CHAPTER TEN
SKYLAR
THIRTY UNBLINKING EYES STARE AT ME.
Wide, shiny, unblinking eyes.
West is talking, but not a single girl on his team is paying attention, because Skylar Stone is standing beside him. It would seem that even without makeup on, they all recognize me.
My first inclination is to freeze up. Look for an escape route. Flee.
I’m like a deer in the headlights over a mob of six-year-olds.
West bumps me with his elbow as he introduces me, and the brief touch drags me out of my head. I peek over my shoulder to see Oliver sitting at the top of the bleachers. He’s got a book in his hands, but he’s watching West and me. I wave at him, and he gives me a shy wave back before turning his focus back down to the pages in his lap.
Then his dad hits me with, “This here is Coach Plain Face.”
I snort and the girls finally blink.
“Really?” I ask, turning to West, who is wearing a mischievous, shit- eating grin. It’s so bright it practically blinds me from beneath the brim of his hat. “You can all call me Sky. I’m just here to help.”
The girls nod, but West isn’t letting it go. “What? You’ve got a special name for me. It only seemed fair.”
I have to think about it for a beat. A special name? Suddenly, it hits me.
Coach Thick Thighs.
He winks.
And I flush.
Every quippy joke I manage to get out around this guy turns into fodder for him to tease me with. He’s fucking unflappable and it would annoy me if
it weren’t so damn endearing.
“Coach West,” I say, enunciating each syllable with force.
“Yeah,” one girl with raven black hair pipes up. “What else would we call you?”
West is still smiling when he straightens up and claps his hands.
“Absolutely nothing, Lee. Now, are we ready? We’re gonna hit ’em hard with our diamond formation and have some fun, right?”
“Yeah,” a few of them shout, but several continue staring at me. I sense their parents staring from the sidelines too, but I try to ignore that feeling of being watched. The one that makes my scalp itchy.
“Okay, on three,” West’s voice booms from beside me, startling me.
They all push their hands into the middle of the circle, and I awkwardly do the same when West gives me another nudge.
“Three! Two! One!” Their sugary, little voices all shouting together makes a very real smile crack out over my face.
“Sparkly Turquoise Unicorns!” is their final shout before the girls spin and take off to their spots, some on the field and others on the sidelines.
Emmy front and center.
I tilt my head in West’s direction. “Sparkly Turquoise Unicorns?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s us,” he responds as he crosses his arms and tips his
chin out toward the field.
“Creative.”
He snorts. “You should have heard the other options. We put it to a vote.”
When I peek over at him, I realize the turquoise-colored cap he’s wearing says Sparkly Turquoise Unicorns. Other than that, he’s wearing a set of gym shorts, a simple black tee, and a pair of sneakers. But seeing him in full girl- dad mode makes my heart skip a beat.
I cross my arms and look out over the field as the opposing coach drops the ball on the grass. “Nice hat, Coach Thick Thighs.”
He grins at me. “Thank you, fancy face. I got them for the entire team.
Who doesn’t love a sparkly turquoise unicorn, am I right?”
I laugh, shaking my head at him. Trying to wrap it around someone so at ease in their own skin. What must that feel like?
“I’m going to go yell at them from the corners. You good to stay here and help with swapping pinnies when I do subs? And be ready to tie laces. Those fuckin’ things might as well be designed to come undone.”
I smile and salute him, then try not to gawk at his ass as he jogs down the
sideline. Then I try not to stare at him as he “yells” at them. And I fail.
I fail over and over again.
Because West’s version of yelling at kids is clapping and cheering and boisterously letting them know what a terrific job they’re doing.
There’s, “Get it, girls! Let’s go!”
Followed by, “Beauty shot, Shelby! See you at the Olympics.”
Beyond him, the goalie is doing a dance, not paying attention to the game at all. She gets an, “Eyes on the ball, Addie. Save the victory dance for after we win, you little clown!”
And then the real kicker, “Hell yeah, Emmy. That’s my girl!”
That’s my girl.
God, he just brims with pride watching his daughter and her friends play the most chaotic game of soccer in the world. It makes my chest ache, and for all my internal reminders, I don’t stop myself from staring at him at all.
“Sheer! Stop eating shit outta the grass!” startles me back into reality.
One girl on the sideline is down on all fours, rifling through the grass like some sort of animal.
“But it’s not shit!” the kid calls back, unruffled by West’s gruff language.
“Someone spilled Smarties here, Coach!”
When she pops some sort of colorful candy from the grass into her mouth, I jog in the girl’s direction. “No, no, no, no, no.” The word tumbles from my lips on repeat as if I might be able to make it not real. I wish I hadn’t just watched a child eat god-knows-what out of the grass. “Spit it out.”
Her eyes widen when she looks up at me.
“If you don’t spit that out, I will write a song about the girl who ate old candy off the ground and record it, so everyone knows.”
She blinks and I can tell she’s thinking about it, but even that threat isn’t a total deterrent. So, in a last-ditch effort, I try, “I also have Skittles in my bag that I’ll share with you if you spit it out.”
The tiny blond instantly spits the red candy out and lithely pops up to standing. Her hand shoots out, demanding payment from me for saving her from whatever illness would have come with finishing what was in her mouth.
Biting down on a grin, I reach inside my cross-body bag for one of the several packages of Skittles I like to keep on hand. I can’t remember when that started, but there’s something about the burst of sugar that can turn a difficult day around.
My hand lands on my phone and I recoil. I spent last night beating myself up and reading horribly cruel online comment sections about myself. No matter how bad it hurt, I couldn’t seem to stop scrolling.
But the crinkle of the Skittles bag soothes me. With a tug, I pull it out and shake several out into my hand, then glance down at the little pebbles of candy before bending at the hips and holding them out to the girl. “Here, but you can’t take the orange ones. Those are the only ones I like.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Why?”
“I dunno. I’m just a fan of oranges, I guess? My favorite fruit. My favorite candy.”
The girl shrugs, and I smile at her as she appraises my open palm like she’s making a life-changing decision.
She goes for red. Just like the sweet I forced her to abandon.
Then a big hand with veins and tattoos swoops in and swipes almost all of them—including the orange ones.
“Thank you, Coach,” West calls, jogging away backward with a twinkle in his eye. “Needed a pick-me-up.”
“You didn’t even ask. And you took orange ones.”
His chin tips down as he looks at his hand. He pulls out an orange piece and holds it up between his thumb and forefinger. “Oh, like this?”
“Yes, like that.”
He tosses it up in the air, leans his head back, centers himself, and catches the candy in his waiting mouth like an overgrown child playing with his food.
He stares at me as he chews a few times and nods. “Oh yeah. The orange ones are good.”
For a moment, I watch his throat work as he swallows.
I swallow, too.
Then I mouth dick in his direction, and all it does is make him throw his head back and laugh. The most full, carefree laugh I’ve ever heard. In a world that’s so manufactured, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard someone laugh as
genuinely as West.
He’s brimming with life.
He’s like a magnet. And I get the sense I’m not the only one who’s drawn to him. The kids hang on his every word. The parents shake his hand at the end of the game.
And a few of the moms smile just a little too brightly in his direction.
With a 12-5 victory under their belt, the girls are in high spirits as they make their way down the line of opposing team members. I’m grinning like a fool
watching them because this was fun.
Good old-fashioned fun.
I shared Skittles in the sun, watched a bunch of girls work together to master a sport, and learned the cheer they have for the Sparkly Turquoise Unicorns.
Never saw myself here, but the world works in mysterious ways and all that.
It’s when I turn to see West chatting with a fair-haired woman that the world seems extra mysterious. The woman is laughing, and Emmy has just launched herself into her arms with a loud “Mama.”
My brow furrows as I hang back to watch. Emmy and Oliver seemed pretty open to talking about their mom and stepdad. But watching my parents attempt to rip each other into shreds these past months gets my back up about the whole thing.
It seems downright impossible that two people could divorce amicably.
Yet here this man is, talking happily to his ex-wife as their daughter attempts
to drag her away.
In my direction.
“Okay, Emmy. Okay. I’m coming,” she says, laughing lightly as she allows her daughter to pull her toward me.
“Mom,” Emmy announces. “This is Skylar Stone, and she’s living in our bunkhouse.”
The woman gives me a kind smile. She’s all soft, feminine curves, with chocolate-brown eyes, freckles of a slightly lighter color dotting her pert nose. Her shoulder-length hair is golden like straw, and I can see the warmth of it lending that peachy tone to Emmy’s. She’s got that girl-next-door look
down pat.
She’s effortlessly beautiful.
“Hi, Skylar. I’m Mia,” she says, with no squealing or slack-jawed staring.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, and I am so sorry to hear about the bunkhouse.”
She sticks her hand out to shake mine.
My smile matches hers as I take her hand. “I’m crossing things off my bucket list I didn’t even know existed, that’s for sure.”
“Hey now,” West interrupts as he swaggers up to us. “You haven’t lived until you’ve spent some nights in the bunkhouse. That’s an internationally accepted fact.”
Mia’s eyes roll dramatically. “Your attachment to that place is one of the wonders of the world, Weston.”
He nudges her with his elbow, and for a flash, I can see him doing that exact move as a child. I can imagine him as a little pest, ribbing everyone in sight. And for a flash, I also see the years of familiarity between the two of them. I imagine them together and it makes my stomach twist in a new way.
“Anytime you and Boring Brandon need a romantic getaway, it’s yours. I won’t even charge you.”
She shakes her head at him and glances away to cover her smile.
“Unbelievable.” When she finally glances back at me, it’s with a mocking type of seriousness. “Skylar, you’re in luck because it’s my week with the kids starting today. That means you’ll only have to live on the same property with one child.”
I chuckle. Mia gives off only good vibes. But I still turn my head away bashfully to cover my blush because the thought of being alone on the property with West has a thrill racing down my spine.
An entire week of avoiding him, so I don’t throw myself at him again.
And an entire week of being friends without his adorable kids as our buffer.
I’m biting my lip and staring at the ground when I see a flash of white from the corner of my eye. It draws my attention and I turn to look.
At a stray soccer ball.
One that hits me square in the face.
Just before my nose starts spraying blood.