“You play?” I say, for once all the sarcasm gone from my voice when addressing her. I’m too surprised to find my snark at the moment. It’s a given that she knows the game, that she played at some point in her life. But those are skills the average player does not have.
Maggie doesn’t answer my question. She only has eyes for the kids. “Okay, are we ready to scrimmage? Do you guys want to show Mr. Cruz your killer moves?”
Wyatt, Maggie’s nephew, jumps up, hand in the air. “Ready!” he bellows just before tripping over the ball at his feet.
I move, reaching out and catching him again before he can hit the ground.
Maggie’s there, too, pulling him from me to her. Her eyes flit to me for a second before returning to Wyatt. “Hey, bud,” she says, wrapping one arm around his back. He returns the gesture with an arm around her neck. “You okay?”
“Yep,” he says, a grin swelling his cheeks. “I’m real tough.”
“I know you are,” she tells him.
“When we get home, can I have an avocado for dinner?”
Maggie glances at the rest of her team, who are patiently waiting while rolling around on the ground. “Uh, sure,” she says. “Along with some chicken and pasta. But yeah, we can add avocado, too.”
I’m listening like this might be the most interesting conversation I’ve heard all week. He’s asking her about dinner. Like a kid might ask his mother. He’s making me awfully curious.
“Messi eats avocados,” Wyatt says. Then he peeks back at me. “Do you eat avocados, Mr. Cruz?”
“Um—”
“’Cuz you really should,” he tells me.
“Very smart, Wyatt,” Maggie says, setting the ball in his hands. “Avocados for the win. I want to hear everything you know. Can you wait until we get home?” She wrinkles her nose and tips her head toward the rest of the team. “Right now, we better finish up practice.”
Wyatt giggles as if he forgot all about soccer practice. “And Mr. Cruz is here. We can’t waste time with a real live Red Tail.” He says it so matter-of-factly. And while I’ve never been into kids all that much, I don’t mind them. And I think I like this kid. Wyatt. He’s helping me learn all kinds of things about McCrae. For instance, I don’t think Maggie is just his aunt. I think he might live with her.
“Okay, everyone is starting today,” she says, standing backin front of her team once more. “If I tap your head, you’re on team one!” She weaves through the children, tapping Wyatt, three little girls, and then she stands in front of me. She grins sardonically before tapping her pointer finger to my nose.
Wyatt leaps and cheers with that small pat. We are on the same team, and he’s pleased. Yep—this kid is a great judge of character.
“Everyone else, you’ll be team two! Team two, come grab a scrimmage vest.”
“I’m—” I say, knowing I sound unsure, but still in a semi-state of shock. “I’m playing. With the children?”
“Yes, Mr. Show-Off. You get to play, too. But no scrimmage vest for you. Your dumb big shoulders would stretch it out and destroy it.”
Big dumb shoulders? I can’t say I’m shocked that McCrae noticed my physique. “You can fit into the vest?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’mcoaching. The coach doesn’t play.” She turns away from me, giving all her attention to the children. “All right, Pandas, let’s go!” Maggie claps her hands, and the children scatter into positions.
I stand in the same space, though, unsure where madam coach wants me. Wyatt looks truly disappointed when he has to tell me that I’m not standing in the right place. As I move to the designated spot he points to, I look at Maggie, who lifts her brows, also clearly not impressed with me today.
Did I expect anything different? This is how McCrae has always looked at me. But then, until today, I’m not sure I’ve ever really looked at her. Just because I might be a little impressed with her skills doesn’t mean she’s suddenly impressed with mine.
I’m seeing her a little more clearly now. Almost as if I have no choice. And the few smooth lines of clarity around her persona only make me curious. My eyes drop to her legs, longand bare, with shorts that hit her mid-thigh, though it’s only sixty degrees out here. Those legs are practiced, disciplined, and strong. That wasn’t a lucky flick or shot. My initial guess was spot on. That was skill, taught and trained.
My head is spinning. I’m curious about where she played—because I’m certain that she did—but also about this kid. Her nephew. I’m sure it’s the possible similarity in our lives, my grandmother raised me, my vovó. And it seems as if McCrae is much more than just his aunt.
It doesn’t matter. I’m not about to make friends with Maggie McCrae just because she’s got skills and she’s nice to her nephew. Wyatt has simply piqued my curiosity. That’s it.
She’s still the ref who calls a foul on me every chance she gets. The ringmaster who likes things to run her way.
Still, I sidle myself next to little Wyatt, watching the dust devil of play more than actually playing myself. “So, you live with Maggie?” I ask him.
Wyatt looks away from the small circle of five-year-olds crowding the ball like a sand specter. “Well, yeah. Sheismy aunt,” he says, like living with her should be a given. Like every kid out here is living with their aunt.
