Page 2 of Lucky Shot

“Soccer academy.”

“Huh.” I put my hands on my hips and glance around. My expression must say something because he chuckles.

“It doesn’t look like much, but it is one,” he explains.

I look down and drag my toe over the grass. “The pitch isn’t half bad. The nets don’t have holes in them.” I shrug. “I’ll give you that much.”

He laughs. It’s a rumbling sound that makes me smile, but this time, when he takes a step closer, I don’t retreat. “I’ll accept that criticism.” He nods and folds his arms over his chest. “We don’t have much, but we have enough for the community. Practices before school. Then again after. Clinics on the weekends. Games too. I’d rather have kids here than out there getting in trouble.”

Man. What I’d give . . .

“Do they pay for it?” I ask.

He gives a measured nod and guts my hopes before angling his head to the side and studying me. “Is there a reason you’re out here all by yourself at this time of night?”

“Just kicking the ball around.”

He gives me that look that all adults have. The one that says no matter how well you think you’ve lied—they know you have. “Hmm. I’m thinking someone might be looking for you. Is there someone we can call to tell them that you’re okay?”

I snort. “Nah. No one ever looks for me.” At least not for the last nine years anyway.

He takes a few steps and then surprises me when he lowers himself to sit on the grass. Criss-cross applesauce. I eye him like he’s crazy. “I’m thinking they do. I’m thinking you might be a tad full of shit, while at the same time, a tad right. And I’m thinking that bag packed over there stowed in the corner is yours.”

“Yeah. So?”

“Plan on going somewhere?” He leans back on his hands and looks up at the sky.

“What do you mean?” I take a step closer. If he’s sitting, I have the advantage and can run fast to get away if need be.

“Like running away?”

I shrug again and look up at the sky like he is. “What’s it to you?”

“It’s nothing really, but nothing good comes from a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old being out here at this time of night or one who’s planning on running away.”

“Says who?” I ask but am more than impressed he guessed close enough to my age—and that he thinks I’m older.

“Says a guy who knows about that trouble.”

My yawn comes out of nowhere, and I stifle it as best as I can. “Here comes the lecture.” I roll my eyes.

“What’s wrong with the family?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But I look at the pitch he’s sitting on with envy because all of a sudden, my legs are tired and I want to sit too.

“Adopted? Foster? What?”

The way I whip my head toward his gives him enough of an answer. Even if I lied, he’d know. “Foster,” I admit.

“How many?”

“How many foster families have I had?” I sit down about twenty feet away from him. Funny. The pitch looks nice but now that I’m seated, I can see the crabgrass trying to break through the Bermuda. I pick at it absently. “I don’t know. Nine? Ten?” Twelve. It’s been twelve. “Nobody wants an older kid. They think teenagers are trouble because if they weren’t they’d already be adopted. Families want babies. Babies are cute. They don’t have a history to fuck them up.” He bristles at the curse word, but I don’t care.

He sits up and runs his hand over the grass, almost like from his location he can smooth over the mini-divots I’m creating with my grass plucking. “What’s wrong with the family you have this time?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Says the girl who one could deduce is running away.”