Page 3 of Lucky Shot

I sigh and twist my lips. “It’s just . . . they’re fine and all that, but I don’t belong there. I’m thirteen and they have two of their own babies. They don’t want me there. I’m just another mouth to feed and another person to have to drive somewhere. They just want the check that comes with me.”

“I can see why you’d think that—especially if you’re on house ten or eleven or whatever, but clearly they wanted you, or else they wouldn’t have taken you in.”

I snort. I’ve thought the same thing. I’ve overthought it. I’ve considered everything about the situation and can’t figure out why they’d even agree to take on a foster like me when they’re clearly frazzled with the toddler and baby they already have.

“Are they mean to you?” he asks. “Do they feed you? Do they—”

“They’re not mean. More . . . indifferent.” I sniff to hide that I care. “That’s almost worse.”

He nods. “I get it. How long have you been with this family?”

“Two months.”

“Two months?”

“That’s what I said,” I say sarcastically.

“And you hate them already?” He lifts a lone eyebrow.

“Hate is a strong word. Indifferent. I already told you that.” Typical adult. He doesn’t listen.

“No. You said they were indifferent. I was asking how you felt.”

Maybe he does listen. “I’m . . . I guess I’m the same.”

“Afraid to get attached because you’re not staying long?”

“No.” Yes.

But the look on his face tells me he doesn’t buy my answer one bit. He glances around. “How many times you break in here and kick the ball around?”

“Look, I don’t break in anywhere. You have a hole in the fence over there you need to fix.”

He chuckles. “Again, fair assessment. I’ll rephrase. How many times have you come and done this? Practice? Escape? Whatever you want to call it?”

“Since I found it a few weeks ago? As often as I can.”

He motions to the edge of the goalpost where I have a small duffle bag. It has everything I hold important to me inside of it. “Do you pack a bag with you each time you come here or did something happen today to make you want to run away?”

It’s my mom’s birthday.

“Nah.”

Not like she’d even know. She’s probably high on whatever her drug of choice is today. Or crashing. Or dead. Whatever. If she can’t remember to take care of her own daughter, she definitely can’t remember her own birthday.

“So just a tough day in general?” he asks.

“Something like that.” I swallow down the tears that threaten. The ones I refuse to shed for a life all the kids at school have that I don’t. That I wish for. That I’d give anything for.

“You a striker or an attacking mid?” he asks regarding what position I play in soccer.

I smile for the first time. “I can play both.”

He makes an approving sound. “She’s confident.”

“I’m not good at much, but I’m good at this.”

“I’m sure you’re great at a lot of things,” he says softly and then clears his throat. “You made that shot with ease. I’ve watched you mess around out here a few other times. Good footwork. Good read on the ball. You being good at playing—I don’t doubt it. What’s your name?”