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.
Both sides surrendered after that, retreating to the snacks. As Haley used a napkin to help Madison wipe traces of butter-cream from her ears, one of the seniors approached them.
“Well done,” she said, grinning.
“Thanks,” she and Madison said in unison.
“You know,” the senior said, ducking her head and drawing them close, as if she didn’t want to be overheard, “you two have been playing great. Everyone thinks you’ll be the only freshmen to start.”
Haley could feel Madison dig one finger excitedly into her back.
“Cool,” Haley said, hoping she wasn’t slurring the word. The room felt like a slow carousel ride.
“And if I had to guess,” the girl continued, “I’m looking at two future captains. Right here.”
As she walked away, Madison stage--whispered, “Oh. My. God!” into Haley’s ear. “Cocaptains!”
It became their thing after that. They knew it was smug and completely inappropriate, because who knew what would happen over the course of four years, four seasons?
Like this. A career--ending injury. It takes a while to absorb what that means. Which is why she can forgive Madison for not getting it straight off.
But it was still fresh enough that the word threatened to bring on the tears she’d avoided until this morning’s breakfast. She hustled straight out of the dining hall following that, and would have made it to class on time if she hadn’t forgotten the notebook.