Page 84 of Kiss the Girl
She sounded like I did when I was telling kids to quit screwing around during gym.
“It’s not a big deal,” I called. “Just give me a minute.” Was that enough pushback to show friction? Too much? I sucked at pretending.
“They’re shooting the nail gun at a stump. So now, please?”
I hurried over to the boys. “Knock it off, dummies.”
“Yes, coach.”
“You can’t call us names, coach,” DeShawn said, not even remotely offended.
“When you show the same amount of brains as the dummies on your tackling sled, I can and will make that comparison.”
“Fair,” said one of the offensive linemen, and the perpetrator doing target practice with the nail gun sheepishly returned to the booth frame.
“Can I speak to you over here, coach?” Grace called from near the shed.
“She called you ‘coach,’” J.J. noted. “That means you’re in trouble.”
I walked over to the shed. I had no idea if this was real or a show, and my stomach clenched while I waited to find out. I didn’t like this. At all.
“What’s up?” I asked.
She stuck her hands on her hips, and then said in a low voice, “Nothing. I’m just making them think we’re having an argument.” She stabbed a finger in the air for emphasis.
I crossed my arms, the picture of annoyance. “This is not nearly as fun as pretending we’re into each other.”
Her cheeks pinked. “That is beside the point,” she said, shaking her finger.
“It’s the whole point,” I said. I darted a glance to the players who were shooting us looks. “But for what it’s worth, I think they’re buying this.”
Grace ran her fingers through her hair in a frustrated gesture. “Good.”
I stared down at the ground like I didn’t want to meet her eyes. “How long is this fight going to last?”
“I think it can be done now.” She crossed her arms too. Our body language was screaming “trouble.”
“Good, because this is not my favorite.” I scuffed at the concrete.
“Mine either,” she said. “I’m going back to supervising now. The booth is looking good.”
“Good job,” I said, frowning.
“You too,” she said frowning back, which made me fight a smile. I won. Barely.
Fake fighting with her was not nearly as fun as fake dating, but it was still more entertaining than ninety percent of anything else I did.
The realization was a splash of cold reality, and I didn’t have to force a frown as I walked back to the boys.
I’d rather fake fight with Grace than do real anything with anyone else. But I had to shove that down and let coaching football and taking care of Paige and Evie be enough. It had to be. There wasn’t another option.
By the time we had all the hinges installed and did a trial run of the setup, it was nearly lunch time, and I was thoroughly sick of fake fighting. It had been funny at first, but Grace found two or three more opportunities to show she wasn’t happy with me.
It didn’t feel good. I had to remind myself that I hadn’t done anything wrong, any of the times. It was just more playacting. But it was starting to feel real, and I hated the knot it created in my chest.
We finally got the whole booth assembled. It was a good size—ten by ten—and could fit up to eight people working comfortably inside at once.
“Stand back and look at it, boys,” I called, and they gathered around me to admire the final product. We’d used the design from Omar, who played right tackle and also took advanced art. He’d used forced perspective to recreate the slightly mad feel of a Dr. Seuss house, and the final product in front of us was a clever combination of color and wood cuts.
