Chapter Nineteen #2
Remy threw his head back and laughed, confetti dropping onto his shoulders, and the melodious sound pierced right through her pounding heart.
“You’re right cracked sometimes, Coach, you know?
Of course I’m sure. I have loved you since you shoved me to my arse on that football field in front of the entire camp, and I’ve been chasing you ever since.
” He dipped down and brushed his lips against hers. “Why’d you have to run so fast?”
Remy loved her. That beautiful, talented man loved her. And she loved him. Did that mean she wasn’t destined to be Freddie Mercury’s cat lady for the rest of her life?
“It’s all I’ve ever been good at,” she replied, eyes locked on his. He loved her. Truly. She didn’t know if she’d ever get used to it.
Remy kissed her forehead gently. “Well, now you never have to run alone again. I can keep up.”
Visceral need surged through Marcee at his words. She wanted to forget the people, forget the drinks and music. What she wanted most was to get lost amongst the sheets, entangled with the man she loved.
Her lips brushed against his ear. “I guess we’ll see about that, superstar. Take me home?”
That night was the first time she’d ever truly made love, but it wouldn’t be her last.
Life after New Year’s Eve took on a quality like one of those old film reels. There were so many candid moments of bliss and merriment they could string together into a movie entitled, True Love, the Marcee and Remy Story.
They had their first snowfall together, making snow angels in the front yard, and for two days, their angels were indented in the snow, crisscrossed by little Freddie Mercury pawprints.
On a particularly cold, wet Saturday spent mostly between the sheets worshipping each other, Remy taught her his grandmother’s secret hot toddy recipe, and she burned a pot of chili. She knew she had a good man when he gamely ate an entire bowl, never once grimacing.
It was all so good she convinced herself to ignore everything that wasn’t.
They had secrets.
They hung between them, overripe and ready to burst all over their pristine love.
Marcee knew there was something he was keeping from her about his trip to London, but she couldn’t stand the thought of ruining everything by pressing the issue.
She wanted Remy to confide in her, to trust her enough to tell her the truth.
The only thing they discussed about his home was his family, but never his job or ex-girlfriend.
Any time she brought it up, he changed the subject.
The end of the school year loomed like a shadow, ever-growing and ever-advancing in more ways than one.
Remy would go back to London—back to the smothering fame and women who haunted his past in hopes of being his future.
If she looked closely enough, she couldn’t see where she fit into the picture.
How could they make a transcontinental relationship work if they couldn’t even be honest and out in the open in the same town?
Of course, she hadn’t been transparent, either.
Remy didn’t know much about her parents and her life growing up.
That shit was too dysfunctional. What would he think?
This was a man who moved his parents out of a terrible neighborhood as soon as he signed with the League, a man who called his mum every week and his grandmother once a month.
Marcee didn’t even tell him about seeing Eli. She’d never even mentioned Eli before.
It was an intricate web they were weaving, but even though she saw it happening, she couldn’t stop. Her want had turned into need, evolving into a piece of her life she’d do anything to keep. She would do anything to keep Remy and their perfect bubble.
It was easy to ignore things when you didn’t want them to be there to begin with.
By the beginning of February, she was ready for her one-on-one session with Cope.
She’d been in contact with Bill through a series of emails, waiting until after the holidays and to give him time to try and get Cassidy to a better place.
Marcee didn’t have the heart to tell him that there was never a good time or headspace to talk about it.
In the days leading up to their Monday-night session, she put in some serious homework.
She wanted their session to be productive and exciting.
Cope was a supremely talented soccer player, and she wanted to be able to put in recommendation letters and calls to colleges on her behalf.
More importantly, she wanted her to be well enough to have a future in college soccer.
It’s going to go great, love, Remy texted before she unlocked the indoor facility. She thought great was a stretch, but she didn’t mention it.
She’d placed the last cone on the turf when Cope and her father pushed through the metal doors.
“Ms. Ackerman! Good to see you again.”
Cope peeled away and flopped onto a bench, kicking off her slides. Marcee tried to examine her with a side eye, but her head was downcast as she laced her cleats. She wished the girl would give her anything—just an inch—letting her in.
“Mr. Cope, nice to see you again. I’ve got two hours of training planned for the session. If you want to come back after that?”
Bill cast a look at his daughter and nodded. “Yes, of course. Two hours.”
He would be back in one. Marcee was nervous to push Cope strenuously for two straight hours and the last one would be better served talking to her, anyway.
They’d discussed it all previously. Marcee turned on her heel and walked to midfield, taking a deep breath when the metal door slammed shut. It was time.
“Okay, Cope, let’s get stretched. I’ve got a lot planned for tonight.” Not to mention she had a therapy session immediately afterward. She’d have to break traffic laws to arrive on time.
“Was flirting with my dad on your agenda? If so, check, check.” Cope stopped a few feet away, arms outstretched above her head.
Her shirt lifted above her lower abdomen, revealing taut skin and prominent hip bones.
It was hard not to stare. She’d lost weight over the holiday break, and she didn’t have any to spare as it was.
“That was not flirting. Come on, no more chatting.” Marcee led her through a series of dynamic stretches, really working to get her limber and avoid injury. When her legs and back were loose, she passed Cope a ball.
“Okay, since it’s just us, we won’t be able to do any rondos or work on any of our offensive plays.
What I’ve planned tonight is exclusively one-on-one drills.
You’re already one of the best offensive players in the state, but I think if we home in on your footwork and tighten it up, you’ll be damn near untouchable. ”
“Fine. What first, Coach?”
Marcee expected a sneer or flippant remark, but it was like the emotion had leaked out of her, leaving her flat.
“Ten-cone dribbling drill. First rep is to warm up, the second rep will be timed. I want you to be finished in under twenty seconds.”
She put Cope through the paces of five different cone drills, pressing her to go faster with each rep.
Halfway through, she subbed herself in place of one of the cones for added challenge.
Going head-to-head with a girl seven years younger was a reality check, but the competitor in her was in heaven.
Cope wasn’t even at the peak of her game yet, but Marcee was sweating buckets by the time she blew the whistle for their first water break.
“Feel free to sit on the sidelines when we start back up,” Cope drawled, a joking smile twisting her gaunt face. “You’re looking a little peaked.”
Marcee pulled the neckline of her T-shirt up and wiped the sweat off her upper lip. There was a bit of the fire she was used to from the striker.
“In front of the goal at the other end of the field.”
“I’m not done with my water,” Cope argued.
Marcee tossed her own jug under the bench. “Get another swig and pick up the pace. Other end of the field.”
How much of a firm hand could she give her? Cope ran over all her friends and likely everyone else. If Marcee let her do the same to her, there would be no one left to stand in her way before she starved herself to an early grave. She had to find a balance.
Cope jogged to the other end, jaw locked and eyes stormy.
From midfield, Marcee flicked the ball up and launched it toward the goal. “Score on the opposite goal!”
Cope caught the ball on her chest, rolling it down to her knee and foot, keeping everything tight and compact. Marcee advanced and pressed her, never letting up for a second, as if she was playing a man-to-man defense, rather than a set position. Within seconds, she’d taken the ball.
“Try not to be predictable. Repeat the same action every time you have the ball, and you’ll never maintain possession, let alone score. You need to be creative.” She sent Cope down the field again and started all over. “You got this. Let’s go!”
Same results.
Marcee tried again. “Come on, Cope. I know you can do this. Create space! Utilize that fancy footwork!”
On their third rep, she backed off slightly. Balance, Marcee. “Tired? What have you eaten today?”
They were close to the line, and Cope executed a flawless tap-n-turn, forcing Marcee to chase her down seconds before she scored.
“Creative enough for you? What does it matter what I ate? Since I’m running past you, you can assume it was my Wheaties.” She jogged back to the goal, waiting for Marcee’s kick with her hands on her bony hips.
“I see you, Cope. I see what you’re doing and I’m not going to stop checking on you just because you push me away. I can help you.”
On their sixth rep, Cope made contact with her from the side, a blunt tackle that sent Marcee sprawling on the turf.
“Enough! You aren’t my parent, and you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” Cope screamed. She sent the ball flying at Marcee’s head, where she rolled and barely missed being concussed.
She should be pissed, but she wasn’t. She was so scared for Cope she could barely breathe.
The turf kissed her cheek when she turned over and pushed up to her feet.
It was time to be candid with Cope before it was too late.
The plan was to wait for Bill, but she couldn’t.
“That’s unacceptable, Cope. You pull that stunt in a game—let your emotions get the best of you—and you’ll get a red card so fast it’ll make your head spin.
” It was like looking at a mirror into her past, and the reflection was terrifying.
“I know exactly what I’m talking about. You think you’re the first person ever to starve themselves?
You aren’t. I was that girl in high school.
In fact, I did it so well my heart stopped; it physically stopped beating, Cope.
I earned a weeks’ long hospitalization for my efforts, and I cost my team a winning season because I was too weak to play.
You think I don’t know what pressure feels like?
” She blinked back tears of frustration.
She was trying everything, and Cope wouldn’t listen. Why wouldn’t she listen?
“No one stood up to me long enough or soon enough to do any good,” Marcee told her, voice cracking as she slapped a hand against her chest. “No one stood up for me. I can’t let it happen to you. I won’t. I believe in you, Cassidy, and I know how far you can go. Let me help you. Please.”
Her fingertips fluttered against her thighs, hands shaking and pulse racing a hundred miles a minute. Cope was staring at her, brown eyes huge. The permanent smirk on her mouth was gone, and for the first time, she looked young.
Young, scared and so, so small.
“It won’t happen to me,” she said, voice paper thin. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“Cassidy…”
Her face closed off, like a light switch flipped. “I don’t have a problem. Stop projecting your own mistakes onto me.”
Marcee bit back the words that wanted to spew from her mouth and forced herself to heed Cassidy’s warning. She hadn’t listened to anyone, and no matter what they said, her own voice won out over any other argument. That distortion—twisting of logic—was all part of it.
Marcee stalked off the field and dug through her bag until she found the book she picked up over break. It was an autobiography from a well-known female athlete whose own disorder started when she was twelve. Maybe Cope would listen to the author. Now was as good a time as any to give it to her.
The clang of the metal door drew their attention to where Bill strode in, eyes wary as he looked between them.
“My dad’s here.” Cope brushed by and grabbed her bag. Her voice was too quiet.
“Just think about what I’ve said. I’m here if you’ll let me help. Here, please take this. Read it. If you won’t listen to me, maybe you’ll listen to the girl who wrote this.” She pushed the book into Cope’s hands. All the fight in her was gone, at least for tonight.
Cope shoved the book into her duffel bag.
“All done?” Bill asked, taking in Cope’s bag slung over her shoulder.
Cassidy strode past, muttering, “Yeah, let’s go.”
Bill hung back and Marcee did her best to keep the tears at bay. Those could come later, when she didn’t have to be a responsible coaching figure.
“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head as her fingers dug into her arms crossed over her chest. “Things got tense, and I had to say something. I swear, I was going to wait.” The door banged shut behind Cassidy, and Marcee flinched.
“I told her about m—a girl I went to school with who had the same disorder. I think maybe some of it sank in? At least, I hope.”
Bill nodded and raked a hand through his hair.
“I appreciate you trying, all things considered. She’s not been the easiest since her mother and I separated.
I thought she just needed space to figure it out.
” He sighed and Marcee could see how much the past few months had hurt him, too.
“That was wrong. Her mother may not see it, but I do. Thank you for what you’re doing, Coach.
Thanks for not giving up on my little girl.
” His voice cracked at the end, and he walked away, shoulders hunched under an invisible weight.
It was one Marcee knew so, so well.