Wrecked(9)

Actually, that’s not true. She felt awful about Coach.

It hurt, the way she shook their hands, businesslike, and hurried off to some other appointment when they were done. Hurt, the way she responded when her mother brought up signing something. A waiver.

“You may be willing to put your daughter at risk, but I’m under no obligation to do so,” she’d said. Steel in her voice. “Participation on my team is not a right. It’s a privilege. And Haley revoked that privilege when I recruited her and she neglected to tell me she’d had multiple head injuries.”

There was a long silence following that. Broken by Haley’s mom.

“Your kicking her off the team would appear to support our decision to withhold that information. The fact is if she’d volunteered her private medical records, you wouldn’t have recruited her. And if she hadn’t bumped heads with someone last weekend, she’d still be your starting striker.”

“And still be at risk for permanent brain injury,” Coach shot back. “May I ask, what’s the goal here? No pun intended.”

Haley’s father rose. “The goal,” he said quietly, “is good health and an education.” He extended his hand toward Coach, who stood as well. “Thank you. We wish you and the team every success.” He looked pointedly at Haley’s mother. “Let’s go.”

That was when Coach spoke directly to Haley.

“By the way, you haven’t been ‘kicked off.’ You are benched due to injury and expected to attend every game. Your teammates will want you there, and I want you there, right on through to the end of the season.”

Haley could feel her own grateful smile. “Thanks.”

Then Coach hurried off without another word. Her mother had no choice but to do the same.

Madison seemed exasperated after Haley repeated this story. “Haley—duh!” she had exclaimed. “Listen to the woman. Benched is not kicked off! Give yourself time.”

Haley wondered what part of this Madison wasn’t getting.

Madison leaned close, her eyes inches from Haley’s. “You will be back on that field,” she insisted. “Cocaptain.”

That’s when Haley’s sturdy walls of detachment came tumbling down.

“Cocaptain” had been their private thing since preseason.

MacCallum had a strict no--hazing policy for all sports teams, but that didn’t prevent the “bonding” that involved new members drinking to excess and behaving ridiculously. A week after arriving for practice, the soccer captains held a team--only party at an off--campus apartment. Mini red cups, each with a shot and a half capacity, were handed out upon arrival.

“Hang on to your cups,” they were commanded.

The game was charades, and you were timed. Frosh on one team, upperclassmen on the other. If your team didn’t get the clue within two minutes, you all drank a cup. A senior made up the clues. So naturally, the frosh got stuff like “Cymbeline” (which turned out to be a play by Shakespeare) while upperclassmen got “Friends.”

An hour into it, the frosh were wrecked.

“This isn’t going to end well,” Madison wheezed into her ear at some point. “We need help.”

Just then, it was Haley’s turn. She somehow got to her feet and staggered across the circle to where one of the older girls handed her a slip of paper. She stared at the scribbled writing: “Backstreet Boys.”

“Can I sing?” Haley asked.

The older girl scoffed. “It’s charades.”

“C’mon. We’re dyin’ here,” Haley pleaded.

“Oh, let her,” another girl said. “They were still in diapers when that group was popular.”

Haley turned to her. The whole room swayed when she shifted her focus. Damn. “If we get it, you have to do what I say.” Whatever was in those red cups had made her bold.

The other girl smiled. She wasn’t worried. “We’ll see.”

Haley dropped the paper, and someone with a stopwatch began counting down: “Three, two . . .” Just as she reached “one,” Haley’s eyes fixed on the snack table. Someone had brought a sheet cake in the shape of a playing field, with shaved coconut dyed green for grass. There were two plastic toy goals at each end.

She knew what to do.

Tripping over a couple of girls, Haley grabbed a goal off the cake, pulled Madison to her feet, and dragged her to the middle of the circle. Frosting and coconut clung to the edge, but that didn’t stop her: she shoved the thing over Madison’s head like a hat. Before her friend could react, Haley got down on one knee, as if she were proposing.

“You are,” Haley crooned, “my fire. My one. Desire. Believe. When I say.” She turned to the other frosh. Rolled her hand, eyes wide. What next?

“I want it that way!” they all sang.

Haley jumped up, her head bobbing in encouragement.

“Backstreet Boys!” someone yelled.

“Yes!” Haley screamed. Fist pump. She pointed to the upperclassmen. “Drink on the chorus!” The frosh cheered; the others moaned.

“But we. Are two worlds apart,” she continued, amazed at how well she sang after a few shots. All the frosh joined in for the rest of the song, yelling “Drink!” to the upperclassmen after each increasingly hysterical repeat of “I want it that way.” Even Madison, who kept the goal on her head for the rest of the party, belted it.