“…Watch you?”
“Yeah,” I shrug. “I train later anyway. Come by. See what translates. Might give you ideas you wouldn’t get from clips.”
She hesitates. I can see it on her face. That internal tug-of-war between interest and pride.
“I don’t wanna be in the way,” she says.
“You wouldn’t be,” I reply. “You’d be on the sidelines. Like a scout. Or a coach.”
“I get to boss you around?”
“You don’t need to,” I say. “But you do that already so that’s half the job.”
A smile. “Deal.”
The pitch isquiet when we arrive.
Late afternoon with just a few staff milling around. The smell of grass hits her first and she mentions it immediately.
“It smells… sweaty,” she says.
“That’s how you know today will be good,” I reply, tossing my bag down.
She stands off to the side as I warm up, arms folded. She’s not pretending to be interested, she actually is. I catch her tracking my footwork, my turns, the way I shift my weight.
Or she’s just checking me out. I like it.
I like that she notices.
I like that she’s here.
I could get used to it.
Carefully, I run drills. Sprints. Ball control. A few shots on goal. After a while, I jog over and toss her a ball.
She looks down at it, then back at me. “What am I meant to do with this?”
“Play,” I say. “Come on.”
She laughs. “I will embarrass myself trying to impress you.”
“So will I,” I reply. “That’s part of the fun.”
She hesitates for half a second, then steps onto the grass.
“Don’t laugh,” she warns.
“I’m not,” I lie.
The first few minutes are rough.
At one point, I pull off a clean bicycle kick. The ball sails into the goal. Frankie’s eyes go wide. “Oh my God.”
I turn, proud. “What?”
“I really like that death drop thing you just did.”
I stare at her. “Girl. What?”
