All the Bold Moves (All The Right Moves 2)

“We don’t need a Team Manager, Stewart.”

Mitchell’s arm shoots up and thrusts his fist in the air, finger pointing straight up, ala Sherlock Holms just having solved a mystery. “Ah ha! So you admit she’s your girlfriend.”

“I was not admitting she’s my girlfriend.”

“But you also didn’t deny it.”

Matthew shoots me a beseeching look. “Would you help me out here, please?”

I cross my arms and lean back, resting against the seat behind me. “Why would I do that when this is so entertaining?”

“Because. I’m being ambushed by a pack of eleven year olds. They’re like the hyenas in the Lion King.”

“What’s in it for me?”

Before he can respond, one of the boys interrupts. “Hey, Coach. What are you doing here, anyways?”

“I’m on a date, Andy.” He says this through gritted teeth, jaw clenched.

“Whoa, no need to get snippy, Coach.” Andy Boskowitz looks around. “A date with who?”

“With me,” I finally chime in, plucking a few kernels of popcorn from Mitchell’s popcorn bag. I chew it noisily.

For a second, all three boys look confused, until Andy, who begins unwrapping his hot dog, says, “Oh, so you were being serious when you said you weren’t gay. I get it now.”

I laugh and ruffle his shaggy hair. “No, luckily for me, Coach Wakefield is not gay. At least, I don’t think he is…” I wink at Matthew, but he isn’t amused.

“If you’re on a date, then why are you here?” Mitchell asks. “My sister would be so pissed – sorry, I mean mad – if her boyfriend brought her here for a date. I mean. She has some pretty low standards, but still…” He shoves more popcorn into his mouth. “Even she wouldn’t wanna come here.”

“Yeah, Coach. This place is a dump,” Andy throws in helpfully.

“Gee, thanks guys,” Matthew deadpans. Unfortunately for him, the sarcasm flies right over their eleven year old heads.

“You shouldn’t be thanking us, Coach. Seriously, this place is a shithole. Did you see the bathrooms? I think someone wiped their crap on one of the stall doors.” Andy Boskowitz clearly is wise beyond his years, and he gives me a pitying look. “Right where it says ‘Gretchen G is a Slut’

Stewart, in the spirit of the conversation, perks up. “You know what would have been a better choice, Coach? A fancy dinner and maybe bowling. That new Super Alley is awesome. You can bowl and play video games if you get bored.”

Mitchell agrees. “Yeah! Did you see the Mortal Combat game they just got? It’s so cool. I was the fifth highest score last time I was there!” Mitchell and Stewart bump fists, then make exploding sounds – as they do, a few particles of popcorn fly out of Mitchells’ mouth and onto Stewarts’ jacket.

“Hey! Watch it!” Steward scolds, clearly disgusted and disgruntled by his friend’s flying chunks.

I steal a glance at Matthew, who is rolling his eyes and shaking his head ruefully in my direction, finally casting a glance at me over Mitchells head and mouthing ‘I told you so.’

Cecelia

“Ugh, I told you that would happen,” Matthew pouts in the parking lot an hour later as he blindly tries jamming his keys into the ignition. “I should have known that of all the kids to run into, of course, it would have been those three.”

“Actually I would say it went pretty well.” At his frown I add, “Just being honest. What’s that saying you threw out at me once? Don’t shoot the messenger…?”

“You have a warped sense of humor, Miss Carter.”

I shrug into my warm, fall jacket, hunkering down as the wind outside blows frantically around the car, bending trees like twigs along the road and causing the Tahoe to skip from its weight. It’s cold and damp and cozy. The perfect kind of weather.

Also the perfect weather for another hot chocolate or tea, which is what we were pulling in to the Starbucks parking lot to get.

I shiver again as I hop out of the truck, Matthew beating me to the door and holding it open. We step inside, side-by-side, and shuffle up to the counter. It’s getting late, but there are still plenty of people loitering: a man sits with his laptop at one of the pedestal tables, Grande cup of…something in front of him. In a large, overstuffed leather chair, a dark haired woman with dreadlocks seems fully immersed in a paperback - until she glances up and our eyes make contact, both of us smile in acknowledgement before she buries her face back in her novel.

Near the barista’s counter, two older teenagers sit together at a high table, textbooks open in front of them; one frantically typing away on her phone - the other has ear buds planted, head bobbing, and is copying notes from his book to a steno pad.

There is a large fireplace dividing the entire store, the dimly lit space brightened by the crackling, orange flames as they cast a warm heat throughout. Two large, worn, leather chairs and a coffee table flank the tile hearth. I walk over and set my purse down on one of the chairs, claiming it before we order at the counter and take our seats again.