Recognized me or not.
Cares or not.
But the bigger question I have at the moment?
Why is someone with jet-black hair namedGoldie?
“Great job, Campbell,” she says to a little boy with red hair who’s maybe eight inches taller than the ball. Or possibly a little taller. They’re sosmall. “Kick it again! Oh, Sienna, look at you go! You got it all the way to the cones! And Hallie! High five, girl! You’ve been practicing at home, haven’t you?”
These kids suck at soccer. They’re probably still ten years away from understanding whatoffsidesmeans, and when they trip over the ball, they roll on top of it about like Sweet Pea would if she could jump as high as a soccer ball.
It might be cute.
If you’re into little kids.
And if you have the misfortune to like soccer more than you like rugby.
Not that it’s the kids’ faults their parents have poor taste in sports.
At the end of practice, the kids maul Goldie in a group hug while she tells them they’re all the best little soccer players in training she’s ever seen.
And not for the first time since leaving the only country I’ve called home as an adult to return to the States, I get an unwelcomeknot between my shoulder blades while my own previous coach’s face flashes in my brain.
They can both go to hell.
The knot and the memory.
And Coach.
All three.
The parents swarm Goldie next. She takes the longest time with a blonde who’s weirdly familiar in a way that I can’t place. Her kid—one of the little girls—demands to be picked up, which the blonde obliges.
And then the kid lunges for Goldie, who catches her as if they do this all the time and peppers kisses all over the little girl’s face.
“More, Aunt Goldie!” the kid shrieks.
Aunt Goldie.
Fuck me.
That’s why the blonde is familiar. She was in the parking lot at the arena.
Because she and Silas Collins have a kid? That would explainAunt Goldie.
Exactly what the world needs.
Finally, the next round of soccer practice people start arriving, and Goldie’s players’ parents take the hint and leave. I approach while she’s shoving soccer balls into a giant black mesh bag.
“Nice job,” I say.
She glances up at me, eyes still hidden behind the sunglasses, but the rest of her face saysdammit, he didn’t leave. She doesn’t reply until she’s head down over the balls again.
“Good morning, Fletcher. What brings you to the soccer fields this morning?”
“I don’t pass out on women without making it up to them by taking them out to dinner.”
Her head lifts again.
