“We’re eight,” I shout back.
“That’s no excuse,” he says seriously, wiping sweat off his forehead. “Big players start early.”
He’s training while we play, or maybe we’re training while he plays.
I’m not sure.
All I know is he keeps running drills, sprinting past us, telling us to pass better, kick harder, try again.
I try to keep up, but I don’t see the ball coming until it’s too late. Jabari cuts in fast, foot catching mine, and suddenly I’m going down too.
We hit the ground in a tangle.
He lands on top of me knocking out of both of us.
Zaza gasps.
“Oh my gosh!” she shrieks. “You’ve killed her! I’m telling Mum!”
And then she’s gone, sprinting back toward the house, leaving us alone in the grass.
Jabari freezes above me, eyes wide, panicked.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I should’ve been looking.”
He doesn’t move right away. He smells like soap powder and sweat.
“Are you hurt?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“You sure?”
I nod.
He finally lets out a breath.
“Good,” he murmurs. “I guess I pushed you both too hard.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, desperate for him to think better of me.
“It’s just I gotta get better,” he pushes.
“You will,” I tell him. “You’re already good.”
“Not like the big kids.”
“You’ll get there.”
He looks in my eyes then, really looks at them, and something in my chest starts to flutter. I’m so self conscious about them.
When we play soccer together, it’s the only time he doesn’t point out how much they creep him out. I could already tell he’s thinking of something witty to say.
I wanna squeeze my eyes tight so he’d forget about me and go back to playing.
But I can’t. I’m frozen.
“Francine?”
