Blow Out (3 page)

“Good. The scrimmage isn't tomorrow, it's in two weeks. You'll have your mojo back by then.”

Lacy sighed and grunted.

“In the meantime, let's go to Has Beans. You can cry into your disgusting decaf mocha.”

“Fine.”

“D

ecaf mocha, extra whipped, and…”

Lacy glanced at Nita.

“Bottled water, please.”

The guy behind the counter smirked.

“What? I'm in training,” Nita said. “No sugar and no caffeine.”

He held up his hands. “Okay. That's cool.” His smirk turned into a flirty grin. “I like your hair.”

They found a table in the corner.

“He's cute,” Lacy said.

Nita took a sip of her water. “Maybe.” She glanced in his direction. “But you know me. I can only date massively successful soccer players.”

It always surprised Lacy that Nita allowed herself to date at all. Everything she did, from constant training to eating health food, was all about soccer.

“Speaking of cute guys, how is Reggie?” Lacy asked.

Nita nodded. “He's good. Peyton still wants to ask you out, you know.”

Lacy tapped her cup. Reggie and his friend Peyton went to different schools, but they played on the same club team.

“I think I need to focus on soccer right now,” Lacy said softly.

“Well, you know my motto. Moderation in all things.” Nita laughed at her own joke. Suddenly, her laughter cut off and her eyes widened. “O-M-G.”

“What?” Lacy asked in alarm.

“Look who just walked in.”

Lacy turned and looked. The blonde girl from practice stood at the counter, placing an order.

“McAlister,” Lacy murmured.

Nita snorted. “That name sounds way too cultured for a juvenile delinquent.”

Part of Lacy agreed with Nita. But what did they really know about the girl? She'd helped Lacy off the hallway floor. She was a good sprinter. That was it. Lacy could hear her mother's voice in her head:
You're a fifth-generation North Carolinian, Lacy Louise Sheridan. Hospitality is in your blood.

“I don't think we're being fair,” Lacy said.

“Uh … what?”

As soon as the girl picked up her drink, Lacy waved her over.

Nita swallowed and coughed. “Lace, are you nuts?”

“No, I'm being friendly, which I should have been from the first day of the semester.”

When the girl reached their table, Lacy said, “I never introduced myself after you helped me in the hallway. I'm Lacy Sheridan. And this is Juanita Ortiz.”

“Just Nita,” Nita corrected her.

“Hey. I'm Raven.”

“Would you like to sit with us?” Lacy was aware that Nita was rolling her eyes.

“Umm …” Raven scanned Has Beans as though she were looking for someone. “Maybe for a second.” She pulled out a chair, sat, and took a sip of her drink.

Lacy asked, “Are you new to Fraser?”

“We moved here last summer. I was at Jefferson Prep in the fall.”

Lacy recognized the name. It was a private school about forty miles west of Fraser, a 2A. Since the Copperheads were 4A, they never played them.

“I'm guessing from your voice that you're not from North Carolina,” Lacy said.

“I'm from L.A. You know, California.”

Nita raised her eyebrows at Lacy.

“You're a good sprinter,” Lacy said quickly, trying to keep the conversation sociable. “What position do you play?”

“Pretty much everything.” Raven paused and looked straight at Lacy. “Mostly left forward.”

Lacy's smile evaporated.

Nita downed the rest of her water and set her empty bottle on the table. “
If
you get on the team, you'll have to play something else. Left forward is Lacy's position.”

Raven shrugged. “Yeah, I know. But that's my goal. Along with going pro.” She looked around the coffee shop again and got to her feet. “It was great hanging out with you guys. See you at practice tomorrow.” She turned and sauntered away.

Lacy and Nita watched as Raven headed toward four of their teammates, who must have come in and ordered drinks while they were chatting. The girls sat on the two couches at the other end of the coffee shop. Raven plopped between Alyssa and Sophie Lange as though she'd known them all her life.

Nita muttered, “That little—”

“Nita.”

“You can't
possibly
defend her.”

Lacy didn't know what to say. She stared down into the mocha she'd barely touched. “Do you think Coach recruited her?”

“He's done it before. Remember Betsy Marcetta?”

Lacy slowly nodded. Betsy was a senior. She'd been one of the team's best defenders until she broke her arm in a car accident. Coach Berg gave her a chance to stay on the team, but when she didn't get back into shape quickly, he recruited a sophomore. Everyone knew his strategy. The fear of losing her position to a younger player would give Betsy the incentive to improve her game. If not, the new defender would replace Betsy. At the time, Lacy hadn't seen anything wrong with his strategy. She wanted to win games as much as Coach did. But being in Betsy's position, it didn't feel so good.

“Raven is a nobody,” Nita said. “Don't let her get to you.”

“How do we know she's a nobody? We haven't seen her play. Southern California has some great clubs. And I bet she played club ball all winter. I didn't.”

Nita looked up at the ceiling and pursed her lips. Then she let out a loud breath. “Okay. Honestly, I think you need to watch your back.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Raven said she knew you played left forward, and that's her goal. If she knew she was competing for your position before the semester started, like on the first day of classes…” Nita finished her thought with a shrug.

“You still think Raven tried to
injure
me in the hallway to get on the team?” Lacy shook her head. “We don't know when she discovered where I play. And things like that happen in movies, not in real life.”

“Yeah, I know it sounds crazy. I'm just saying, until we know more about Miss Scorpion Neck, be careful around her.”

Laughter from their teammates—and Raven—filled the coffee shop.

Lacy jumped up from their table. “I need to go.”

“Yeah. I think I might puke.”

Lacy dropped her mocha in the trash and headed out the door ahead of Nita.

I

t was six o'clock by the time Lacy made it home from Has Beans. All she wanted was to go to sleep and forget the day. But the faint smell of roasted garlic floating out from the kitchen made her mouth water. She followed her nose across the foyer's marble floor and past its tall columns. She passed the sweeping staircase and the long, mahogany dining table at which General Robert E. Lee once supposedly ate. Finally, Lacy reached the kitchen.

While the rest of the house was antique and ornate, the kitchen was slick and brand new. Her mother redesigned it every ten years, packing it with the latest appliances, countertops, sinks, and cabinets. Lacy didn't cook, but the kitchen was one of her favorite rooms in the house. She liked that it was modern and functional. She also liked that if she should happen to break something, it wouldn't be a priceless heirloom.

Sam stood at the island counter, chopping tomatoes. Garlic sizzled in the pan behind him. The family's chef was in his late twenties with thick, black hair. His cheeks cratered with cute dimples when he smiled. When Lacy found out he was gay, it had only slightly dampened her crush. It simply meant she could adore him and not worry about it going anywhere.

“Mmm, that smells good,” Lacy said.

Sam looked up. Smile. Dimples. “Penne pasta, tomatoes, sausage, and garlic. Hope you're OK with a dinner on the simple side. And a little early.”

“No, that's perfect. I'm starving.” She pulled a plate out of the cupboard. “Do you have another cooking gig tonight?”

“Sort of. Final exam at culinary school tomorrow. I have to sharpen my knives and review recipes.”

Lacy laughed as she pulled silverware out of a drawer. “You're kidding, right?”

“No, I'm not.”

“Oh. Well, wow. Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Smile. Dimples.

Lacy set a place for herself at the granite counter and sat on a barstool. The blur that was Mrs. Langley floated through the kitchen carrying a set of sheets and a feather duster. She skidded to a stop in front of Lacy. Sweat beaded her forehead. “Your parents are flying in tonight.”

“Tonight! I thought they weren't coming home until Saturday.”

“Their plans have changed.” She fluttered her fingers and scurried off. “I don't know why.”

Lacy exchanged a glance with Sam, who just shrugged. He dumped the pot of cooked pasta into a colander in the sink, filling the kitchen with steam.

L

acy didn't make much progress on her homework after dinner. She sat on her bed with an unread English assignment on her lap. Her mind raced. First, there was soccer. In order to keep her position, she had to practice harder. That meant more stress on her knee. The pasta from dinner bunched up in her stomach at the thought.

The thought of her parents coming home didn't help her digestion either. She'd be glad to see them, of course. But Lacy's relationship with her parents was complicated. She just didn't know how to speak their language. Carrie had always done that for her. When Lacy wanted to play soccer, Carrie was the one who convinced Mother it wouldn't turn Lacy gay or make her muscles swell up like a guy's. It was Carrie who'd told Dad a Mini Cooper was a “more appropriate” car for Lacy than a Lexus.

Without Carrie at home to intervene, the entire fall had been like living in a house with strangers. Lacy and her parents hardly spoke. It was uncomfortable and ridiculous. Fall was over, though, and she was determined to start talking to her parents like Carrie did—with confidence. Like her opinions mattered. Like she was seventeen, not seven.

Lacy must have dozed off—she was suddenly aware of voices echoing down the hallway. Her parents. She checked her phone. It was after midnight. Her door flew open as Lacy jumped off her bed.

“Darling!” Her mother rushed in.

“Hello, Mother.” Lacy walked into her mother's brief embrace and cheek kisses. “How was your trip?”

“Fabulous.” She held Lacy at arm's length. “Are those dark circles under your eyes? Have you been getting enough sleep?”

“Yes.” She fidgeted, immediately regretting her lie. In an instant, she'd slipped into old pattern of not talking about what was really going on. She took a deep breath. If she was going to change how she talked to her mother, she might as well start right then. “Actually, I haven't been sleeping all that well.”

“Oh?”

“It's soccer. I've been worried about my knee—”

“Your knee! Is it all right? I'll call Dr. Sinjaya first thing in the morning.”

“No! My knee is fine.”