Page 42 of Wild Eyes
He grins at me. “Thank you, fancy face. I got them for the entire team. Who doesn’t love a sparkly turquoise unicorn, am I right?”
I laugh, shaking my head at him. Trying to wrap it around someone so at ease in their own skin. What must that feel like?
“I’m going to go yell at them from the corners. You good to stay here and help with swapping pinnies when I do subs? And be ready to tie laces. Those fuckin’ things might as well be designed to come undone.”
I smile and salute him, then try not to gawk at his ass as he jogs down the sideline. Then I try not to stare at him as he “yells” at them. And I fail.
I fail over and over again.
Because West’s version of yelling at kids is clapping and cheering and boisterously letting them know what a terrific job they’re doing.
There’s, “Get it, girls! Let’s go!”
Followed by, “Beauty shot, Shelby! See you at the Olympics.”
Beyond him, the goalie is doing a dance, not paying attention to the game at all. She gets an, “Eyes on the ball, Addie. Save the victory dance for after we win, you little clown!”
And then the real kicker, “Hell yeah, Emmy. That’s my girl!”
That’s my girl.
God, he just brims with pride watching his daughter and her friends play the most chaotic game of soccer in the world. It makes my chest ache, and for all my internal reminders, I don’t stop myself from staring at him at all.
“Sheer! Stop eating shit outta the grass!” startles me back into reality.
One girl on the sideline is down on all fours, rifling through the grass like some sort of animal.
“But it’s not shit!” the kid calls back, unruffled by West’s gruff language. “Someone spilled Smarties here, Coach!”
When she pops some sort of colorful candy from the grass into her mouth, I jog in the girl’s direction. “No, no, no, no, no.” The word tumbles from my lips on repeat as if I might be able to make it not real. I wish I hadn’t just watched a child eat god-knows-what out of the grass. “Spit it out.”
Her eyes widen when she looks up at me.
“If you don’t spit that out, I will write a song about the girl who ate old candy off the ground and record it, so everyone knows.”
She blinks and I can tell she’s thinking about it, but even that threat isn’t a total deterrent. So, in a last-ditch effort, I try, “I also have Skittles in my bag that I’ll share with you if you spit it out.”
The tiny blond instantly spits the red candy out and lithely pops up to standing. Her hand shoots out, demanding payment from me for saving her from whatever illness would have come with finishing what was in her mouth.
Biting down on a grin, I reach inside my cross-body bag for one of the several packages of Skittles I like to keep on hand. Ican’t remember when that started, but there’s something about the burst of sugar that can turn a difficult day around.
My hand lands on my phone and I recoil. I spent last night beating myself up and reading horribly cruel online comment sections about myself. No matter how bad it hurt, I couldn’t seem to stop scrolling.
But the crinkle of the Skittles bag soothes me. With a tug, I pull it out and shake several out into my hand, then glance down at the little pebbles of candy before bending at the hips and holding them out to the girl. “Here, but you can’t take the orange ones. Those are the only ones I like.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Why?”
“I dunno. I’m just a fan of oranges, I guess? My favorite fruit. My favorite candy.”
The girl shrugs, and I smile at her as she appraises my open palm like she’s making a life-changing decision.
She goes for red. Just like the sweet I forced her to abandon.
Then a big hand with veins and tattoos swoops in and swipes almost all of them—including the orange ones.
“Thank you, Coach,” West calls, jogging away backward with a twinkle in his eye. “Needed a pick-me-up.”
“You didn’t even ask.Andyou took orange ones.”
