“I don’t believe in luck.”
“Messi has lucky charms,” Zev says.
“Yeah—a red bracelet, not a person.” I swallow and keep down what I’m thinking but not saying: They could be right.
One kiss with a strange girl, and the next day, I have the best practice of my life after months of playing like crap. Two days later, we win—after a three-game losing streak andsix months of me slowly headed downhill. After all that—we won, two to zip.
And I scored both of the goals.
“Ronaldo told me his mother is his lucky charm. He talks to her before every single game.” Zev sits in the passenger seat, keeping his eyes on the road ahead, but he’s adding flame to this fire. In fact, he may be adding lighter fluid.
“Cristiano Ronaldo? When do you talk to Ronaldo?” He does not talk to Ronaldo—one of the top two players in the world.The world.
But I’m interrupted by Maverick. “How are you going to see her again?” He presses one arm against the headrest, leaning up from his middle bucket seat and staring at me. I see him in my peripheral vision, but I don’t look back, I’m driving.
“Wait, who?” Tru says, but I ignore that question too.
“We’re all waiting for you to answer Mav’s question,” Zev says. Everyone except for Tru and Wade, who weren’t there the night we sang karaoke. They’re still wondering who we’re talking about.
I grunt out a breath of pent-up air. “I won’t be seeing her again. Guys, you were there. I don’t know her. I have no name, no number. I’m lucky she didn’t call the authorities on me.” Besides, I’m not interested. I just got out of a relationship. One that gave me a whole lot of enlightenment. Not everyone needs someone to be happy.
“I still can’t believe you did that,” Sawyer says—way back in the third row.
“I wasn’t there,” Tru says, sitting beside him, moping in his seat.
“Yeah, me neither,” nineteen-year-old Wade says. “What did Callum do?”
“He found himself a lucky charm.” Sawyer sits between Wade and Tru on that back bench. At this point in the conversation, I’d be fine if they decided to crush him between themselves, shutting him right up.
I don’t need the guys spreading this story around. But Tru and Wade aren’t crushing my friend, and Sawyer is too far away for me to smack the back of his head in an effort to keep him quiet.
“Cal’s got a lucky charm?” Tru says.
“That last game makes sense now,” Wade says to Tru.
Why do I need luck to play well? Why does that make sense? Since when are my bad games normal and what everyone expects?
Oh, right—since I asked Simone on a date six long months ago. Zev would say Simone Wells sucked the game right out of me. But she did more damage than that.
Which is one of the reasons I’m staying away from women. I’m good on my own. I don’t need a Simone Wells repeat. I need a social reset. A game over reset.
Kissing that girl was stupid.
And yet… I’ve played better ever since.
For the first time in forty-three minutes, my GPS spouts out a direction, and I float back into the present day—away from my past and the unknown future.
“Are you guys ready to focus?” I say, my voice stronger. “We’ve got a school full of kids waiting for us. No more lucky charm nonsense.”
It’s an excuse—I’d wager my teammates know it. Still, they shut up about the karaoke girl whose name I don’t even know. We’re splitting up and visiting classrooms and then helping with a school assembly. We’ll be here a while. WillBaxter, the Red Tails’ owner is all about giving back to the community. I don’t mind. I like this part of the job.
Which is why he sent me and not Roman Graves. Our hot-headed midfielder and a school full of kids wouldn’t mesh well.
The principal of this small school meets us at the front of Sierra View Elementary. He guides us through the halls and sends two of us off to kindergarten and first grade, then one to second, third, and fourth.
I take second grade. Mostly because I am unable to handle Lucca’s oversized ego and nonstop talking for another minute. My teammates have become like my brothers these past three years, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to disown one brother every now and then.
I step into a small classroom where more than a dozen kids litter the ground, some lying, some sitting, all reading books to themselves. I clear my throat and find the teacher’s nameplate on her desk.
