The Abstinence Teacher. Tom Perrotta

orders of magnitude stronger than usual. Ruth squeezed back, feeling the clamminess of her daughter's skin through the mesh weave of her jersey.

      “Mommy!” Maggie's voice sounded as theatrical as Hannah's, but her eyes were full of honest emotion. “Thanks for coming.”

      “Happy to be here,” Ruth told her. “I'm sorry it took so long.”

      Maggie stepped back from the embrace, tugging at her uniform to get everything back in order. Ruth was unexpectedly moved by the sight of her, as if she were being offered a glimpse of two Maggies at once: the little girl she still was—a dirty-kneed tomboy straight out of Norman Rockwell—and the happy, confident young woman she was already on her way to becoming.

      “Did you see when I scored?” she asked, kicking an imaginary ball. “The goalie dove, but it went right through her hands.”

      Ruth frowned an apology. “I'm sorry, honey, I got here a little late. But I can't believe how well you're playing. You're like the Energizer Bunny out there. I'm so proud of you.”

      “You should be,” said a man's voice. “She's our spark plug.”

      Ruth turned and saw the long-haired coach approaching with a friendly expression and a slight bounce in his step, probably a byproduct of the dance lesson.

      “Can I interest you in an apple slice?” he asked, extending a Tupperware container. “The girls barely made a dent.”

      Maggie took one, but Ruth declined.

      “You sure?” The coach looked a bit put out by her refusal. “They're nice and fresh. I squeeze lemon juice on 'em so they don't turn brown.”

      “Good thinking,” said Ruth. “Can't go wrong with lemon juice.”

      Nodding as if she'd uttered a profound truth, the coach shifted the container to his left hand and extended his right.

      “Tim Mason. I'm the fearless leader of this motley crew.”

      They shook. His hand was unusually large and a lot warmer than hers.

      “I'm Ruth. Maggie's mother.”

      Keeping a firm grip on Ruth's hand, Tim Mason studied her face, as if she were a good friend he hadn't seen in a long time. Up close, he looked older than she'd expected, at least forty. Some gray hair. Crow's-feet. A certain wariness around the eyes.

      “I've heard a lot about you,” he said.

      Ruth chuckled nervously, glad she'd taken the time to shower and put on makeup before leaving the house.

      “Good things, I hope.”

      Tim Mason didn't answer, nor did he loosen his grip. He just kept staring at Ruth, the moment stretching out, the air smelling like apples.

      “It means a lot to her that you're here,” he said. “I know how much she's missed you.”

      When he released her hand, Ruth felt relieved and vaguely let down at the same time.

      “Well, thanks for coaching,” she said. “I know it's a big time commitment.”

      “I love it,” he said, turning to Maggie and ruffling her hair. “We got a great buncha kids.”

      * * *

      RUTH WASN'T sure why the brief encounter with Tim Mason had left her so flustered. It was nothing, really, just some innocuous small talk and a handshake that lasted a little too long with a guy she wasn't even sure she found all that attractive (he was handsome enough, but she always found something vaguely off-putting about long hair on a middle-aged man). And yet here she was, all hot and bothered at the beginning of the second half, staring right through the players on the field to the coach on the far sideline—he was holding a clipboard, banging it against his leg like a tambourine—unable to think of anything but the pressure of his palm against hers and the way time seemed to stop when he looked into her eyes.

      It was embarrassing, she understood that, pining for your daughter's married soccer coach—oh, she'd checked for the ring; she always checked for the ring—possibly a new low. Not that it was her fault. This was the kind of thing that happened when you went without sex for too long. After a while, any scrap of male attention—a wry smile, a kind word, the faintest whiff of flirtation—was enough to create a full-blown disturbance in your love-starved brain. A guy says, “Excuse me” in the supermarket, well, he must be the One, your Last Chance for Happiness. Or barring that—because happiness was a pretty tall order—your last chance for a normally unhappy life where somebody at least touches you every week or two.

      What made it more ridiculous was that it wasn't even midmorning yet, and Tim Mason was already her second Last Chance of the day. During the night, she'd gotten so worked up thinking about Paul Caruso and their long-lost interlude of secret passion—Hadn't they shared something special? Wasn't it a pity that they'd fallen out of touch?— that she'd done something she already regretted. Dragging herself out of bed at three-thirty in the morning, she'd logged on to Classmates.com and posted a query on the Oakhurst Regional High message board: “Does anyone know how to get in touch with Paul Caruso, class of '80? He was a trumpet player who lived on Peony Road.”

      What was that, six hours ago? And already, she'd dumped her old lover for a hippie soccer coach who would undoubtedly be replaced by the surly Russian guy with liquor on his breath who pumped her gas at the Hess station. Is this what it's going to be like for the rest of my life, Ruth wondered, one unrequited fantasy after another until I shrivel up and die?

      SHE WAS rescued from this unrewarding line of inquiry by the sudden appearance at her side of Arlene Zabel, a striking woman of about fifty, whose daughter, Louisa, played goalie for the Stars. Arlene had long gray hair that only heightened your awareness of how youthful she looked otherwise—her body trim and girlish, her face lively and unlined.

      “Ruth,” she said. “It's been ages.”

      Ruth agreed that it had. Arlene gave her an approving once-over as they exchanged pleasantries.

      “You look terrific. Did you lose weight?”

      “I've been running,” Ruth explained. “Mainly just to keep sane.”

      Arlene nodded sympathetically, as if she understood exactly why Ruth might have needed to take steps to preserve her sanity. She was a tax-attorney-turned-massage-therapist—a true renegade, given the narrow parameters of acceptable adult conduct in Stonewood Heights— and Ruth had always considered her a kindred spirit.

      “I've been meaning to call you for months,” Arlene said. “But you know how it is. Mel's been traveling for work, and I run around so much, I barely have time to breathe.”

      “That's okay,” Ruth told her. “I've been pretty busy myself.”

      The falseness of the moment was painfully apparent to both of them. Four years ago, they'd been good friends. They had each other's families over for dinner, went on double dates with their husbands, took the kids to movies, museums, and amusement parks. But Frank had known Mel since high school, and it was tacitly understood by everyone involved that he would get custody of the Zabels after the divorce. Ruth and Arlene tried to sustain an independent friendship for a while, but it had petered out after a couple of melancholy coffee dates.

      “It's a shame what they did to you,” Arlene said. “You didn't deserve to be raked over the coals like that.”

      “Thanks.” Ruth appreciated the sentiment, though she would have appreciated it a whole lot more a few months ago, back when the coals were still burning.

      “I don't know where all these Bible Thumpers are coming from,” Arlene said. “I mean, they didn't used to be so—uh-oh!”

      Ruth looked up just in time to see one of the Comets steal the ball from Nadima and boot it upheld to the Asian girl. A roar of anticipation went up from the Bridgeton fans as their star offensive player dribbled past Hannah Friedman and broke for the net. Alone in the goal, Louisa Zabel seemed jittery, uncertain whether to hold her