“Hey, Aunt Maggie. My dribble leg is pretty tired,” Wyatt says, standing in front of us.
“His what?” Lucca says.
But dribbling time should have been long over, and all the kids look a little bored. Time flies when you’re attempting to rein in dumb ol’ Pretty Boy Cruz.
“Right. Sorry, bud. Mr. Cruz and I were just… discussing.”
“He’s gonna be our other coach today, right?” Wyatt says, his star-struck eyes sliding over to Lucca.
Lucca claps, then fists both hands on his hips. “You bet I am, Warren.”
“It’sWyatt,” I growl.
“That’s okay. You can call me Warren if you want,” Wyatt says. “My grandma calls me Wy-Wy. And my grandpa calls me Big Wy. And my mom calls me little man.”
“And Aunt Maggie?” Lucca lifts one brow in interest.
“Mostly just Wyatt or bud.” My nephew grins—that grin that I adore.At Lucca.
“His name is Wyatt. Call him Warren again and I’ll step on your dominant foot.” I smile, baring all my teeth, but Lucca just smiles back.
“Well, Wyatt,” he says. “Iamyour coach today?—”
“Mentor.” My arms flap at my side. “Not the coach.”
“So”—Lucca ruffles Wyatt’s hair—“should we do something fun?”
“Yeah!” Wyatt bounces on the balls of his feet, then stumbles over the ball sitting on the ground behind him.
I jerk forward, but Lucca’s already caught him by the arm. He sets him back on his feet and stands straight, arms crossed over his stupidly broad chest. “Okay, guys?—”
“And girls,” I say, stepping up beside him, arms folded.
“And girls,” Lucca amends. “Listen up. I’m going to teach you the best defensive move in the game!” One thing I’ll give him—he’s animated.
I’m not sure my five-year-old crew has any idea what he’s referring to, but they sit in front of him, excited and ready.
With his feet apart, Lucca claps his hands together. Holy, this man loves attention. “All right, men?—”
“And women,” I say.
He nods. “What I’m going to teach you today is going to combine timing, intelligence, and staying calm under pressure.” He holds up a finger for each of his points, which are going straight over my team’s heads.
Little Hannah wrinkles her nose. “Calm under what?”
“Under pressure,” Lucca says, not one little soccer soul following him. “It’s all about control. You’re going to win the ball on your terms?—”
“I want to win a ball,” Adam says. He looks at me, probably waiting for me to explain just how they’ll win this prize. Ugh. Thanks, Lucca.
Lucca’s standing in front of them, hands on hips, and lecturing. “With your body, you will dictate what the attacker can and cannot do?—”
“Shut up,” I groan, and my five-year-old audience gasps. Well, crap. I’ve said the “S” word—theother“S” word. I am losing them to Lucca! “I mean,wow.” I make my tone more playful and try to earn back a little respect. “That’s amazing, Lucca. But why don’t we start with somefundamentals.” I scrunch my face into a glaring smile. I smile for the kids and glare at Lucca—I’m just hoping it all translates correctly. “Seeing as how our students arefive.” I hold up one hand. “Simple. Basic.” I nod, keeping that obnoxious perma-grin on my face.
“Simple?” he says, but he looks from me to the kids. “Miss Maggie thinks we need to keep itsimple. But you don’t look like five-year-olds to me. You look like an attacking, defending,professionalsoccer team.”
A cheer erupts from my little squad. He’s weaseled his way into charming every single one of my players. What. A. Jerk.
“Show us a move!” Wyatt bellows. He rolls onto his back and kicks his legs up into the air. I will be scrubbing grass stains out of that jacket.
