Chapter 7
Seven
“Lucky, indeed,” I say, teeth grinding. How can I force Lucca out now? Wyatt is so excited. Not only does he know Lucca’s name, but he knows his number and his position. He’s even turned my obnoxious nickname for the man into something to praise him with.
What is happening?
“Remember that time you hit the ball with your head right before it crossed the line?” Wyatt smacks his hands together while jumping on one foot.
“Remember when you blocked that shot with your whole body?” His eyes widen.
He could be talking about any number of games, but Lucca nods emphatically like he knows exactly which moment my five-year-old nephew is referring to. “Remember when…” he keeps going.
I stomp over to my mother. “What’s going on?” I whisper, my tone accusatory. “Since when is Wyatt a Lucca fan?”
“He watches the games with your father.” She lifts one shoulder. “You know Wyatt.”
I do. He’s my uncoordinated little buddy who loves soccer and banana cream pies. I sort of thought they watched those games to see me. “I just—” I puff out my cheeks. “I didn’t realize he and Dad liked Lucca so much.” Or at all. I assumed that, since I disliked Saint Lucca, so did they.
“That’s because your father is afraid to tell you. And when you get home from a game, Wyatt wants your up-close-and-personal view on things. You do all the talking.” She gives me a sympathetic smile. One that says this is my fault and not hers.
Ugh. I should be refereeing in the majors. Then there’d be no Lucca problem at all.
Wyatt’s still hopping, still talking with his hands, and telling Lucca—my least favorite player in the league—why he’s the best. Just what Lucca needs—more praise. As if the man’s head isn’t overflowing with self-confidence as it is.
“Remember that time you tackled that guy and Maggie threw up her flag?” Wyatt’s hand shoots into the air as if he were holding my official flag.
Lucca’s smile falters just a little with this last memory of Wyatt’s. He looks at me. “I didn’t know you had a kid, McCrae. And I never imagined him being my biggest fan.”
My smile is taut. “He’s not your biggest fan, and I’m his aunt. If I had realized that Wyatt admired you in any way, I would have nipped that bad habit right in the bud.”
“Remember—” Wyatt starts again.
“Whoa, buddy.” I crouch next to my nephew. “Take a breath. I know, it’s an exciting day. But if you’re going to be my best helper, you’ve got to use your listening ears.”
Wyatt’s hops pause, and he makes a motion to zip his lips.
“Have fun.” Mom laughs, entertained by the fact that I’ll be wrangling not only my five-year-old team today, but Lucca, too. How can she be so uncaring? She gives me a thumbs-up before leaving me alone with Saint Lucca and his super fan.
To my utter delight, Wyatt is the only kid who knows who Lucca is. No one else is fanning over my dumb ol’ mentor today.
With my kiddos lined up, I stand in front of them, Lucca beside me. “Let’s show Mr. Cruz how great you are at dribbling. Okay?” I say, because I’m certain Lucca is going to be the worst mentor ever. He only knows how to be praised and adored.
“Why are there girls and boys on your team, McCrae?”
“This is a co-ed rec team,” I tell him, attempting to keep my patience as all parents’ eyes are on us.
“You have nine players. Total.” He scoffs. “We start on the field with eleven. How in the world did you get a refereeing license? No wonder your calls are consistently off.”
I swivel my head from my kids dribbling all over our small field to the idiot beside me. “This is Little League soccer, Lucca. Did you never play Little League? They are five years old. We play three on three.”
His face contorts. “Three on three?”
“Yes. They huddle in a group, no one in position, and they chase after the ball. Sometimes, they pause to pick a dandelion. Sometimes, they turn into dinosaurs on the field. Sometimes, they stop playing altogether and peek in the cooler to see what’s for their snack at halftime. They. Are. Five.”
“I don’t care how old they are. You can still teach them proper soccer.”
My eyes may bug out of my head. I may commit a heinous crime, right here, right now, in front of all my soccer parents. In front of all my kids! “I teach them the basics. Maybe you don’t remember being five years old, but I’m guessing you weren’t Pelé as a toddler.”
“Close enough,” he says.
I grind my teeth and look back at my kids. Forcing a smile, I clap my hands. “Nice job, Pink Pandas.”
“Pink what?” Lucca scrubs a hand down the front of his face.
“Maybe you should listen to him,” Blaire says, walking over from the sidelines.
She’s been eyeing Lucca like candy since the moment she and Kash arrived.
“He is the professional.” Why does that word sound like it should be in a dirty movie when Blaire says it?
She nibbles on her bottom lip before whispering, “I love your accent,” to Lucca.
“I should listen to him complain about our team’s name, Blaire? The name our kids voted on?” I cannot hide the irritation in my tone. Only Lucca would make me lose my cool during Little League practice.
She sets both hands on her hips, arches her back, as if she were on display for Lucca. “On everything.”
Lucca’s eyeing her—of course he is. He’s Pretty Boy Cruz.
Why wouldn’t he eye her back? I step between the two, planting myself in front of Lucca.
“You are here to mentor the littles, to be nice, not judge their team’s name or how this league sets up its different divisions.
Shape up or leave.” I flip my ponytail to look behind me at Blaire.
“And you, you know what we do here, and I’m pretty sure you aren’t a coach.
Get a grip and go sit with the other parents. ”
Blaire peers around me at Lucca. She bats her eyes, but after a second of peacocking, she listens.
“Are you going to say anything to them?” I ask him, my tone exasperated.
“I’m letting you lead. You seem to like being the boss.”
I flick my gaze upward. “A referee isn’t a boss. They keep things fair. They enforce the rules. Especially for little boys who throw fits when things don’t go their way.”
“I didn’t say you were the boss. I said you like to be in charge.”
I grind my teeth and cross my arms. Am I going to have to slug this man? In front of all my kids? “That isn’t what you said.”
Lucca’s eyes turn to slits. He glares at me, and I glare back.
“Hey, Aunt Maggie. My dribble leg is pretty tired,” Wyatt says, standing in front of us.
“His what?” Lucca says.
But dribbling time should have been long over, and all the kids look a little bored. Time flies when you’re attempting to rein in dumb ol’ Pretty Boy Cruz.
“Right. Sorry, bud. Mr. Cruz and I were just… discussing.”
“He’s gonna be our other coach today, right?” Wyatt says, his star-struck eyes sliding over to Lucca.
Lucca claps, then fists both hands on his hips. “You bet I am, Warren.”
“It’s Wyatt,” I growl.
“That’s okay. You can call me Warren if you want,” Wyatt says. “My grandma calls me Wy-Wy. And my grandpa calls me Big Wy. And my mom calls me little man.”
“And Aunt Maggie?” Lucca lifts one brow in interest.
“Mostly just Wyatt or bud.” My nephew grins—that grin that I adore. At Lucca.
“His name is Wyatt. Call him Warren again and I’ll step on your dominant foot.” I smile, baring all my teeth, but Lucca just smiles back.
“Well, Wyatt,” he says. “I am your coach today—”
“Mentor.” My arms flap at my side. “Not the coach.”
“So”—Lucca ruffles Wyatt’s hair—“should we do something fun?”
“Yeah!” Wyatt bounces on the balls of his feet, then stumbles over the ball sitting on the ground behind him.
I jerk forward, but Lucca’s already caught him by the arm. He sets him back on his feet and stands straight, arms crossed over his stupidly broad chest. “Okay, guys—”
“And girls,” I say, stepping up beside him, arms folded.
“And girls,” Lucca amends. “Listen up. I’m going to teach you the best defensive move in the game!” One thing I’ll give him—he’s animated.
I’m not sure my five-year-old crew has any idea what he’s referring to, but they sit in front of him, excited and ready.
With his feet apart, Lucca claps his hands together. Holy, this man loves attention. “All right, men—”
“And women,” I say.
He nods. “What I’m going to teach you today is going to combine timing, intelligence, and staying calm under pressure.” He holds up a finger for each of his points, which are going straight over my team’s heads.
Little Hannah wrinkles her nose. “Calm under what?”
“Under pressure,” Lucca says, not one little soccer soul following him. “It’s all about control. You’re going to win the ball on your terms—”
“I want to win a ball,” Adam says. He looks at me, probably waiting for me to explain just how they’ll win this prize. Ugh. Thanks, Lucca.
Lucca’s standing in front of them, hands on hips, and lecturing. “With your body, you will dictate what the attacker can and cannot do—”
“Shut up,” I groan, and my five-year-old audience gasps.
Well, crap. I’ve said the “S” word—the other “S” word.
I am losing them to Lucca! “I mean, wow.” I make my tone more playful and try to earn back a little respect.
“That’s amazing, Lucca. But why don’t we start with some fundamentals.
” I scrunch my face into a glaring smile.
I smile for the kids and glare at Lucca—I’m just hoping it all translates correctly.
“Seeing as how our students are five.” I hold up one hand.
“Simple. Basic.” I nod, keeping that obnoxious perma-grin on my face.
“Simple?” he says, but he looks from me to the kids. “Miss Maggie thinks we need to keep it simple. But you don’t look like five-year-olds to me. You look like an attacking, defending, professional soccer team.”
A cheer erupts from my little squad. He’s weaseled his way into charming every single one of my players. What. A. Jerk.
“Show us a move!” Wyatt bellows. He rolls onto his back and kicks his legs up into the air. I will be scrubbing grass stains out of that jacket.
“A move?” Lucca smolders—at five-year-olds. The man would flirt with a stump if he thought it might praise him.
“Yeah!” the rest of the kids cheer.
“I’d like to see something,” Blaire says from the sidelines. She asked for more single men, and I’ve apparently delivered with Lucca.
“Uh, no,” I whine. “He isn’t here to perform. He’s here to mentor.”
“Sure, I can show you something.” Lucca acts as if I haven’t even spoken.
My little team jumps for joy before plopping to the ground. Kash and Adam roll around. This isn’t going to last long. They’re too restless to just sit and watch Lucca show off.
“Okay,” he says as if he were on stage. “Wyatt, toss me a ball. Now, everyone watch my feet. Ready?”
They bounce on their bottoms, eyes on Lucca.
I roll my head back, my impatience growing with every second he wastes. This isn’t what today was supposed to be. These kids were meant to learn from their mentors.
Lucca sets the ball on the ground, steps forward with his left foot, then, in a blink, with his right foot, he’s rolled the ball up the back of his left leg and flicked it into the air and over his head. A rainbow flick. He catches the ball, and I wait, certain he’s going to shout “TA-DA!”
Gasps and shrieks spill over from my team—from my nephew. Wyatt is looking at Lucca like he’s the best thing ever. It makes my stomach churn. The moms and even Adam’s dad clap from the sidelines like they’re at some fantastic show.
“Do another!” little Hannah Kim yells.
“Yes,” Blaire says—the woman is relentless. “Let’s see some more.” She’s biting her bottom lip and staring at Lucca like he’s candy. I swear, I’m in the twilight zone. A nightmare where Lucca charms my Little League team and their parents just to torture me. Only, this is legit my life.
“No more tricks,” I say. “Guys, we still need to practice!”
“And girls,” Lucca says, holding up one finger.
My skin crawls, and for the first time in my life, I think I might be able to punch someone and have zero remorse. If only my team weren’t watching.
“Please, Aunt Maggie!” Wyatt says, and he’s doing that thing where his bottom lip protrudes. Gah! It feels so unfair.
I’m about to give in when Lucca says, “I think Aunt Maggie is a little jealous.”
I scoff. Can this day get any worse?
“She thinks we need basics.” Lucca, the too handsome for his own good Brazilian, scrunches his face in a sour scowl. “She says we need to keep it simple. Do you guys want simple? Or do you want rainbow flicks?”
As if he’s coached them to do so, all nine of the kids I’ve been teaching for a year and a half betray me in unison with a bellow of “Rainbow flicks!”
Lucca peers over at me. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice sing-songy. “I think rainbow flicks are too hard for Aunt Maggie.”
Why does he say my name like that? Why can’t he just say it normally? No, he has to put inflection and whine into his voice every time he says it.
Dummy.
I snatch the ball from his hands, twist to the right so that I’m facing one of our mini goals, and drop the ball to the ground.
I can still hear Lucca laughing—with Wyatt, my Wyatt.
In two strides, I have that ball flicked over my body and high in the air.
I jump, smacking it with my head, and knock it right into the center of our miniature goal.
My team goes quiet. The parents, too. And for the first time in his career, Saint Lucca has nothing to say.