Chapter 8
Eight
Margaret McCrae is a baller?
She shot that rainbow flick high enough to head the ball into the net. Who does that?
I’m still staring, still listening to the cheers of her five-year-old team. There’s one man on the sideline, standing with the moms, and he’s staring, too. Do I look like him? Mouth agape, eyes wide, awed expression.
“You play?” I say, for once all the sarcasm gone from my voice when addressing her. I’m too surprised to find my snark at the moment. It’s a given that she knows the game, that she played at some point in her life. But those are skills the average player does not have.
Maggie doesn’t answer my question. She only has eyes for the kids. “Okay, are we ready to scrimmage? Do you guys want to show Mr. Cruz your killer moves?”
Wyatt, Maggie’s nephew, jumps up, hand in the air. “Ready!” he bellows just before tripping over the ball at his feet.
I move, reaching out and catching him again before he can hit the ground.
Maggie’s there, too, pulling him from me to her. Her eyes flit to me for a second before returning to Wyatt. “Hey, bud,” she says, wrapping one arm around his back. He returns the gesture with an arm around her neck. “You okay?”
“Yep,” he says, a grin swelling his cheeks. “I’m real tough.”
“I know you are,” she tells him.
“When we get home, can I have an avocado for dinner?”
Maggie glances at the rest of her team, who are patiently waiting while rolling around on the ground. “Uh, sure,” she says. “Along with some chicken and pasta. But yeah, we can add avocado, too.”
I’m listening like this might be the most interesting conversation I’ve heard all week. He’s asking her about dinner. Like a kid might ask his mother. He’s making me awfully curious.
“Messi eats avocados,” Wyatt says. Then he peeks back at me. “Do you eat avocados, Mr. Cruz?”
“Um—”
“’Cuz you really should,” he tells me.
“Very smart, Wyatt,” Maggie says, setting the ball in his hands. “Avocados for the win. I want to hear everything you know. Can you wait until we get home?” She wrinkles her nose and tips her head toward the rest of the team. “Right now, we better finish up practice.”
Wyatt giggles as if he forgot all about soccer practice.
“And Mr. Cruz is here. We can’t waste time with a real live Red Tail.
” He says it so matter-of-factly. And while I’ve never been into kids all that much, I don’t mind them.
And I think I like this kid. Wyatt. He’s helping me learn all kinds of things about McCrae.
For instance, I don’t think Maggie is just his aunt. I think he might live with her.
“Okay, everyone is starting today,” she says, standing back in front of her team once more.
“If I tap your head, you’re on team one!
” She weaves through the children, tapping Wyatt, three little girls, and then she stands in front of me.
She grins sardonically before tapping her pointer finger to my nose.
Wyatt leaps and cheers with that small pat. We are on the same team, and he’s pleased. Yep—this kid is a great judge of character.
“Everyone else, you’ll be team two! Team two, come grab a scrimmage vest.”
“I’m—” I say, knowing I sound unsure, but still in a semi-state of shock. “I’m playing. With the children?”
“Yes, Mr. Show-Off. You get to play, too. But no scrimmage vest for you. Your dumb big shoulders would stretch it out and destroy it.”
Big dumb shoulders? I can’t say I’m shocked that McCrae noticed my physique. “You can fit into the vest?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m coaching. The coach doesn’t play.” She turns away from me, giving all her attention to the children. “All right, Pandas, let’s go!” Maggie claps her hands, and the children scatter into positions.
I stand in the same space, though, unsure where madam coach wants me. Wyatt looks truly disappointed when he has to tell me that I’m not standing in the right place. As I move to the designated spot he points to, I look at Maggie, who lifts her brows, also clearly not impressed with me today.
Did I expect anything different? This is how McCrae has always looked at me. But then, until today, I’m not sure I’ve ever really looked at her. Just because I might be a little impressed with her skills doesn’t mean she’s suddenly impressed with mine.
I’m seeing her a little more clearly now.
Almost as if I have no choice. And the few smooth lines of clarity around her persona only make me curious.
My eyes drop to her legs, long and bare, with shorts that hit her mid-thigh, though it’s only sixty degrees out here.
Those legs are practiced, disciplined, and strong.
That wasn’t a lucky flick or shot. My initial guess was spot on. That was skill, taught and trained.
My head is spinning. I’m curious about where she played—because I’m certain that she did—but also about this kid. Her nephew. I’m sure it’s the possible similarity in our lives, my grandmother raised me, my vovó. And it seems as if McCrae is much more than just his aunt.
It doesn’t matter. I’m not about to make friends with Maggie McCrae just because she’s got skills and she’s nice to her nephew. Wyatt has simply piqued my curiosity. That’s it.
She’s still the ref who calls a foul on me every chance she gets. The ringmaster who likes things to run her way.
Still, I sidle myself next to little Wyatt, watching the dust devil of play more than actually playing myself. “So, you live with Maggie?” I ask him.
Wyatt looks away from the small circle of five-year-olds crowding the ball like a sand specter. “Well, yeah. She is my aunt,” he says, like living with her should be a given. Like every kid out here is living with their aunt.
“That’s nice. What about your mom and dad?”
“I have a dad.” Wyatt’s head perks up. “Mom says I do. But we haven’t met yet. We will, though. One day.”
He’s so certain. He knows exactly which of my heartstrings to tug. Because I know his story, personally. I’m almost angry with myself for bringing it up. “And you like living with Maggie?”
The boy’s blue eyes skirt over to me once more. “Of course. Maggie is my very favorite person. She plays soccer with me, and she lets me make banana cream pie any time I ask.”
I peer at him, thoughtful. “Banana cream?”
“It’s the very best of all the pies. Have you had it?”
I press my lips together, thinking. “Never.”
Wyatt gasps, and the dust storm of kicking, running, mauling children halts to look over at us with his wheeze. When there’s nothing to see, they return to their twister of soccer.
“Never? Mr. Cruz, you gotta change that. It’s gonna be your favorite. You can come over for dinner and I’ll get you an avocado and make you a pie.”
“An avocado?” He mentioned them before, but I’m not exactly sure why. “What’s with avocados?”
“All soccer players eat avocados. You don’t know about that? Oh boy.” Wyatt shakes his head. I’ve lost some clout with this kid.
“I’ve eaten avocados. Not regularly, not for soccer, but—”
“You might be able to do that fancy kick with a head butt goal like Aunt Maggie if you eat avocados.”
I puff out my cheeks. “Yeah. Maybe.”
A woman on the sidelines wiggles her fingers at me. The same blonde in the bright pink jumper that commented on my accent earlier. She smiles as the whirlwind of soccer players buzzes past me and Wyatt. One of the kids kicks the ball, and it flings from their clustered group into the small net.
Five kids cheer while three girls glare past them at Wyatt—and at me.
“Nice job, Kash!” Maggie says, focused on giving her team pointers as they play. Has she even noticed Wyatt and I sitting out?
“Miss Maggie!” one of the girls whines. “That’s no fair. ’Cuz Wyatt and Mr. Cruz aren’t doing nothing to help us out!”
Discomfort fills my insides. I’m going to be fouled here, too—at Little League. I peer at Maggie, waiting for her yellow card to fly into the air.
But she just sets both hands on her hips. “You’re right, Heather. This really isn’t fair. Should we play boys against girls?” She points to herself.
My ears perk up. She’s going to play with us? The muscles in my neck go taut. I’m here for that. I absolutely want to see if McCrae’s all tricks, or if the woman knows this game like she thinks she does.
“I was explaining the avocado rule!” Wyatt grumbles to the girl, not caring that his aunt might play alongside us. “He didn’t even know about avocados, Heather!”
Heather rolls her eyes at him. “Nobody likes avocados, Wyatt!”
“Messi does.”
“Does he?” I ask him.
“Yeah. And nobody’s better than Messi. ’Cuz avocados give you super strength and speed.”
“Wyatt,” Maggie says. “You start us out.” She stands on the field, forming a diamond with the rest of the girls on her team.
“Miss Maggie,” Heather whines—she doesn’t like the boys getting to start this round.
“They have one less player,” she tells the girls. “The boys start.”
Slowly, Wyatt dribbles the ball two feet, then three. Maggie directs her team, making them wait before they all rush in. She stands back, letting the little guy have a moment. He winds up to kick one more time, but misses the ball completely and falls onto his back.
Maggie steps toward him, but I call out to him, “Come on, Wyatt. You’ve got avocado strength. Kick the ball to me.”
Girls and boys alike start to swarm with my words, the boys encouraged and the girls ready to defend. Though these kids do so like a tangled ball of yarn—no formation whatsoever.
“You haven’t taught them a 4-4-2 formation?” I say, peering over at Maggie, who seems to be guarding her own team from blocking Wyatt’s kick.
“We play three on three, remember?” she groans, then mutters under her breath, “Dummy.”
Wyatt kicks the ball nowhere near me, but still I jog four steps and snag it.
This field is tiny. Three more strides and I’ll be at the net.
Only on stride one, Maggie cuts me off, her ponytail whipping into my face as her arm grazes over my chest. Her lips curve up in a grin with the ball now at her feet.
She darts forward past her nephew and the slew of boys watching us.
“Get her, Lucca!” one boy yells.
I’m on her heels, but she shifts her hip, shielding the ball.
For one second, we’re tangled. The back of her shoulder presses to my chest, and wafts of honey and pear hit me like a brick.
With the ball at her feet, she reaches back, her hand pressing against my stomach, keeping me at bay.
I’m about to take the ball from right between her feet when she speaks.
“Ashley! Are you ready? Time to take a shot.” She taps the ball to the little girl directly in front of us. Her hips force me back and she holds out her arms, attempting to keep me in place.
I let her because I’m not into taking candy from babies. I’m not stealing the ball or a goal from tiny five-year-old Ashley. By the way McCrae holds onto me, she clearly thinks I would.
Ashley skips with the ball two feet, every boy but me on her heels, then she kicks, sending that ball right into the net.
“Woo!” Maggie hollers. “Girls win!” She turns to face me with a sardonic grin plastered to her face.
“Whoa.” I chuckle, heart pumping, not even close to finished. “The game’s not over. We played for two minutes.”
“Yes, but practice is over.” Maggie’s brows lift, so utterly pleased with herself.
And while I want to be annoyed—I should be annoyed; this woman is an overzealous official who is constantly on her own personal power-trip—I can’t get the scent of pear to leave my senses or the feel of her back to my chest to dissipate.
It’s like every part of my body she touched is a current I can’t ground.
“Maybe I should come back again tomorrow.” I lift one shoulder, watching her, unsure of what I’m even saying. “To help.”
But McCrae only scoffs. “You aren’t that helpful. And we don’t have practice tomorrow, but I’m pretty sure you do.”
I’m the first Red Tail to the van, and I make sure I get the front seat—right next to Callum, who’s driving this team vehicle. When we’ve been on the road for ten minutes and everyone seems distracted, I turn to my friend. “What do you know about McCrae?”
Callum keeps his eyes on the road, his brows furrowing. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. What do you know about the woman?”
“She’s a woman now? I thought she was an official.”
“Come on,” I say, ignoring his jab. “I’m curious.”
He glances over at me before turning back to the road. “I don’t know. She lives in Canyon Falls with her family.”
I study him. “With her nephew.”
“I think. She talked about coaching his team when she set up the mentoring day. He’s important to her. That was clear. But I don’t know the living arrangements.”
“And his parents?” I say, my heart pattering in my chest. I never knew my dad, and when my mother couldn’t care for me, Vovó did. She was my angel. She raised me, loved me, and made her mark on me. She made certain I used my manners and never let me miss soccer practice.
Callum shrugs. “I don’t know, man. Why so many questions?”
I wave it off like I don’t care, like my heart isn’t pounding and my head isn’t taking me back to a poor village in Brazil where Vovó raised me. “I just played with the kid. It got me wondering.”
Callum chuckles. “Wondering what?”
“I don’t know. Just things.”
“Wait,” Callum says, glancing my way. “Do you like her?”
“Who?”
“Maggie. Are you saying you like her now?”
I snort, and the back of the van goes ghostly quiet. We have an audience. “I do not.”
Callum scoffs out a laugh. “Except that you’re wondering about her.”
“Well, this is a turn I didn’t see coming,” Roman says from just behind me.
“I don’t like her. Everyone in this car knows how much I hate McCrae.” I lean forward and turn up the radio.
“Fine,” Callum says over the noise of the pop song. “You wondering about her just seems a little significant.”
“You’re crazy, man,” I say, but when I pull a breath in through my nostrils, I swear I smell pears. Honey and pears, just like Vovó used to make. Just like when Maggie McCrae pushed herself right up next to me and stole that ball from me.