Chapter Four
Neal was an even tougher trainer than she anticipated, and by the end of their first session, Marcee was chiding herself for not bringing her notepad and playbook.
Marcee ran the girls through their existing defensive formula, placing them in situations they may encounter in a game so Neal could get an idea of their strengths and weaknesses.
She’d barely had any practice time with the team since she’d been hired two months before and she found herself grinning as she ran them through the scenarios, giving instructions here and there.
Holy crap, was that how all her coaches felt?
The girls were listening to her—hanging on to every word. Talk about an ego trip.
“What’s your goalie’s name?” Neal asked halfway through their session, chin jerking in the direction of the net.
“Harper.”
Marcee lingered on the sideline as he stalked onto the field, interrupting the drill she had the team running.
“Harper!” When the rest of the girls stopped moving, he kicked the ball back to midfield. “The rest of you keep going.”
Marcee moved further downfield so she could hear what he was telling her. Nicole was only a pace behind, eyes trailing Neal curiously.
“You understand the point of drop kicks, correct?” He stopped in front of their goalie, arms crossed.
“Yes, sir,” Harper said, shoulders hunkering forward the longer Neal stood there.
“Then why aren’t you calling for them? If your offense can’t push forward, you need to make sure they know you’re available.
Sometimes it’s the only option.” His arms spread wide, encompassing the field.
“You have a unique position because you can see what other players on the field can’t during play.
Be their eyes and use your voice, got it? ”
Harper might’ve looked close to tears, but she nodded along as if his word was law.
Marcee tried to keep her mouth shut so she could soak everything in and repeat tidbits to Nicole, whose interest was ping-ponging between Neal and the adjacent field, where Remy trained with his team and Colby.
In between exercises, when Neal’s voice wasn’t devoted to the girls, he peppered her with questions, seeking explanations for her existing roster. It was exhilarating and terrifying.
By the time they took a break for lunch, her mind was already swirling with ideas. She hadn’t felt this passionate about soccer in ages. She only hoped her girls were at least half as inspired as she was.
“What a ballbuster.” Nicole’s wide-eyed gaze hadn’t returned to normal since they started the session. Her voice was almost reverent as they walked behind the girls to the cafeteria for lunch.
“Isn’t he the best?” Marcee was supremely impressed. If Colby was half as good as Neal they were going to make some serious strides by the end of the week. Of course, Remy’s girls were also getting the benefit of their genius, but he didn’t have the team she did.
“Okay, spill the beans, Giles. What did you learn?” Marcee would’ve given anything—well, almost anything—to spy on Alpha’s team during the training session.
“Well, for starters, we’ve got to get a better conditioning plan in place.”
“About Alpha, Giles. What did you learn about Alpha?” She held the door open as Nicole ducked underneath her arm and the blessedly cool air of the cafeteria hit her in the face.
Crushing that team and their coach was no longer just about her job (although still a significant motivator), but about feminism in the athletic community.
Someone had to prove to these men that they could earn and maintain respect on the field and sidelines and run up the scoreboard at the same time.
“Oh! Right. Um, do you want the truth or something sugarcoated?” The grin she flashed over her shoulder was rueful as they made their way toward the pizza bar.
Marcee’s stomach dropped. “Can’t I have both?”
Nicole passed her a plate before piling thin-crust slices on top of each other onto her own, creating a leaning tower of cheese and herbs.
Marcee didn’t know how someone so petite managed to eat so much.
She would’ve given anything to have that metabolism in high school.
God, she missed good pizza. There was no place in the country that could compare to Tony’s back home.
“Let me see,” Nicole mused, tapping a fork against her bottom lip. “Truth: our defense is no match for Alpha at this moment. We’re going to get smoked out there. But this is only camp, and we have months before we play them for real, giving us plenty of time to catch up!”
When she got hired at Pemberton, she’d reviewed their last year’s game tapes religiously for weeks before starting summer training.
Offense was not their problem. They had younger, less mature players defending their goal, including Harper.
They’d get there with practice and time, but time was a luxury she didn’t have if she wanted to stay on as their coach.
She needed a winning season immediately.
“Today’s pain is tomorrow’s gain.” The saying slipped off her tongue easily, as if she was seventeen again and standing on the sidewalk in the pre-dawn air, knees shaking from a long run.
Nicole’s eyes lit up. “That’s great! You come up with that? They should put it on our warm-up shirts.”
Marcee grabbed two slices, dropping them on her plate. “No, a friend of mine used to say it back in high school. Well, he used to be a friend. My best friend. Back before everything.” Her traitorous heart fluttered as if her oldest Brooklyn ghost was walking over her grave.
“And by everything you mean…” Nicole’s voice trailed off expectantly.
Talking about Eli was something she avoided, even with her therapist. Six years and it still felt like a fresh, gaping wound.
“There was an accident,” she replied. She hated how her voice quivered ever so slightly.
Nicole rested a hand on her shoulder, eyebrows drawn together. “I’m sorry, Marcee.”
“It is what it is,” she managed, looking at the wall behind her, gaze unfocused. “He sneaks up on me sometimes. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. The first time we met was in the cafeteria my sophomore year.” She poked at her food. “Coincidentally, they were also serving pizza that day.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie, but it’s not working.” The lunch lady’s sympathetic smile was almost too much for Marcee to bear. She’d seen it on so many different faces over the course of her life that she could read it like a book.
“Can you try again? It’s supposed to be paid for.” Marcee leaned forward at the register, her voice low. “I’m on scholarship, so it’s covered.”
Before the lady could respond, the tall brunette standing in line behind Marcee groaned.
“Jesus, just give the woman three dollars. You’re holding up the line.
” A flush raced from Marcee’s chest to her cheeks.
Her eyes darted to the lady behind the counter.
“I mean, unless you don’t have three dollars.
” The girl smirked, eyes trailing over Marcee’s outfit and lingering on her old Adidas. “Wait, you really don’t.”
She turned to the line, which had backed up to the door of the cafeteria.
“Guys, does anyone have a dollar?” she called out, her voice sickly sweet. “The new girl can’t afford her lunch. Seriously, can someone help… wait, what’s your name? Charity?”
She would not cry—not in front of the privileged, snotty trust fund kids.
“Hey there! I’m so sorry I’m late.” A warm, steady arm wrapped around her shoulders and turned her away from the crowd.
Marcee blinked, staring at the cute boy she’d never met.
He handed the lunch lady a five-dollar bill and picked up Marcee’s tray, all the while keeping his arm around her. “Come on, babe.”
When they were out of earshot, he whispered, “I’m Eli. I hope that was okay. Most of the girls around here can be real bitches.”
It was the first but not the last time Eli bought her lunch and bailed her out of a tight spot. Marcee had always thought she’d fallen just a little bit in love with him that first day.
Pulled back to the present, she cleared her scratchy throat a few times. Nicole was waiting. “Let’s get a table, okay?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
“Not your boss,” Marcee replied, maneuvering across the cafeteria.
“I’ll be your boss, Red.” Remington’s shadow fell across the table as they put down their plates and pulled back the chairs. He nodded at Nicole, as smooth and cool as the other side of the pillow. “Come join a winning team. I can always use another assistant.” His eyes danced between them.
“I—that is—our team—” Nicole sputtered, cheeks flushing as his full dose of charisma hit her like a freight train.
“She’s not interested,” Marcee supplied, patting her assistant on the back.
She was painfully aware every head in the cafeteria was swiveled in their direction, watching Mr. Hotpants speak to the regular folk.
Quickly, before he could see her hands fisted in the bottom of her shorts, she sat and calmly took a bite, the food tasteless on her tongue.
“That is, she has a winning team.” You really zinged him with that one, Ackerman.
To her annoyance, Remy pulled out the chair across from her and sat, leaning forward with one well-defined forearm resting across the table. The sleeve of his white shirt stretched across the swell of his bicep.
“You’re out of your league, Pemberton. It’s not your fault, of course. You’ve been playing soccer your whole life.” He shrugged, brown eyes unwavering on her face—undoubtedly looking for any sign of weakness. “But the game is football. You’ll always be two steps behind.”
Marcee had never understood the expression “seeing red” until that moment. He’d managed to insult not only her but her entire country in less than a hundred words.
“You elitist, pompous pri—”