For Keeps by Natasha Friend Read Free Book Online Page A

I came here to play soccer.

    It’s a mudfest. There’s no other way to describe it. Here’s what happened: About fifteen minutes into the scrimmage it started to rain, and now, even though we’re all wearing cleats, everyone is slipping all over the place. You would think that the coaches would call the game, for safety reasons, but here’s the thing: The score is 1-1 and we’re playing like this is the World Cup. No joke. I don’t know if it’s the trying-to-impress-each-other thing or the weather drama or what, but this is a serious game. Everyone’s spreading out, passing, following their shots. And it’s not as if the guys are going easy on us either. At one point, Kara was flying up the field toward the goal, and this guy Phil slide-tackled her. From then on it was like the gender seal had been broken. Now, it’s no holds barred.
    I want to score so bad I can taste it.
    The problem is, the gold team is playing amazing defense. Lindsey is sweeper, and in practice she barely moves her feet, but today she’s like an aerobics instructor, lunging and kicking all over the place. Too bad for Lindsey, I know her weakness: She’s a sucker for head fakes. So when Mike Woodmansee sees that I’m open and passes me the ball, there’s only one thing on my mind: Fake left, go right . Fake left, go right.
    I am not thinking about the gold pinny coming up behind me—the one that’s getting closer and closer. I am not thinking about it because I just I faked out Lindsey, and the goal is right there, and I am about to take my—
    Crap .
    I’m flat on my back in the mud, and I don’t even know how I got here. All I know is there’s someone on top of me.
    Who’s on top of me? And why the hell isn’t he getting—
    Oh. A nanosecond.
    My. Is all it takes.
    God. To realize exactly whose limbs are tangled up with mine.
    “Hey,” Matt Rigby says. His breath is soft and warm. There’s mud on his chin. And in his hair. He’s so close I can literally see his pulse, beating through the vein in his neck.
    There are so many things I could say right now.
    Hey.
    ’Sup?
    Fancy meeting you here.
    Get. Off.
    Great game.
    Illegal tackle much?
    Kiss me.
    But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. Have we been lying here for three seconds or three hours? I don’t know. All I know is I don’t want to get up. Because this is exactly what it felt like that night on my porch, like the whole world had stopped just for us.
    “Nice shot, Jose.” Liv is standing over us, grinning.
    That’s when it hits me. “It went in?”
    She nods. “Lower left corner.”
    “No way.” To Matt Rigby I say, “You’re cutting off my circulation.”
    You’re cutting off my circulation. I swear to God.
    Then, as if that wasn’t mortifying enough, he laughs.

    “There’s something on your face,” Bob says. He’s squinting up at me, suspicious. “Looks like dirt.”
    “It’s mud,” I tell him.
    “Mud?”
    “From soccer practice. Don’t worry.” I hold out my hands for inspection. “I won’t be scooping ice cream with my face.”
    Bob shudders at the thought.
    It’s a moot point anyway because summer is over and we’ve barely had any customers. Mostly what I’ve been doing when I come to work isn’t scooping, it’s scrubbing. And hauling FedEx boxes down to the basement. And helping Bob play out his European decorating fantasy—lots of ferns and throw rugs.
    “What’s this thing?” I run my fingers over the shiny silver contraption sitting on the counter.
    Bob swats my hand away. “Don’t touch!”
    “OK!” I jump back. “Sheesh.”
    “This,” he says in a low voice, “is our new cappuccino maker. . . . Observe.” He presses a button and a little door pops open. “This is the grinder compartment. Where the espresso beans go.” He presses another button and machinery whirs. “See how fast it is? Once the beans are ground”—he whips out a metal cup attached to a black rubber handle—“they go in here. Now . .