Free Southtown by Rick Riordan

Birthday.”
    We did throw-ins, passes and dribbling, stopping approximately every three minutes for a water break. Jack kept barking. Maria kept getting whacked in the head with the ball and not noticing.
    Some of the mothers had gathered on the bleachers to watch and gossip. I wondered: If they have off at this time of day, why didn’t
they
volunteer?
    I answered myself: Because they are intelligent.
    One hour into practice, it started sprinkling. I considered calling an early stop, sending the kids to the extended care building for snacks and board games, but Jem said, “Can we scrimmage now, Tres? PLEEEASE ?”
    “Yeah!” Paul said. Then the Garcia twins started in: “Please, Coach! Please?”
    Suddenly I had sixteen little rain-freckled faces crowding around me. Jem and Paul pulled on my arms.
    I thought:
This is how it happens. This is how people can have a second or third kid, even though one is enough to kill you. They’re occasionally cute enough to make you suicidal.
    “All right,” I said. “Eight on eight.”
    “Yay!” Jack shouted. “Best coach ever!”
    We kicked off and all strategy was forgotten. Kids crowded the ball, moving back and forth down the field in a multi-legged clump. Paul was our best kicker, except he tended to boot it the wrong direction. Maria was a natural halfback, since the ball bounced off her anytime it came her direction whether she meant it to or not.
    Jem played keeper. After only five minutes, the other team had scored three goals off him.
    All that hand-eye coordination from playing video games didn’t seem to translate to sports. He moved slowly, grabbing for the ball right after it went past him. He dove in the wrong direction. I yelled, “Hands!” and he tried to block with his foot. The whole time, he kept a huge grin on his face, as if the other team was cheering for him whenever the ball sailed into the net.
    My heart sank. I’d been working with him one-on-one all the previous week, ever since he announced he wanted to play goalie in our first game against Saint Mark’s. I didn’t want to see the poor kid get blamed for what promised to be an absolute slaughter.
    Somebody’s dad—a pale Anglo in an Oxford and khakis—joined the mothers at the bleachers. I checked my watch. Only twenty minutes left of practice, and now the rain was really starting to come down. Typical.
    Jack the dog boy kicked from the edge of the penalty box—a slow, weak shot. Jem lunged for it, just the way he and I had practiced. He fell on his side, a foot short, and the ball wobbled into the net.
    “Yes!” Jack yelled. “Woof!”
    Laura clapped for him. His team yelled hooray. Jem got up, grinning happily, his left side caked in mud.
    We were still a few minutes early, but I decided it was time to stop.
    I told the kids to line up. We would walk together to the extended care building, where they could play until their parents came.
    They heard the “extended care” part, cheered for joy, and scattered.
    “Pick up the balls!” I yelled after them, but of course it was too late.
    Jem and I cleaned up equipment. The rain came down heavier, sizzling against the grass. We gathered the balls and cones, stuffed everything into the supply sack. Jem skipped around in his muddy yellow goalie vest, punching the air.
    “Wasn’t I great?” he asked. “Goalie rocks!”
    “We’ll keep working on it, champ.”
    “Can I play goalie the whole game, Tres? Please?”
    “Remember, you have to give the others a turn.”
    “Aw, please?”
    We lugged the gear bag to the storage shed, out by the kindergarten parking lot. Rain drummed against the aluminum roof.
    I’d just finished padlocking the door when I noticed the silver BMW idling by the curb. The father in the Oxford and khakis was walking toward us.
    “Looking for your child?” I asked.
    “No, no,” the man said. “Got him in the car.”
    The BMW’s windows were so dark he could’ve had the whole soccer team inside and I