Boot(s)

40 - Boot

Coach Jackson

"So," Thea—tall, gorgeous mocha skin, a jump shot you wouldn't believe was real, and an attitude to match—tossed a ball at my chest at the end of practice. The other girls were rounding up loose equiptment, pushing each other and laughing, sweat dripping down their foreheads and chests from the rounds of suicides I had them running to close out the night. "You throwing the pasta party, or what?"

My eyebrows shot up in surprise. It was one of the few displays of emotion I had allowed myself recently. I was trying to show up, blow my whistle, teach my lessons, and leave. I was new—I needed to gain respect somehow, and this was always how it worked with my plebes. I turned back toward Damon who was tucking his clipboard under his armpit behind me. "Pasta what now?" I asked him.

He smirked his cool dad smirk, twirling his whistle string around his left pointer finger. "Pasta party. You know, carbs, sweets, lots of giggling and gossiping." My blank stare probably let on that the U.S. Army wasn't one to gossip nor giggle. I hadn't the faintest idea what was happening. "I usually throw a dinner the night before the first game of the season," he explained. "Lots of pasta, chicken, veggies, the whole kit and kaboodle. I've just broken it to the girls that my home will, unfortunately, be occupied on Friday night." He stopped to take a deep breath in. "My beautiful wife neglected to check with me before she agreed to host a slumber party for 15 9-year-olds."

I winced, tossing the ball between my hands idly. "Yikes." I thought of Bella. "Can't cancel that one. Girls would be devastated."

"Exactly," piped in Thea, smiling sweetly through her very prominent braces. She was only a freshmen, but she was practically already good enough for college ball. "So you'll host, won't you? You have a home, don't you?"

I bit my lip. I nodded. "I have a home."

Jenna, one of the senior captains, came strutting over, throwing an arm around her teammate's shoulder. "Your wife won't mind having a few more mouths to feed, right?"

"Well, I'm not married—"

"Girlfriend?" She tilted her head, sweaty blonde curls sticking to her forehead. Her eyes blinked furiously.

I exhaled deeply. What the hell had I gotten myself into? "No."

She clapped her hands together, producing an astoundingly loud sound that had all her teammates eyes in seconds. "Perfect." She didn't even turn towards the mass of girls behind her. With her eyes on me, she announced oh-so loudly, "Boots is hosting the pasta party Friday after practice!"

Her sing-song voice was met with a chorus of cheers. She flashed me one of those grins the mean girls in the rom coms had perfected. Very maturely, I stuck my tongue out back at her.

Later that night, over pepperoni pizza and red wine, I told Bobby about the event we were hosting in two days' time.

"Oh my god!" He was puffing out his bottom lip, like he did when Millie was begging at the table, or if she had fallen asleep in a particularly adorable fashion. "That is so fun. I can't wait to meet everyone. I'll handle it. Do we have any dietary restrictions? Any allergies? Is Damon coming? Is his wife? Should I order in or make it all? So much to plan. I'll take off on Friday. Don't worry about this, Pete. I got it covered. You can trust me. Promise."

It was the sweetest thing I had seen in weeks.

Friday's practice had me a bit anxious. My whistle blows were not as strong as usual, and my balance (thanks, fake leg) was shaking more than it had in weeks. I trusted Bo, of course, but he hadn't told me anything about the goddamn pasta party. He didn't want to stress me out and refused to speak to me unless I had important information to provide, like "Vicky has a tree nut allergy," or "We'll be there around 6:30."