What We Saw(55)

“We can do another couple of those, or we can scrimmage now.” Coach tosses her clipboard onto the grass while half the team shouts scrimmage.

“Fine. We’ll scrimmage until I see somebody walk. If you’re standing still, you’re running a drill.”

Rachel and I are usually pitted against each other during practice. She’s got speed and no fear. I’ve got fast feet and good instincts. Together we’re unstoppable. Head to head, we push each other hard. Even in practice, Rachel plays for keeps. It’s one more thing I love about her.

We face off at center field.

“Gonna smoke you, Weston.”

“Don’t get cocky,” I warn her.

She grins. “Just telling the truth.”

As soon as Coach drops the ball, Rachel lunges, but in a flash I snag it sideways, crossing it behind me for a pass to Risby, a junior with a slight overbite and a leg that might as well be the Hammer of Thor. She’s still working on accuracy and speed, but on a wide-open field, she’s the fastest way to get the ball deep toward the other side’s goal in one swift kick.

Rachel and I are neck in neck as we watch the ball sail toward the penalty box. Lindsey comes charging at it with a wild yell and launches the ball to the midfield.

It’s great to be back, all of us in action and united as a team again—even if we’re practicing against each other. I’ve missed the feeling that Christy, Rachel, Lindsey, and I are on the same team. Ben’s words from earlier have been ringing in my ears all day.

People choosing sides . . .

As I try to work the ball down the field the tension slips away. Since the arrests last Tuesday, I’ve been white-knuckling things with my friends. Holding on tight, as we all lean toward different opinions of the truth.

And what is the truth?

Stacey’s allegation? Did something happen to her that she didn’t agree to? She says she can’t even remember. Does that mean she was really passed out in that Instagram picture?

Risby tries to aim a cross-field kick in my direction. It is a rocket slightly off course. Houston, we have a negative on that trajectory. Racing toward the loose ball, the image of Stacey in her blue towel pops into my head. Were there any marks on her arms or legs? Cuts? Bruises?

I didn’t see any, but does that really mean anything?

Racing toward Risby’s kick, the ball bounces once, and I leap in for the header. Coach Lewis yells across the field, but her words are lost. Rachel has materialized from the opposite direction and jumped into a Hail Mary bicycle kick. Her cleat is a brick wall.

I’m flat on my back in the grass before I feel the pain. When it hits, I reach up and touch the bump that’s already formed above my right ear. It’s wet, and I know that I’m bleeding.

I don’t cry, but Rachel does. The cut is small, easily stanched with a Band-Aid, the pain already subsiding. Coach makes sure I don’t need professional medical attention, while Rachel apologizes over and over.

“I’m so sorry! Did you not hear me call it?” she asks. “I said, ‘heads up’!”

That’s the typical courtesy yell, but my brain was occupied elsewhere while my body was running around on the field.

Coach tells all of us to keep our heads in the game. “There’s a lot of crap floating around this week. Eyes on the ball, ladies. Don’t lose focus.” She points to the sideline and says I should sit out for a bit, then she gets practice going again.

A cosmic rage wells up inside me as I watch. Not at Rachel or at Coach. I’m angry with myself. Why do you keep asking questions you don’t want to know the answers to? Why can’t you let this go? Whatever happened or didn’t happen to Stacey, I wasn’t there. Ben wasn’t there. My friends weren’t there.

I finally have a boyfriend, and if I work hard this year, I might be able to get nationally ranked. Maybe even be in the running for a scholarship. My best friends in the world are on this team with me.

So why can’t I just let myself be on their side?

Coach is right. It’s time to get my head back in the game.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE


HarperCollins Publishers

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thirty-one


BEN IS COMING out of the gym as Rachel and I walk toward the parking lot after practice. He sees the cold pack I’m holding against my head and frowns, jogging across the grass to meet me. We explain what happened and when I show him my bump, Ben smiles and taps the scar behind his ear. “Now you finally know how it feels.”

Rachel laughs as I protest. “It was an accident.”

Ben takes my soccer duffel, adding it to his own gym bag and backpack. He doesn’t seem to notice the extra weight. He slides his arm gently across my shoulders and we walk together. Will comes trotting over, a loyal hound dog sniffing for a handout.

“Can I come to Happy Joe’s with you?”

My mouth opens to say absolutely not, but Ben says, “Pizza sounds good.” Rachel tells him to meet us there, and just like that, our first day of practice tradition is expanded to brothers and boyfriends.

Given enough time, everything changes.

I realize I have forgotten my geology book and have to go back inside to get it. Lindsey and Christy are already on their way. I tell Ben and Rachel to go ahead.