Juked (5 page)

“You went to cosmetology school. What’s the difference?”

I brush my eyebrows liberally with a pencil. Being blonde sucks sometimes. “I had to do something quick, Sarah, you know that. I had to have a fast career so I could pay our bills.”

The ding of the microwave pulls me out of my memory but doesn’t take away the crushing guilt I still feel as I remember that conversation.

I’d hung up on her as I raced out the door that day. I’d hung up and never called her back. I thought she would call me when she finally came to her senses, yet I never came to mine.

I shake the bottle to spread the heat out before testing it on my arm. I glance down at the baby book sitting on the counter.

The damn book cost me twenty-five dollars. Twenty-five dollars I don’t have, but it was worth it. I’ve been slowly reading through it, making sure I don’t miss anything important I should know about raising a baby. The topic on this page catches my attention. It’s called “How to Safely Heat up a Bottle.” In big bold letters, it says
NEVER HEAT UP A BOTTLE IN THE MICROWAVE. The radiation causes a breakdown of the properties in the formula, making it less nutritious. Also, there is research that indicates a possible breakdown of the plastic in the bottle, causing the baby to ingest those chemicals.

FUCK!

Now I have to dump the bottle out. It’s only four ounces, but formula is expensive. So are diapers and clothes and everything else a baby needs to be taken care of. Day care alone is going to cost me almost two hundred dollars a week. The facility is fifteen minutes out of my way to work, which tacks on an extra thirty minutes to my commute every day, each way. But that was the cheapest rate I could find.

I find my glass measuring cup that fits two cups of water and fill it up halfway before popping it into the microwave and turning it on. The memory of that final phone call assaults me again.

She sighs into the phone. I’m hoping that sigh means I’m getting through to her. “Do you know how much the average television reporter gets paid at their first job?”

“Never asked.”

“Twenty thousand dollars a year,” she says. “That’s less than ten dollars an hour. And it’s salaried so they can call me in at all hours and work me as many hours a week as they want.”

“So what? You’re young and single. You can live on Ramen,” I say rudely as I dab on lip gloss and blot my lips.

“The average job only lasts eighteen months. That means I’ll be moving every year-and-a-half to another location.”

“You love to travel.”

“It’s complicated, Quincy. I need to have a job that pays me enough to live on—”

“Sarah,” I cut her off as I sit on my bed to put on my brown boots. “There is more to life than money. I have killed myself for the last six years so you could have it better than I did. You’re being stupid and irresponsible and selfish, and I won’t approve of this. This is stupid.”

“Things have changed, Quincy,” she says with a sniffle. It’s the same sound she used to make when she was trying to pull one over on dad. But I’m not dad. I’m me. I don’t fall for that shit.

“I don’t care.” I stand up, race out of my room, and grab my travel mug full of coffee. “You need to think about this before you make any big decision. Remember, I’m the one in control of your inheritance, and I already told you, if you don’t graduate, you don’t get any of it until you’re thirty.”

“But Quincy—”

“No ‘buts’,” I say sharply. “Listen, I gotta go. I’m gonna be late. I love you. We’ll talk more about this later.”

The microwave dings again and I pull the boiling water out. I drop a second bottle inside the water and wait for it to warm up.

All this time, I thought Sarah was being flaky that day when what she was really doing was being a responsible mother. She’d been pregnant and knew she couldn’t have her dream job and a baby.

And I had called her selfish and stupid and threatened her.

There’s a Walmart receipt from the other day on the counter. I swear it’s taunting me making me panic at the costs I was never expecting. How am I going to pay for it all?

I looked into the WIC program like Geni suggested. It provides food for children under five years old and living in a low-income household, but we didn’t qualify. I make about two hundred dollars a month too much. Same thing with government-assisted childcare. It all falls on me, and I have no idea how I’m going to do it. I already dropped the night classes I was taking at the junior college across town.

I have to find a way to get more clients. And I really need to clean out Sarah’s apartment. Maybe she has some baby supplies that will help take some of the pressure off. If not, maybe I can sell some of her things.

The thought makes me want to weep. I don’t want to sell my little sister’s things. That will make it more real that she’s gone. They’re also the last things I have left of her. But I know Sarah wouldn’t want Chance to go without.

I’m shaking the new bottle to test the temperature when I hear a frantic cry coming from the opposite side of the apartment.

Chance is awake and hungry again. Good thing I was prepared and have the bottle ready. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll eat quickly, and I can get some sleep tonight before the pressure and the lack of rest suck me completely under.

P
ractice is a lot of fun lately. Why? The rookies. We’re watching them closer than before. Pushing them more, forcing them to show what they’re made of. It’s awesome.

There’s a lot of trash talking by the veterans, and you can tell the newbies are scared as shit. They have no idea where they stand, so they should be. Will they be benched for the next several seasons? Will they be practice players only? Will they be the next starter or even the next star? No one knows.

One of them stands out among the rest, though. Rowen Flanigan. The kid is probably six one, so he is already on the tall side for a soccer player. His bright red hair, seriously white skin, and bright green eyes draw attention. If his name wasn’t a dead giveaway about his Irish heritage, his looks would be.

But that’s not the only reason he stands out. The kid is a machine. As a draftee straight out of college, not only is he keeping up with the veterans, it looks like he may run circles around our current starting right mid-fielder.

“Zavaro!” Coach booms as he walks into the locker room.

“Yo, Coach!” I yell back from the bench I’m sitting on while I tear off my shin guards and athletic socks.

He catches my eye and gestures to his office. “I need to see you.”

“You got it.” I throw my socks in the giant laundry basket and slip on my black flip-flops. I stink, and I desperately need a shower but I don’t want to leave Coach waiting. He loves this part of the season as much as I do and loves bantering back and forth about what we’re seeing on the field.

I make a mental note to talk to him about Flanigan being groomed as our new starter. Coach won’t make a decision about that based on my opinion—hell, I’m only a player—but being the captain of the team, he’ll at least take it into consideration. He relies on me to take stock of how the players interact, how they get along, who gels well and who doesn’t. And frankly, our current starting right mid, Mack Shivel, is getting on my fucking nerves. He’s way too cocky, and it’s starting to show on the field.

After a quick knock, I walk into his office and close the door.

“Have a seat.” He’s watching video of today’s practice. I sit down but lean forward in the chair so I can see what he’s looking at. “See that right there?” he asks, pointing at the screen. “That’s the third time that kid Ratheson used his head and he nailed it every time.”

“I noticed that,” I say. “I was surprised how accurate a shot he is that way.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” He presses play, and we watch for a few minutes until the video ends. Sitting back in his seat, he clasps his hands and rests them on his chest, putting one foot up on his desk. We’ve done this enough times, he gets right to the point. “Thoughts about today?”

“I think you’ve got some solid picks this year,” I say, resting my back against the chair and stretching out my legs. “We’ve got some training to do to get them up to par, but they’ve got a lot of potential.”

“Anyone in particular impress you?” he asks.

I smile. “I’m sure we’ve got our eye on the same guy.”

He smirks. “Rowen Flanigan?”

“The kid’s got some good moves.”

“I knew he was gonna be a good pick before I even saw him play. Comes from good genes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep. His daddy is Ryan Flanigan. Sound familiar?”

It takes a second to recall the name from so long ago, but when it does, my jaw drops. “No shit?” Coach just smiles. Ryan Flanigan is a legend in European soccer, also known as football to everyone else in the world. He holds multiple records and has a career spanning almost two decades. He retired as one of the highest paid soccer players ever. If the team wasn’t impressed with our rookie before, they will be now. “You’re not kidding he has good genes. But why is he a midfielder? I would have thought he’d be playing forward like his dad.”

Coach drops his foot to the floor. “I asked him that during the interview. Says he doesn’t like being offensive. Prefers a defensive position.”

“Damn, Ryan Flanigan’s kid.” I shake my head. “He’s been retired and out of the spotlight since I was, what, eight or nine? I guess that’s why I didn’t put it together. But now that I know, it makes perfect sense. Not to mention the resemblance.

“It’s hard to miss,” Coach says. “But if he hasn’t brought it up in the locker room yet, I’m not sure he wants everyone to know. My guess is he wants to make a name for himself, so you need to keep that information to yourself.”

“Understood.”

“The reason I ask you about him is because I think we need to start grooming him to take over Shivel’s spot.” I nod, not at all surprised at the turn in conversation. Coach and I have seen eye-to-eye about a lot of player strengths and weaknesses over the years. That’s one of the reasons why he made me captain. “Mack’s been a solid player for a long time, but I’m worried about his endurance. He’s not keeping up like he used to.” He presses play, and we watch a series of clips spliced together, all focused on Shivel. “He starts strong,” Coach says without looking away from the monitor, “but about halfway through, see how he just got juked? It’s like he sees them coming but can’t anticipate their moves. He’s definitely not giving the one hundred percent we used to see from him.”

“I agree completely,” I say. “They’re getting around him way too often. Whatever his reasons, I’m glad this Flanigan kid is a midfielder. I think we’re going to need him. Not only is Shivel slowing down, he’s become a real dick to work with.”

“I’ve noticed that, too. Kid’s a little too big for his britches with nothing to back it up. I can’t do anything about it now, and I’m not totally convinced Shivel isn’t just going through a rough patch. But I want us to keep an eye on him while we start grooming Flanigan. If Mack gets injured, or we have to yank him, we need the rookie ready to go.”

“Sounds good to me,” I say.

We discuss a few more players, watch a few more clips. It’s close to an hour before we’re done, and I’m walking back into the locker room, where my teammates are still hanging out. Most of them haven’t even showered yet.

“Why the hell is everyone still here?” I ask Christian, who’s sitting on the bench shirtless, drinking a beer.

“Oh, you didn’t hear yet, did you?” he asks, passing me a Shiner. I shake my head and pop the top. Normally, we wouldn’t be drinking in the locker room after practice, so I figured this was a celebration of some sort. “Kuttnauer is getting married.”

I raise my eyebrows. “No shit?”

“Yep. Seems everyone on our team is either getting hitched or having babies,” he says with a snicker. His statement seems pretty accurate after the summer we’ve had. Chris Kuttnauer is the third guy to pop the question in the last few months. And two teammates became first time dads during the off-season, with three more babies ready to be born during the season.