I’ve had enough. I thrust my book at Rachel, who grabs it and hisses my name in an attempt to stop me. I storm across the hall.
“Leave her alone,” I tell Reggie, stooping down and sweeping a pile of Phoebe’s stuff toward her.
Kyle turns around, zeroing in on me. “Whatcha gonna do about it?”
“She won’t do a thing.” I look up and see Ben towering over us. “But if you say one more word to her I’ll rearrange your face.”
Kyle wilts. “Bro—I didn’t—”
“See me? Know?” Ben offers him options. “Well, now you have. And now you do.”
The three stooges stutter apologies and it’s cool it’s cool, extricating themselves from the razor wire of Ben’s steady gaze as quickly as they can. I hand Phoebe the last of her ruined papers. She scoops up the whole tangled pile and scrambles away without a word. Ben holds out his hand to help me up. I take it.
“Where’d you come from?” I ask.
He holds up his history text. “Grabbed the wrong book.”
“What is going on?” I ask him.
“People choosing sides,” he says. He checks his watch as Rachel hands me my book. We have to hurry.
Ben pecks me on the lips and winks. “Try not to get caught in the middle.”
Coach Lewis is a drill sergeant with a stopwatch and a clipboard.
Christy is dragging by the end of the third line drill, but she doesn’t stop. When she finally taps the last goal line, Coach clicks the button and nods. “Not bad, Miller.” She pitches Christy a water bottle. Christy raises it in my direction and nods.
“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.