“A move?” Lucca smolders—at five-year-olds. The man would flirt with a stump if he thought it might praise him.
“Yeah!” the rest of the kids cheer.
“I’d like to see something,” Blaire says from the sidelines. She asked for more single men, and I’ve apparently delivered with Lucca.
“Uh,no,” I whine. “He isn’t here to perform. He’s here tomentor.”
“Sure, I can show you something.” Lucca acts as if I haven’t even spoken.
My little team jumps for joy before plopping to the ground. Kash and Adam roll around. This isn’t going to last long. They’re too restless to just sit and watch Lucca show off.
“Okay,” he says as if he were on stage. “Wyatt, toss me a ball. Now, everyone watch my feet. Ready?”
They bounce on their bottoms, eyes on Lucca.
I roll my head back, my impatience growing with every second he wastes. This isn’t what today was supposed to be. These kids were meant to learn from their mentors.
Lucca sets the ball on the ground, steps forward with his left foot, then, in a blink, with his right foot, he’s rolled the ballup the back of his left leg and flicked it into the air and over his head. A rainbow flick. He catches the ball, and I wait, certain he’s going to shout “TA-DA!”
Gasps and shrieks spill over from my team—from my nephew. Wyatt is looking at Lucca like he’s the best thing ever. It makes my stomach churn. The moms and even Adam’s dad clap from the sidelines like they’re at some fantastic show.
“Do another!” little Hannah Kim yells.
“Yes,” Blaire says—the woman is relentless. “Let’s see some more.” She’s biting her bottom lip and staring at Lucca like he’s candy. I swear, I’m in the twilight zone. A nightmare where Lucca charms my Little League team and their parents just to torture me. Only, this is legit my life.
“No more tricks,” I say. “Guys, we still need to practice!”
“And girls,” Lucca says, holding up one finger.
My skin crawls, and for the first time in my life, I think I might be able to punch someone and have zero remorse. If only my team weren’t watching.
“Please, Aunt Maggie!” Wyatt says, and he’s doing that thing where his bottom lip protrudes. Gah! It feels so unfair.
I’m about to give in when Lucca says, “I think Aunt Maggie is a little jealous.”
I scoff. Can this day get any worse?
“She thinks we needbasics.” Lucca, the too handsome for his own good Brazilian, scrunches his face in a sour scowl. “She says we need to keep it simple. Do you guys want simple? Or do you want rainbow flicks?”
As if he’s coached them to do so, all nine of the kids I’ve been teaching for a year and a half betray me in unison with a bellow of “Rainbow flicks!”
Lucca peers over at me. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice sing-songy. “I think rainbow flicks are too hard forAuntMaggie.”
Why does he say my name like that? Why can’t he just say it normally? No, he has to put inflection and whine into his voice every time he says it.
Dummy.
I snatch the ball from his hands, twist to the right so that I’m facing one of our mini goals, and drop the ball to the ground. I can still hear Lucca laughing—with Wyatt,myWyatt. In two strides, I have that ball flicked over my body and high in the air. I jump, smacking it with my head, and knock it right into the center of our miniature goal.
My team goes quiet. The parents, too. And for the first time in his career, Saint Lucca has nothing to say.
Eight
Margaret McCrae is a baller?
She shot that rainbow flick high enough to head the ball into the net. Who does that?
I’m still staring, still listening to the cheers of her five-year-old team. There’s one man on the sideline, standing with the moms, and he’s staring, too. Do I look like him? Mouth agape, eyes wide, awed expression.
