Page 37 of Rock Bottom Girl

“We’ve been in your shoes,” I added.

“Yeah, right,” one of the Morgans groused. “You’re just trying to keep us celibate.”

Okay, we were tiptoeing into dicey territory. I didn’t think the girls’ parents would appreciate me talking to their teenage daughters about sex.

“I’m not talking about sex,” I said evasively. “I’m talking bigger picture. Don’t waste your time in relationships that lack respect.”

“Is that why you’re single?” one of the JV players piped up.

My mind jumpstarted a black-and-white reel of relationship highlights culminating in Javier telling me that my lack of passion had dried up what little chemistry we had. And then me telling him that I didn’t find him interesting enough to be passionate about. After we’d finished sniping at each other and decided to amicably call it quits, I’d felt a swift rush of relief. Unfortunately, it had dried up twelve hours later when I’d lost my job at the start-up that had folded as quickly as it had launched. The start-up I’d sunk every dime of my savings into.

“I’m single because I haven’t met the right guy yet,” I said stiffly.

“Maybe you should practice with a few of the wrong ones,” Ruby suggested.

“We’re not talking about me here,” I argued.

“What about Mr. Weston? He totally carried you around,andhe yelled at you,” Phoebe said. “My dad yells all the time. It’s how he shows he cares.”

“There is nothing happening between me and Mr. Weston,” I insisted, dumping the ball bag in the grass. Even if he was spectacularly good-looking and interesting and funny. I’d been there. Kissed that. Bought the t-shirt. “Let’s practice some controlled dribbling around these rocking circus animals.”

“Didn’t you kiss Jake senior year?” Vicky mused out loud.

I picked up a ball and threw it at her.

“What?” the girls shrieked together.

“You and Mr. Weston?”

“No way.”

“Were you prettier in high school?”

I hated teenagers.

“No way.”

“Two lines,” I shouted. “When you get to a circus animal, use a dodge. Let’s see some footwork.”

They lazily made their way into two sloppy lines, making kissy noises.

“Go!”

As my team juked and jogged their way around the playground equipment, I felt myself slip a little deeper into the misery I’d been holding at bay.

“Do I really look like my prime years are behind me?” I asked Vicky.

“Oh, sweetie.” She tucked a stray lock of limp hair behind my ear. “Yes. But that doesn’t mean they are.”

* * *

We adaptedto our unfortunate circumstances and practiced corner kicks trying to arch the ball over the tube slide. For the header contest, we paired the girls off on either side of the monkey bars. “Head it over the bars, not under, Leslie! Stay on your toes. Don’t take balls to the forehead with your heels on the ground!”

I was starting to sound like my father.

“Ugh. This sucks,” Ruby said, snatching the ball out of the air and punting it in the direction of the kickball field.

“Look I appreciate your frustration. I’d like nothing more to go back over there and—”