Playing With the Boys (13 page)

“No, no,” Benji said, recovering the football. “Try again.” He and Lucy had stayed after practice for a one-on-one tutorial. They were working on kickoffs, since that was part of Lucy’s job.

“I don’t get it,” Lucy said, frustrated. “Shouldn’t I be just trying to kick as far as possible?”

“Sometimes,” Benji explained. “But sometimes not. Not if we want to do an onside kick.You need a short kick with a predictable bounce. That way we can gain possession.”

Lucy giggled.

“What?” Benji asked.

Lucy shrugged, not wanting to say.

Benji pressed. “What?”

“You’re funny when you’re all ... footbally and serious,” Lucy admitted.

“Footbally?” He laughed. “Is that a word?”

Lucy laughed too. “It should be!”

Benji set the ball on the tee. “Okay, once more, before it gets dark.You gotta get this before Friday. . . .”

Lucy nodded. Benji was right. Friday was fast approaching, and she’d be expected to perform.

“Remember,” he instructed, “start low. We’re looking for a high bounce right before it hits ten yards.”

“Then you catch it?” Lucy asked.

“Recover it,” he corrected her.

She acted as though she’d just said a bad word and put her hand to her lips. “Oh, sorry,” she joked. “
Recover.
”

“Okay, smarty. Kick the ball.” She smiled and lined up behind the tee. She took a deep breath.
Low
, she told herself.
Ten yards only.

She lunged forward and gave the ball more of a hard tap then a solid kick. It started low, then bounced end over end . . . three, four, five, six, seven, eight yards. At the ninth, it bounced high and soared to ten, where Benji pounced on the ball and grounded it. He jumped up, ecstatic.

“You did it!” he yelled. “That was perfect!”

“It was?” she asked, then realized. “It was!!!”

Excited, he ran over and picked her up. He spun her around. Her hair came partially out of its ponytail as the field and stands and goalposts whirled by. He finally set her down.

“That was awesome, Lucy!” he said, breathless.

She smiled. “Thank God. Because I’m starving.” They headed to the bench. “Good,” he said. “What sounds good? Pizza or In-N-Out?”

“What?” she asked. Was he taking her to dinner now?

He picked up the playbook sitting on the bench, shook it at her, and broke the bad news. “Our night’s not done. You still have a lot to learn.”

 
Thirty minutes later, a huge pepperoni pizza sat in front of them as Benji quizzed her.

“What’s a sack?” he asked.

Lucy feigned thought, then smiled brightly. “I know this one. A sack is something you carry your groceries in.”

Benji gave her a look of mock annoyance. “Funny. A sack is when the quarterback is tackled behind the line of scrimmage.”

Lucy nodded. “And the line of scrimmage is . . . ?”

“Lucy!” Benji said, exasperated.

“I’m kidding,” she said. “Line of scrimmage is the starting line for each play and is where the ball is set.”

“Okay, good.” The waitress walked by. Benji looked up. “Can we get two more Cokes?” he asked. The waitress nodded.

“Now, punts—you should know the different kinds, just in case,” he instructed. “There’s a directional punt, a coffin corner kick, a pooch punt—”

“Pooch punt?” Lucy laughed.

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I didn’t name these things.”

Lucy took a bite of pizza and swallowed. “Before we talk about coffins and pooches and whatever else, I think I need the basics.”

“The basics?” Benji asked.

“Yeah, like who are all the people on the field and what do they do?”

The waitress dropped the Cokes off. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked. “Coffee? Dessert?”

Benji looked from Lucy to the waitress.”Coffee, definitely. I think we’re gonna be here awhile.” As the waitress left to get the menus, Benji started to explain. “So, there are eleven guys on the field at a time. . . .”

Lucy
ahem
ed loudly.

“Sorry.” He corrected himself. “Eleven
people
...” And as he continued, Lucy vowed that she was going to focus and listen intently to every word he said until she fully understood football—even if it took all night.

And it pretty much did. She’d called her dad, telling him her study session was running late. He said to be home by nine. But even after Benji dropped her off, she called him before she went to bed, and they stayed on the phone until one in the morning, talking about two-point conversions and hang time and first downs.

 
By practice the next day, Lucy might not have been fluent in football, but if football were Spanish, she would have at least been able to say, “Hello, my name is Lucy”; “How are you?”; and “Where is the bathroom?” Benji had been an enormous help. Of course, she had told her dad they were studying for bio lab, not going over football plays. But it
was
studying, so it only qualified as half a fib.

“Okay, deep punts first,” Benji reminded her. “I’ll start.” He continued to explain. “Usually we’d practice with the snapper, but he’s also the center, so we’ll just hold our own balls for now.” Lucy giggled. If the soccer girls had been here, they’d have been having a field day with that one.
Hold our own balls.

Benji continued. “So, remember what we went over last night? This is the opposite: you want to kick the ball far and high, with at least four seconds of hang time in the air. That’ll make the chances of returning the punt a lot less. The farther you kick it, the farther back you pin the other team. That way Beachwood gets downfield to cover the return. Got it?” Lucy giggled.

Benji blushed. “I’m all footbally again, right?”

She nodded, then turned to follow Benji’s instructions and give herself and him some distance from each other.

Once Lucy was a safe distance away, like half the football field, Benji took two steps and dropped the ball toward his right foot, which was the foot he apparently kicked with. His foot hit the ball right in the center, and the ball flew into the air at least forty yards, toward Lucy. She lunged toward it, almost catching it after the first bounce, but it slipped through her fingers. So catching wasn’t her strong suit. Whatever. This wasn’t baseball.

Now it was her turn. She mimicked what she had seen Benji do. Two steps . . . drop the ball down and . . .The ball hit the side of her foot and flew more sideways than forwards. Coach Offredi looked at his clipboard and made a note. Lucy bit her lip nervously.

“It’s okay,” Benji encouraged. “Remember? That’s called a shank when the ball does that. Try to strike the ball right in the center. Here, try it again.” He threw the ball back to her. This time, she followed his instructions; the ball sailed higher and farther. Punting was easier than going for a field goal. It required less precision.

“Good job, Luce,” Benji cheered. Lucy smiled broadly—until Tank called over to her.

“If that’s what you’re going to do Friday night against Curtis, I’d say we’re all screwed.”

“Hey.” Benji was quick to defend her. “She’s just getting the hang of it. It’s only her second practice.” It was technically her third if you counted her extra work with Benji, but no one besides the two of them knew about that.

“That’s one too many if you ask me,” Tank muttered. The other guys laughed.

Benji put a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “Just focus on the ball. Don’t worry about them.” Lucy nodded. She wasn’t going to let Tank get to her. She’d heard his real name was Robbie. Some punk named Robbie wasn’t going to intimidate her, even if he
was
the size of a Mack truck.

She tried again and was much improved. After a few more kicks, she headed to the bench to grab some water. A senior with thick glasses approached her.

“You’re Lucy Malone, right?” he asked, pad and pencil in hand.

“Um, yeah,” Lucy answered self-consciously, as she took off her helmet and pushed her hair behind her ear.

“I’m Wesley,” he said. “I write for the
Sand Dollar
.” Lucy quickly put two and two together. The
Sand Dollar
could only be the school paper. “We wanted to do an article on you, to come out in tomorrow’s edition.”

Lucy noticed Coach Offredi looking over at her. “Um ... I don’t really think—”

“A good story always helps get people in the seats,” Wesley interrupted. “Tomorrow’s game against Curtis is a big one. Team could use all the fans it can get.”

Lucy hesitated. “I don’t know if writing something about me would really help. . . .”

“Well, it wouldn’t be solely about you,” he explained. “It would be about the whole team.”

Lucy considered for a minute, then tentatively agreed. “If you really think it’s a good idea.”

“Absolutely. You know what they say—any press is good press.”

Lucy bit her lip and shrugged. “Okay, well then, I guess ... ask away.”

Wesley followed Lucy back onto the field, asking her questions and taking down her every word.

“Have you always been interested in football?”
No.

“When did you start playing?”
Um . . . two days ago?

“What’s the most fun about being on this team?”
Definitely staring at Ryan’s butt in tight pants.

Okay, so she didn’t actually say any of those things. She answered the questions as simply as possible, talking about how she had just moved from Toledo, how she’d been a soccer player all her life, blah blah blah.

Then one question stopped her in her tracks.

“So, how are your new teammates treating you?” Lucy thought about that. With the exception of Benji and Ryan, they pretty much acted like she was a social pariah. And she had the cut-out jersey to prove it. It was definitely going to take longer than five minutes to explain that.

Lucy tried her best. Then Coach Offredi blew the whistle. “Sorry,” Lucy apologized to Wesley. “Gotta go.” She and the rest of the guys quickly began their ritual warm-up: running fast in place, dropping down to hammer out ten to twenty push-ups, popping back up for jumping jacks and then back down for push-ups, flipping over for sit-ups, getting back up to run, dropping back down for mountain climbers. . . .Since Lucy was new to the routine, it was tough to follow. She watched Benji and thought she was keeping up okay. When they finished, Coach Offredi called them over.

“Okay, bring it in, bring it in,” he said. “Offense, let’s work through some pass patterns; line up Split T first, then Two Tight Ends. I want to see some buttonhook passes—Cope, you listening?” A scruffy-looking junior, Cope, who was momentarily distracted by the cheerleaders, jerked his head back around.

“Yeah, I’m listening,” he assured Coach Offredi.

“Good, because this is for you. Your timing last week cost us at least two first downs.”

Cope hung his head, ashamed. Lucy had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. And what kind of name was Cope?

As Coach Offredi continued, Lucy was surprised to see that the emo girl, Morbid, had joined Wesley. She raised up a Nikon camera and began snapping rapid-fire pictures. Lucy didn’t know quite what to make of it. She’d figured that in her spare time, Morbid wrote depressing poetry or filled vials with her own blood to wear around her neck. Who knew she was a photographer, too?

Lucy chuckled to herself. It
was
always important to have a hobby.

She supposed she should act natural as the
click, click, click
of Morbid’s camera drifted toward her. But nothing about being singled out and photographed felt natural.

And the stares of the guys on the team were making her uncomfortable.

When Lucy, Benji, a cute freckled redhead named Caleb, and the rest of the Point After Touchdown team broke off to practice their drills, Morbid followed. Finally, when Coach Offredi called them in for plays with the rest of the team, he put his foot down.

“No more pictures,” Coach Offredi snapped to Morbid. “PAT team, on the field! Defense, line up against them.” Lucy took a deep breath. This was her last chance to kick before tomorrow’s game—to prove to herself that she could handle this tomorrow, under the lights.