Page 8 of Rock Bottom Girl
“Nothing in college?” She didn’t look particularly impressed.
“Some intramurals.” That was a lie. Two games my freshman year didn’t count as a college sports career. By college, I’d hated soccer and the drama that came with it.
Ruby’s expression told me she was thinking that I sucked. And with my ego in this fragile state, I was inclined to agree.
“Look, I’ve never coached a team before. So I’m going to be learning right alongside you.”
Mistake number two.The eyerolls were audible.
“There goes the season,” Ruby complained.
“That’s the spirit,” I said dryly.
Angela muttered something about “another shitty coach” under her breath and the broad-shouldered girl next to her seemed to take it personally and told her to shut the fuck up.
“Well, regardless of how you feel about me, I’m here, you’re here. Let’s get to work.”
“Why bother?” a tiny girl with unfortunately large front teeth grumbled, arms crossed over her flat chest.
“I should have played field hockey,” another voice muttered.
They were testing me, I realized. I was the substitute teacher that got hazed just to see if she was really willing to send someone to the principal’s office. And these girls were nothing compared to the self-righteous whiners, the over-inflated egos of middle management that I’d worked with since college.
I remembered my soccer coach in high school yelling until the veins on his neck and forehead looked like they were going to pop.
“Enough chatting. We’re going to kick things off with a mile run. Four laps around the field. Anyone finishes over eleven minutes, and we all do it again.”
That shut them up. For four seconds.
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly. Everyone line up.”
“Aren’t you running with us?” Smartass Angela demanded.
“Shut up, Angela,” Ruby snapped back at her.
“Bite me, Ruby.” Angela’s expression was one of loathing. Great. Two varsity players who hated each other. Awesome.
“I’m the coach,” I said as if that explained anything at all. Hell no, I wasn’t running a mile. I was still sore from vaulting my parents’ azaleas. “Three, two, one…go!” Damn. I wished I had a whistle.
I considered it a small victory when they all left the starting line with only a few side-eyes and grumbled “asshole” comments.
Unfortunately, they were faster than I thought they were, or they were cheaters. But what did I care? I was just a temporary babysitter. Ruby crossed the finish line with a gazelle-like stride in six minutes and forty seconds. The next thirty seconds brought four more girls across the finish line.
Dammit. I could have used more time to myself to figure out what we were going to do next.
Ruby gave me an “is that all you’ve got” look, and I mentally added in another set of sprints. Take that, mean teenagers!
My attention was stolen from my sullen team by a line of short-shorted runners moving at a fast clip up the street that flanked the field. The boys were shirtless and sported zero percent body fat. My team stopped to admire them in hushed silence. They breathed as one. They weren’t separate bodies with different goals. They were united by breath and pace.
“That’s the cross-country team,” the girl on my left told me. She had glasses and a Nike headband. Her wild, curly hair was tamed in a tail.
There was a lone figure at the rear. He was older, more muscular. Tattooed. Sexy AF, in my humble, depressed opinion.
Wait a minute. I recognized that face even under the stubble.
“Holy. Shit,” I breathed.
