farther than before.
“That’s amazing!” I give her a high five, and the next player steps forward. Moving to stand beside Theo, I scowl over my shoulder at him. “The bottom of the foot? Really? Have you ever even seen someone play soccer?” We all clap and cheer again as the ball rolls into the goal.
When he turns my way, his eyes are glittering, mischief dancing over his expression. “I used to watch this one girl play. She was breathtaking out on that field.”
Something swoops and dips in my belly. I don’t know what to make of that, how to file that information away in my mind, or what to say back. So instead, I turn and help the rest of the line of players practice kicking a ball into the goal.
When our hour is up, and we’re walking back toward the sideline with our team, Priya reaches for my hand. Most of her dark hair has fallen out of her ponytail in the last hour, and a streak of dirt is smudged on her cheek, but there’s a wide grin on her face. “Did we do a good job pretending?”
“Pretending what?” I ask, squeezing her hand.
“Coach Theo said if we pretended to kick with the bottom of our foot, you’d come help us.”
I choke on a breath. My eyes meet his across the group, and his smile is absolutely shameless. That asshole knew exactly what he was doing, and I don’t know whether to be impressed or angry about it.
Annoying little shit, I mouth, and he winks.
“What time is your dinner?” Logan asks, poking his head around the corner from aisle three. He’s been there for five minutes, rearranging the same screwdrivers over and over.
The entire afternoon has been filled with questions. What are you doing tonight for your birthday? Who’s going? What are you having? Do you need to leave work early? Did you bring a change of clothes? How are you getting there?