Don’t ever let it be said that I can’t read a room. After I made my move to impress her friends—and mostly failed—and then she hit me with that over-happy smile, I knew I was fucked with her.
I can find other ways to get attention on the team and the league and fulfill that promise I made to myself after Rafferty cut me from the club in Nottingshire.
But having the good fortune of guessing when she’d be in the grocery store in the neighborhood we apparently share, getting last-minute things to make poor Siley-wiley his din-din?
This is a sign.
I randomly toss three peaches in a bag and follow her.
Not too surprised to find her frowning over chicken breasts.
When you cook for a pro athlete, you frown over chicken breasts a lot.
“I suggest the strips instead of the whole breast,” I say as I stop next to her.
She doesn’t seem startled, but she does slide an eyeball my way under her ballcap.
“Makes it finger food so he doesn’t have to figure out how to use a knife,” I clarify.
She grabs the package of whole breasts and puts it in the cloth basket hanging off her arm.
I grab a random package of raw chicken strips and follow her as she heads toward the dairy section.
“I don’t remember saying—saying what I’m sure you remember correctly that I said. It does sound like something I’d say.” I’m speaking low and quick. This is my only chance. Could’ve said iton Sunday, but I didn’t want an audience. Not when that meant four people wouldn’t believe me instead of one.
“I watch a lot of sports. Don’t catch a lot of names, and I watch a lot on mute. But I remember your nickname. The Hummingbird. Number nineteen. UCLA. Broken hip ended your career and hurt all of women’s soccer for you not being in it anymore. It made the news. I remember. Number thirty-four from your team plays for WNSL now. The Scorned. Here in Copper Valley. No idea what her name is. She didn’t have a cool nickname.”
Goldie slides me another unreadable look, but she hasn’t told me to fuck all the way off yet, so I keep talking. “I was talking about a different Collins in the VIP box. Had to be. Probably your brother, actually. I met him that summer. Camp for spoiled rich American kids to buy one-on-one time with real players. Hewasa whiny-ass baby there. They all were, but he was the worst. It’s why I remember him. That was the same summer you were supposed to play in the showcase. I looked it up. Also, he’s still a whiny-ass baby. You should hear him in the training room.”
For someone whose social media presence is allyou can do it!, she has a seriously strong straight face.
“And I’m sorry,” I add.
It’s an afterthought.
I know it.
She knows it.
She stops in front of the first dairy case and studies the cottage cheese and sour cream. “Thank you.”
“You’re still a badass,” I tell her.
“I know.”
That actually makes me smile. “And your brother is…not…that bad.”
She turns to face me at that. “My brother is absolutely that bad.”
I open my mouth.
She holds up a finger. “And he’s still my brother and you can shut up now.”
I stand still next to her while she grabs a carton of cottage cheese. Don’t eat the stuff myself. Don’t eat a lot of dairy, actually.
Miss clotted cream though. Which I willnotbe confessing out loud here.
Reputation to uphold and all that.
