Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70516 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70516 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“Hey.” I pointed at them. “Not a word.”
“Never,” one of the seniors said, miming zipping her mouth and locking it with a key.
I held out my hand. “Give that key to me.”
She mimed putting it in my hand.
I jokingly put it into the pocket of my pants and gestured to my eyes with two fingers. Then pointed at her.
She pressed her lips together to hold in her laugh.
I waddled to the coach that was next to the refs and said, “I’m sorry. I’m here.”
“Coach Grant,” the coach from all those years ago that’d gotten kicked out of the game against us said. “It’s good to see you here.”
He was clearly saying the right words, but definitely not meaning them the way they sounded.
“It’s good to be here.” I smiled.
I was forty-one weeks pregnant.
I was holding on by the skin of my teeth.
I was one jolt away from dropping this baby out of my vagina like a broken paper sack of groceries.
I was two centimeters dilated and fifty percent effaced.
I was so close to giving birth that I could taste it.
My husband was freaking out, hence why he was sitting on the bench with me scowling hard.
He was also my bodyguard.
Well, self-imposed bodyguard.
He knew that this coach and I got into it almost every single game we played together.
The tradition held strong.
And, even worse, they’d moved into our district two years ago so I now had to play them. I had zero choice.
Each time we played them, things went wrong.
Though, not nearly as wrong as the one three years ago when shit had literally hit the fan.
But still, fights on the field. Injuries that should’ve never happened. Purposefully hurting my players.
I hated this fucking coach.
I hated his players, too. But they were only a product of their coach.
“Today, we’re going to play clean and safe. I will call fouls. I will make sure to pay attention to retaliation, too.”
I listened to the center ref’s words and tried not to roll my eyes when Coach Jerkoff nodded and promised to behave.
Lies.
This was going to get out of hand.
But my girls were ready.
They had played three years against this asshole and his team. They knew his tricks and they knew not to get caught with retaliation.
I waddled back to my team and my players, and they all stood.
Bossy got in close, leaning her head against my shoulder.
Bossy’s best friend did the same on my right, and I snorted.
“Play clean. Play hard. Play Lobo ball.”
They all nodded.
“Hands in.”
Hands were in.
“On three. One, two, three.”
“’Bos!”
My sister came to stand beside me, her arms around her daughter, Margery.
“Good luck, sis.”
I smiled as they made their way to the stands.
Then stood and ignored the way my body felt for the next seventy-two minutes.
The last eighteen was a lesson in survival.
It was with eighteen minutes left in the second half that the goalie tried to take out our star player. Our star player that was, of course, Bossy.
I glanced backward at Weaver and growled. “Do not move.”
He didn’t make a move, but I could see his body tensing with each dirty hit that came her way.
One fairly hard one had me inching toward the linesman on my side. “Ref, please, watch number eleven.”
He nodded but didn’t vocalize any agreement.
It was on the fifth dirty hit that the linesman lifted his flag and started to wave it in the air.
The center ref blew his whistle and jogged over.
The linesman leaned in and spoke with the ref and nodded.
“PK!” he called out.
“Holy shit,” I heard someone say.
Bossy got up and dusted the grass off her knees and shoulder where she’d hit hard.
The team converged on her and pointed toward the ball.
Bossy shook her head.
They encouraged her more and pointed again.
Bossy, shoulders stiff, walked toward the PK line where she would take the penalty kick.
“Come on,” I heard Weaver say.
Bossy lined up and took the shot.
The goalie dove the right way, saving the ball but not catching it in her grasp. It bounced back toward Bossy and she volleyed it in the air.
The sound of the ball hitting the net was the sound of angels.
“Yes!” everyone screamed, along with me.
I was jumping and screaming and…pop.
Fuck.
Water started to slowly leak down my leg.
My water had broken.
I glanced at the clock.
Five minutes left.
“All right, ladies!” I screamed. “Now you hold it!”
And they did.
For five minutes, they busted their asses to hold the 1-0 lead.
And we won.
The crowd went wild.
My man came up to hug me tight.
And more of my water leaked down into my favorite shoes.
There was no way that everyone didn’t notice that I looked like I’d peed my pants.
The team came in to get their medals and their trophy.
We gathered for pictures.
And I caught Bossy by the ponytail when she went to dart in close to her best friend.
“Nope.”
“What, why?” she grumbled, though she never stopped smiling.