“It’s okay. The acoustics in there must be pretty good, because I was able to listen to the entire show and was pretty entertained.”
“Uh, yeah…” He scratches his head, grinning. “Sometimes they act like a pack of wild animals. Or at least the boys from Lord of the Flies.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit of an exaggeration? The kids in Lord of the Flies tried killing each other.”
“Hell no it’s not an exaggeration. They climb all over the benches like monkeys and pick fights with each other. I’d say that’s pretty animalistic. No manners what-so-ever.”
“You weren’t like that when you were eleven?”
“Me? No way. I took this shit seriously even at their age.” We get to the double glass exit doors and Matthew pushes one open, waiting for me to walk through it first. “Plus, if my parents found out I was acting like a little asshole, they wouldn’t have let me play. These kids don’t really have a lot of mentors modeling good behavior…”
He lets his thoughts and voice trail off as we walk silently to his Tahoe in the parking lot, my navy blue Envoy parked several isles away. Matthew sets the duffle down by his truck before walking me to my car.
“So… ” I begin, kicking a stone along the pavement with the toe of my boot.
“Hey Coach! You’re not about to try and kiss her, are you?” The kid from the team with glasses is loudly shouting from across the parking lot, heading our way and dragging his equipment bag behind him.
“Oh my god,” Matthew groans. “Shoot me now.”
The kid continues yelling in a loud, booming voice from several yards away. “Cause that’s what it looks like you were about to do Coach.”
“Mind your own business, Mitchell.” Matthew yells back.
“I can’t Coach.”
“Mitchell, where are your parents?”
“I’m getting a ride home with Stewart, Coach.”
Matthew runs his palm down his face. “Please. Please stop calling me Coach. I seriously can’t take it anymore.”
Mitchell finally joins us, out of breath from lugging his giant hockey bag behind him, and proceeds to prop his arm up on my car, leaning into it. A scrawny little guy with thin arms and freckles all over his entire face and arms, Mitchell stares up at me from bottle thick, horned rimmed glasses.
Oh my gawd, so utterly adorable. I could eat him up!
“So. What’s your name?” he asks.
“Cecelia.”
“Cecelia?”
I chuckle. “Yes.”
Mitchell nods. “What are you two doing? Talking about what to do tonight?”
I blink at him, suppressing a smile. “How old are you, Mitchell?”
“Eleven.”
“Well, Mitchell, my conversation with your coach is kind of private.”
A kid after my own heart, he rolls his eyes. “So he wasn’t about to ask you out? That’s lame.” He readjusts his glasses (yet again) and peers up at us, looking just like that character Squints, the nerdy kid with the glasses from the movie, The Sandlot.
You know the one.
Or maybe you don’t - in which case, you’re killing me, Smalls.
I tilt my head and study Mitchell. “You sure seem awfully curious about what your coach has going on.”
Undeterred, the kid pushes on with a shrug. “I have three older sisters, so I kind of know what’s going down.”
Now Matthew is rolling his eyes. “You should probably go wait over by the doors for Stewart and his mom – it’s rude for you to make them wait if they’re giving you a ride home.”
Instead, Mitchell looks me up and down and says, “It’s pizza night at my house if you wanna come. My mom’s new boyfriend works at Little Caesars.”
Unable to stop myself, I ruffle my fingers through his hair, tussling it, and grin down at him. “Awww, that’s okay sweetie. I do have plans later, but thank you for asking.”
He hefts his bag up onto his bony shoulder. “Can’t knock a guy for tryin.” In the distance, a beat up Buick pulls up to the building. “Oh shit, there’s Stu’s mom. Gotta go.” Mitchell takes off on his white little bird legs, sprinting as fast as only a scrawny kid can sprint while dragging a heavy duffle by the strap across the pavement.
“Language Mitchell!” Matthew yells after him.
“Sorry Coach!”
Silently, we watch him run off and climb into the back seat of Stewart’s mom’s car.
“So… big plans tonight, huh?” Matthew asks.
Um, yeah. If you count trying to find out what happens next between Lady Mary Crawley and Matthew Crawley on Season Two of Downton Abbey as having plans, then yeah; I have plans. But let’s just keep that little tidbit to ourselves, shall we?
I shuffle my feet on the ground and fiddle with the empty coffee cup still clutched between my hands (that I forgot to toss in the trash) as we stand next to my car. “Er… kind of.”
Kind of, but not really.
My neck gets hot and I pull at my scarf: I am such a bad liar.