pinky promise - jamie tartt

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"Listen up, fellas."

Ted's voice cut through the Goodison Park locker room, causing Tatum to momentarily pause her failing attempts to shake the team from their 'never going to win at Everton' headspace they had all found themselves in.

"As of late, I feel like y'all have heard enough of my jibber-jabber." He continued, and Tate snorted at just how mid-west American he sounded. "So I asked Nate the Great here to jot down a few of his thoughts and ideas about you guys and today's game. All yours, Nate."

And though Tate needed to return to the visitor's press box soon, she wanted to hear what inspiring words Nate had for the team. While the kit man exhaled deeply, clearly nervous but what he had written down to share on the sheets of paper he held, calls of support sounded from various players throughout the room. Tate smiled comfortingly, squeezing onto the bench between Isaac and Richard.

"Isaac," Nate began, clearing his throat. Isaac, having been focused on adjusting his shin guards, sat up and gave the kit man words of encouragement. "I've noticed, of late, that... you've been playing like a big dumb pussy."

The silence that followed Nate's comment was deafening, Tate's jaw nearly on the floor.

"Wow," Colin said in a hushed voice.

"What the fuck did you say to me, bruv?" Isaac asked, leaning forward and pointing a finger accusingly at Nate. Tate set a hand on his arm, trying to get him to calm down, but she still didn't understand what the kit man was trying to get at.

"You're more concerned about looking tough than actually being tough. There's a way to be intimidating without being physical. I hope you don't mind me saying." At Nate's honest words, Tate pieced together the puzzle. He was trying to get the team worked up enough that they actually tried to prove him wrong—instead of starting the match convinced they were going to lose. "Sam,"

"Oh, no," Sam muttered, sounding genuinely concerned for what Nate was about to say.

"You're constantly getting beat on the wings. It's 'cause you're indecisive. You second-guess more than a shitty psychic. The only African I know more imprisoned by their own thoughts is goddamn Nelson Mandela."

"Did you hear that?" Colin, laughing along with most of the locker room, muttered to the player next to him.

"You think that's funny, do you, Colin?" Nate asked, gaining momentum. "You and all your fancy step over bullshit. Let me ask you this. Do you wax your pubes?"

Tate turned, pressing her face against Richard's shoulder in attempt to hide her grin from Nate, lest she fall victim to him next.

"What?" Colin, shocked, asked.

"Did I stutter, dickhead? Do you wax your pubes? Yes or no."

"No."

"Then why are you always trying to play like a Brazilian?"

"What just happened?" Colin directed his statement to Tate, who was practically hiding behind Richard.

"Uh, Rojas." Nate picked his next victim.