Playing With the Boys (7 page)

Lucy shook her head. “Not really.” Luckily, she didn’t have to understand pass plays and yard lines. She needed to know throw-ins and corner kicks.

“Coach!” one of the Beachwood players suddenly yelled from the field. “Matt’s hurt! He’s hurt bad!”

Lucy saw Matt, Beachwood’s kicker, lying in a heap, gripping his knee. Coaches rushed the field. The crowd waited breathlessly. The guys on the bench strained to see. The same trainer that worked with the soccer team knelt down beside Matt, trying to assess the injury. He waved toward the sidelines, and within seconds, a medical team ran onto the field with a stretcher. Matt was carefully loaded on. As he was carried off, the crowd respectfully applauded.

“Matt Alexander,” the announcer’s voice boomed. Again, the crowd cheered. Charlie and Carla returned and took their seats in the stands.

“That sucks,” Carla muttered in front of them as she stuffed the rest of a hot dog into her mouth. “Can you even imagine?”

“Dude, if he tore his ACL,” Charlie said, dipping a corn chip into warm cheddar cheese, “stick a fork in him. He’s done.”

Carla shook her head sympathetically. “Poor guy.”

“Poor Beachwood, too,” Pickle commented. “We don’t have another decent kicker. This is bad.”

“So what does that mean for the game?” Lucy asked.

“It means Madison’s probably going to run out the clock and win.”

There was a glimmer of hope when, with two minutes to go, Beachwood’s defensive tackle picked up a loose ball and managed to run it back to Madison’s twenty-five-yard line. But on the next three plays with three incomplete passes thanks to an aggressive Madison defense, Beachwood needed to go for three points in one last attempt to win the game.

With Matt hurt, the coach had no choice but to put in Benji to go for the field goal. The tension in the stands was palpable. It was the first game of the season. Everyone wanted to win.

Pickle covered her face, unable to even look. “Oh God, here he goes. I can’t watch.”

Benji jogged out with ten other guys and walked off his steps from the holder. He stood, waiting for the snap. The crowd grew silent. Lucy strained to look over Heather and Jamie’s heads. On the call, the ball was snapped back and set up by the holder, as Benji went in for the kick. . . .

Everyone watched as the ball sailed up and up and up ... and, just as the clock ran out, pinged off the outside of the left goalpost, barely missing the goal, but missing it just the same.

On the sidelines, the coach cursed. “Damn it!” He threw his clipboard onto the grass.

On the field, Benji hung his head. In the stands, Lucy’s heart sank. It was over. Beachwood had lost—not only their kicker but the game. The deflated crowd began to disperse. Charlie and Carla headed for the parking lot.

“You guys need a ride?” Charlie asked, then noticed the cheerleaders running for the locker room. “Ugh.” Charlie rolled her eyes. “I’m sure they’re hurrying to slut it up for some stupid party.”

Pickle covered, not wanting to mention that they were hoping to go to the same “stupid party.” “Um, that’s okay. I think, um . . .” She looked at Max for help, but Max was suddenly engrossed in a Pixy Stick.

Lucy jumped in, saving her. “You have to take Carla all the way home. My dad can pick us up.”

“Okay.” Charlie shrugged. “See you tomorrow at practice.” Pickle waited for Charlie and Carla to leave, then grabbed Lucy’s arm.

“Come on, let’s go,” she said, in a rush to make her way down to Benji on the sidelines. “It’s party time!” Lucy and Max followed her to the chain-link fence, which separated the field from the fans, looking for Benji. He was nowhere to be seen.

“I’ll find him,” Lucy offered. After all, she was the ring-leader of this little plan. She snaked her way through the crowd, searching, but after ten minutes she walked back to Pickle and Max with bad news.

“Well?” Max asked, jumping around to stay warm. Even Southern California got a little cold at night.

“I don’t know where he went,” Lucy admitted. She pulled out her cell phone to try calling him. But the number just rang and rang. Time passed. The stands and field emptied out.

“Maybe we should wait by the locker room door,” Pickle offered. “We could catch him when he comes out.”

“Sure,” Lucy said. She was open to suggestions. She just felt like an idiot. These girls were waiting and counting on
her
. Where was Benji? It was understandable if he wasn’t exactly in the party mood, but would Pickle and Max understand? After all, Lucy had convinced them to come.

After they’d been waiting another twenty minutes with no sign of Benji, Lucy didn’t know what to say. “I left him a message that we were coming and needed a ride—I don’t know what happened.”

“He probably just forgot. I mean, he did blow the game,” Max reminded them. “That may be all he’s thinking about.”

Pickle sadly agreed. “I’d just never been to one of these parties before. . . .” She trailed off, her voice filled with disappointment.

Lucy looked around, one last time, feeling terrible. “I’m really sorry, you guys.”

Pickle looked at her watch. “Tomorrow’s the last day of tryouts anyway,” she said. “I should just call my mom and have her pick us up,” she said matter-of-factly.

Max shrugged. “Yeah, whatever. That’s fine.”

Pickle turned to Lucy. “Are you okay to get home? Because my mom could probably drive you. . . .”

Lucy shook her head. She didn’t want them going out of their way for her. Not after she’d screwed up so monumentally. “Oh no, that’s okay. I can just call my dad.”

“Okay, well, we’ll see you tomorrow then,” Pickle said, giving Lucy a small wave. “Don’t feel bad about tonight. You know . . . it happens.”

Lucy looked down at her shoes and nodded. “Thanks.”

Pickle and Max took off toward the front of the school. Lucy stood on the sidewalk, her heart heavy. Here she had been this big talker about getting them into this big party, and she couldn’t even get a ride there. Now she felt like a big loser. She opened her cell phone and dialed.

“Hey dad,” she said, “the game’s over. Could you come pick me up?”

“I thought your friends were bringing you home. What happened?”

“Dad!” she snapped. “I’ve lived here, what? Two-point-two seconds? I don’t have friends yet.”

“Lucy?” her dad asked quietly, clearly surprised at her outburst. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry,” she sighed. And it was true. Thanks to her, absolutely nothing had happened.

 
It was close to midnight when a
tap, tap, tap
noise woke Lucy up. At first she’d thought it was rain, but then she remembered that it hardly ever rained in Southern California, and when it did, she’d have to worry about her house getting caught in a mudslide and careening into the Pacific Ocean.

She sat up, startled, and opened her phone, using the faint light it provided to make her way to the window.

Tap, tap, tap . . .
The noise continued sporadically. Her heart raced. Looking through the glass, she made out a dark figure down below. She was a nanosecond away from screaming for her dad, when her eyes adjusted to the dark. Benji was standing below her windowsill. She opened her window.

“What’re you doing down there?” Lucy asked, almost laughing. “You just scared me half to death.”

From below, Benji gave a wave. “I got your messages. I’m sorry I took off. The game, you know—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she assured him. “Are you okay?”

“I didn’t feel much like a party,” he explained. “For obvious, you know, publicly humiliating reasons.”

She shook her head. “It’s okay. I wasn’t really allowed to go anyway.”

“Well, I just wanted to explain—I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t interested.” He added quickly, “You know, in hanging out with you.”

“Oh no, I didn’t take it that way,” she reassured him. “I know you’re interested. I mean, not
interested
interested. But interested in hanging out.”

“Right,” he said, “I’m interested in a lot of things, now that . . . you know . . . we’re friends.” Lucy smiled. She liked the sound of being friends.

“How did you know which window was mine?” she asked.

He pointed at the rainbow-colored wind chime hanging from a hook beside the sill.

Lucy smiled. How sweet of Benji to notice that small detail. He playfully tossed another pebble up at the closed window on the other side of her bedroom. Suddenly there was a loud
crack!

Lucy’s eyes widened as a web-shaped fracture formed in the middle of her window. Her father was sure to have heard the noise. Lucy had no idea what he would do if he found a boy outside their house.

“Oh my God!” she panicked. “Go! Run!”

Benji took off at a full sprint. Lucy heard his car start and peel out of their driveway. She hopped back in bed, pulling the covers over her head. Within a minute, her bedroom door opened.

“Luce?” her dad asked, concerned. “You okay, kid?”

“Huh?” Lucy groaned, as if she’d been fast asleep.

“Nothing,” he said. “I just . . . thought I’d heard something.”

Lucy muttered something incoherent and rolled over, acting as out of it as she possibly could . . . until her dad shut the door. Then she pulled the covers off and crept back to the window, staring at the spot where Benji had been. Her face broke into a wide smile and she spent the rest of the night lying in bed, unable to sleep, just thinking of how fun it was to have a friend who would bother coming all the way over in the middle of the night just to make sure she was okay.

She could at least say it to herself: It felt really,
really
cool.

five

Halfway through Saturday’s scrimmage, Lucy was seriously hurting. Getting little sleep was definitely taking its toll. Charlie cheered her on.

“Come on, Luce,” she said encouragingly. “You got this. Stay on the ball.”

Lucy pressed hard, knowing this was her last chance to make a good impression on Martie, who had become more serious as the week continued, knowing she had tough decisions to make.

Lucy won the other team’s throw in and trapped the ball between her feet.

“Nice,” Martie shouted from the sidelines. “Way to go to it, Luce.” Lucy could hear the faint sounds of praise but couldn’t let them distract her. She looked for a midfielder to receive her pass. Everyone was guarded.

“Get open,” Lucy shouted, searching for a teammate. Her team had the dubious distinction of once again wearing the not-so-flattering, not-so-hygienic red pinnies. Hot.

“Got me! Got me back,” Pickle yelled to Lucy from the center of the backfield. Lucy had the ball, and Charlie was fast approaching. Lucy tried to use her body to shield the ball from Charlie, who was relentless in pursuing it. She stole it before Lucy could pass it back to Pickle.

“Stay on her, Luce,” Pickle shouted. As sweeper, Pickle was considered the coach of the defenders, constantly shouting out instructions, informing the backfield of what was happening. As Charlie played the ball down the line, Lucy cut across the angle toward the goal, trying to keep Charlie from having a clean shot.

“Switch,” Carla shouted to Charlie. Carla and Charlie were both on the opposing team, and the two communicated quickly and effortlessly. They knew each other so well they could practically speak in code. In a clean, swift motion, Charlie drilled the ball to the other side of the field. Pickle jumped up for a header but wasn’t quite tall enough. The ball sailed over her. Carla stopped the ball with her knee and easily trapped it at her feet as Charlie made a beeline for the goal.

“Step up, red,” Pickle shouted to her teammates, attempting to get Charlie offside, but Lucy barely heard. She was too distracted by her own frustration over the bad pass.

Carla passed the ball to Charlie, who banged it into the corner of the net. Their team was up, three to one.

“Lucy, you could have blocked that shot,” Martie scolded. “You gotta stay even with Pickle. That should have been offside.”

Lucy looked down at the grass and nodded. The goal was all her fault. She knew she should never be behind the sweeper. A dumb move like that could mean the difference between winning and losing a game. It could even mean the difference in making it onto this team. Lucy took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. Pickle ran up, giving her an encouraging slap on the back.