Noelle August - Boomerang

I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t do this thing.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Hey, Ethan—”

But the kid on the left swings his arm back, and the ball flies out of his hand, crashing into the throng of nine-year-olds goofing around over the ball return.

One of the kids screams, “My foot” and topples over, knocking another ball out of the hands of the kid nearby. That ball rolls away, toward a family with three little girls who scream when they see its slow advance, like it’s a freight train bearing down on them.

We split like seven and ten pins, me to rescue the ball before it gently nudges the tiny foot of a five-year-old girl and Ethan to conduct triage on the Gordian knot of writhing boys.

The dad of the other family scoops up the ball and hands it to me with a smile, then wisely shuffles his girls off to sit on the bench farthest from us.

“Thanks.” I return to help restore a bit of order though anyone looking at my life at the moment could tell you this is not my area of expertise.

Ethan sets the one kid—Milo—down on a bench and kneels in front of him to untie his shoe. “Okay, buddy,” he says. “I’m just going to take a look at your foot and see if anything’s broken, okay?”

Milo nods, and Buzz Cut, who’s returned from his pizza-ordering mission—plops down to hang over his friend’s shoulder and watch.

“Oh, Gawd, what happened now?” asks a voice from behind us. I look up to see Raylene hovering over us, her red hair teased to super mall heights. She wears a white denim wrap dress and stiletto heels that are most certainly not lane-approved.

“Hey, Parker,” Milo says, and some of the other boys murmur their greetings as well. I can see right away that they’re being gentle with him in that surprising way kids sometimes have of being protective where it would be easy to be rough.

Parker eases out from behind his mom to approach the injured party. “What happened?”

And then Rhett comes up, chest puffed out strangely and, I swear, an extra button unbuttoned on his skin-tight bowling shirt. His scarily angular face is all softness now though, and his eyes sparkle in a way that I’ve only seen when he’s scored a soccer goal or fired someone.

“Just a soldier down on the field of combat,” he booms, and Raylene laughs with all the teeth going, and it’s clear these two are going to end up together sooner rather than later, which makes me happy, relieved, and curious to know whether they’ll destroy small villages in the heat of their lovemaking.

Ethan moves the kid’s foot around and squeezes a few toes. “Nothing broken,” he says. Then he slips the bowling shoe back on and gives it a pat. “But this foot’s a whole size larger now.”

Milo grins and slides off the bench. “I’m gonna change my name to Big Foot!” he exclaims and rushes over to the computer.

Ethan looks after him, a sweet smile on his face, and then turns to me. “Crisis averted,” he says, as he rises.

One of them, anyway.

“Hey, can I grab you for just a second?” I ask. “Before everyone else comes?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Just . . .” God, I’m going to look like such a jerk. Fitting enough, I guess, since I am actually a jerk for doing what I did. I suck in another couple of breaths and wave him over a few steps away from everyone, moving us closer to the crane machine and the tiny arcade near the front door.

He keeps looking back at the kids. “I can’t go too far.”

“I know,” I tell him. “This’ll only take a second anyway. I just feel like I need to—”

But his eyes move away from me, and something unreadable passes over his face. “Uh, hold on,” he tells me and starts away.

“Wait, Ethan.”

“One sec, I’ll be right there. Keep an eye on them, okay?”

He hurries away, and my stomach tumbles when I see the reason why.

Apparently Alison has come to bowl too.

Ethan

Q: Box of chocolates or bag of chips?

I’m jogging over to Alison when it hits me: of all the dumb ideas I’ve ever had, bowling with my soccer team, my ex-girlfriend, and Mia definitely wins the prize.

It’s going to be a hell of a night.

“Hey, Alison. You’re here.” I lean over the pink baker’s box in her hands to give her a hug. “What’s this?”

“Just a little surprise I had made for the team.” She opens it and does a little flourish with her hand. “Ta-dah.”

More than a dozen cupcakes are packed inside, white frosting crisscrossed with chocolate lines to make them look like soccer balls. Only one at the center is different and my mouth starts watering the second I see it. Chocolate hazelnut turtle cupcake. My favorite.

The gesture is vintage Alison, so I’m not surprised. She’s always been one for giving, sometimes extravagant things. In the past there was always a trace of desperation to her generosity, like I was a skittish animal that might vanish into the mist without a steady diet of custom Nikes and designer shirts and expensive dinners out. But these cupcakes feel different. I see it in her eyes. She doesn’t expect anything back except my gratitude, which she has.

“These look great. Thanks.” I nod to the boys. They’ve formed a line behind the foul line, all except Cameron, who’s swinging a bowling ball back and forth, about to toss it through a tunnel formed by ten pairs of spread legs. Somebody’s going to get hurt again, maybe castrated, but thankfully Rhett stops Cameron just in time. “If it’s okay with you, let’s hold onto these until the end, otherwise they could go atomic.”

“I think that’s wise,” Alison says, her eyes going wide at my team’s antics.

“Okay.” I hesitate for a second. When she texted me this afternoon asking if we could talk again, I figured we could do it here: a nice, loud public place that’s about as unsuitable for heart-to-hearts as you can get. I’m fine with talking again, surprisingly, but I have zero interest in putting myself in any situation with her that feels remotely intimate. That shit’s never going to happen again. Ever. But I didn’t think this through very well. With the team here, I won’t be able to talk to her for another hour. “I’m tied up for a bit, but—”

“It’s okay, Ethan. Go ahead,” she says, waving me away. “I’ll grab a drink and hang out until you’re free.”

“Okay.” Once again she’s unrecognizable to me. This girl is a hundred times more easygoing than the one I dated. I’m half expecting her to unzip her skin like a Scooby Doo cartoon.

As I head back to our lanes, I look for Mia, wondering what she’ll make of Alison being here. I find her kneeling in front of Parker, tying his bowling shoes. She’s comfortable right in the middle of the chaos.

For the moment, Rhett’s got the boys in some semblance of order, so I sit next to Parker. Mia glances up, catching my eye for a split second, before she turns back to her double knot.

“Everything okay, Parker?” I ask.

“My mom forgot to double-knot my bowling shoes even though I told her three times to do it but it doesn’t matter because they feel like they’re too big anyway,” Parker says. Then he does this exasperated exhale thing that makes his red bangs float up for a second.

“You want me to get you a smaller size?” Mia offers.

Parker shakes his head quickly.

I smile, remembering how it feels to be that age. A pretty girl already makes you mute, though it’s years before you realize why.

“My dad, Shep?” I begin, thinking of a story that might help me get Parker past his reluctance to bowl. “He owns an alley in Colorado, where I grew up, and—”

“Tyler told me,” Parker interrupts. “He said you learned to shoot goals there. In a bowling alley.”

I smile. This is a good sign. Parker was my main motivation for putting this night together. He’s been coming to practices, but he hasn’t joined in yet. He’s only watched, which is also what he’s been doing tonight. Or so I thought. Tyler’s my ringleader, and if he’s starting to talk to Parker, accept him, then things are looking up.

“Yep,” I say. “That’s true, but back to my dad. He thinks too many people rush through their approach—the steps you take just before you bowl. He says when you’re wearing shoes that are too big, you have to slow down so you don’t trip. He has this theory that most people end up bowling better in big shoes.”

Parker is quiet for a moment, staring at me with too much intensity for a kid.

“Is it the same thing with soccer?” he asks. “Would big shoes help? I mean big cleats?”

“Help what? Score lots of goals? Kick with lots of power?”

I sense Mia smiling in my peripheral vision. I want to look at her, but I don’t dare break eye contact with Parker. He’s listening to me. He’s finally hearing me.

“Power,” he says. “I want to kick hard and far. Like you do.”

I cross my arms and gaze across the lanes like I’m thinking about it. “How about adding accuracy to that list?” I ask. “Power and range don’t mean much if you can’t kick where you’re meaning to.”

“Yes,” he says before I’ve even finished speaking.

“All right, sure,” I say. “I can teach you that. No special shoes required. But you’ll have to keep coming to practices. You’ll have to participate. Not just watch. And you’ll have to work hard.”

It’s not the most rousing speech I’ve ever given, but fancy words aren’t what he needs. If I’m right, Parker just needs to believe that I won’t make him promises and then disappear—and that he has a place in the Dynamos that’s his, no matter what.

“Fart Knocker?” Rhett yells, breaking the little cocoon that’s surrounded us. Rhett squints at the scoreboard, then looks around. “Guys, listen up. Hey, guys! Does anyone know who Fart Knocker is?”

Parker jumps up. “Gotta go.” He stops at the ball return and turns around, locking eyes with me. “But yes, Coach. Okay.”

Mia straightens and slips into the seat Parker just vacated. She’s wearing a smile on her face—I feel it even without looking at her.

“You look mighty proud of yourself, Coach Ethan.”

“Yeah . . . I like that kid.”

“Is he your favorite?”

“If by favorite you mean that he’s the one I think about the most, then yes. He is.” That definition would also make you my favorite girl, I think. Then I mentally beat the crap out of myself. “Parker’s just had a tough time, you know?”

Mia shakes her head, her curly hair shifting over her shoulder. “No. What happened to him?”

I lower my voice, though there’s no chance anyone’s going to hear us with the noise. “His dad walked out on him. On them,” I say, nodding to Raylene. Only then do I see that Raylene is sitting with Alison. Two glasses of white wine sit on the table in front of them. It’s like I’ve stepped into an alternate dimension.

“That’s sad—poor guy,” Mia says, her brow creasing with concern.

My eyes drop to her lips, to the soft pink shine of her lip gloss. It’d be so easy to just bend down and taste her. My willpower disintegrates when I’m this close to her, so I lean back a little and focus on my bowling shoes. “I can relate to him, in a way.”

“I thought your parents were together,” Mia says. “You told me they’re still crazy about each other.”

“They are,” I say, noticing that she remembers the things I say almost verbatim. I wish I hadn’t noticed. Knowing that isn’t going to make my life any easier. “I just meant that I know what it’s like to have someone you trust disappoint you in a big way.”

Mia blinks at me. “What?”

“Nothing . . . Never mind.” I don’t want to bad-mouth Alison—especially since she’s here. I grab Mia’s hand and pull her to her feet. “You’re up, Ms. Hubba Hubba.”

Her eyes lift to the scoreboard above. “Hubba—what? That’s not me. One of the boys entered that.”

I grin. “Wonder which one.” I tow her out to the lane, stopping to grab her bowling ball on the way.

“Ethan, I’m allergic to sports,” Mia says, as she tries to squirm out of my grip. “I told you this! I even carry an EpiPen.”

“Just try it. It’s not going to kill you.” I hand her the bowling ball, which tips her forward as she absorbs the weight.

The boys have all stopped what they’re doing. They stand in a line, as still as they’ve been all night. Then Milo catcalls, “Coach Vance is touching his girlfriennnnd,” and suddenly they’re all snickers and nudging elbows.

“I’m serious, Ethan. I could gravely injure you.” Beneath her smile, I can tell she is actually concerned. “I break windows when I try sports. I break bones.”