A Whole New Ball Game (3 page)

The waitress took their order. Alex looked at Tommy with amazement as he ordered ribs and a side of sausage.

“How can you eat that much when it's so hot out?” Alex asked him, after the waitress had left.

Tommy raised one eyebrow at her. “I'm trying to put on muscle weight,” he said. “I need my protein.”

“Hello, Coach!”

“Howdy, Coach Sackett!”

A group of people—it looked like an extended family: young parents and their baby, grandparents, aunts, and uncles—passed their table and greeted the Sacketts.

Alex and her family all smiled and waved at them.

“How does everyone know who we are?” asked Alex.

Her mom patted her hand. “We're new in town,” she said. “People are very friendly here. And they all love football. Tomorrow's the start of preseason, and everyone is curious about the new coach.”

“So what are your plans for tomorrow, girls?” asked their dad, moving the conversation away from football. Alex always appreciated it when he did this.

“I'm going to start looking into trying out for the middle-school football team,” Ava announced.

Alex gave her twin a pained look. What if Ava ran into a lot of obstacles trying to play football as a girl? It wasn't that big of a deal in Boston, but Texas was different from Massachusetts. What if it
was
a really big deal here?

“What? You don't think I should try out?” asked Ava, who had noticed Alex's look. “I was the best kicker on the Pee Wee team last year and—”

“She didn't say anything,” Tommy pointed out.

“Yeah, but she
thought
it,” said Ava.

“You guys need to stop reading each other's minds,” said Tommy in exasperation.

“Enough,” said Mrs. Sackett.

“Anyway, I thought I'd come to practice with
you tomorrow,” said Ava excitedly. “I think some of the middle-school coaches might be hanging around, or at least that's what Tommy said.”

Alex felt a pang of jealousy. She knew it was slightly irrational. Ava was her twin. Tommy was their brother. But she couldn't help secretly thinking that Tommy and Ava shared a special bond. They were both such good athletes. They'd clearly inherited the Sackett genes. Not the Wright genes, which Alex had obviously acquired from their very unathletic mother. At least she also had her mom's artistic sensibility.

Their dad smiled. “Okay, sport,” he said. “That okay with you, Tom?”

“Do I have a choice?” asked Tommy, but he had a twinkle in his eye.

“How about you, darlin'?” their father said, turning to their mother. “What's your plan for tomorrow?”

“Well!” she said, her eyes shining. “I hear there's an excellent studio in town with a kiln. I'm thinking of resurrecting my pottery business, since I won't be teaching for the first time in a long time.” Mrs. Sackett was waiting until the family settled in before looking for a teaching job in Texas.

“Mom, that's a fabulous idea!” said Alex excitedly. “I'll help you design a website!”

“Maybe we should wait till she creates some pottery to sell first,” Ava pointed out.

“Alex likes to plan ahead, don't you, Al?” said Tommy. “Hey, how's your plan to take over the world coming along, anyway?”

Alex pouted. “I'm not planning to take over the
world
. Just the school.”

Her dad raised an eyebrow.

Ava explained. “She wants to run for student government. But we all know her final goal is to be elected class president.”

“So what if it is? It's been known to happen,” said Alex. “I'm going about it systematically. I've looked up the rules on the school website. And I'm outlining a strategy to gain exposure right from day one.”

“I'm sure you are,” said Tommy. “Have you designed an algorithm for that?”

Alex was sick of Tommy's teasing. “Honestly, Tommy. Just because you're worried about not being the star quarterback anymore the way you were at Randall Prep doesn't mean—”

“Hey! Hey, now,” interrupted Coach. “Let's not start—”

“Did I
say
I was worried?” Tommy shot back.

“What's
wrong
with me wanting to play football?” Ava blurted out.

“Kids! Please! Voices
down!
” said their mom, looking embarrassed.

Alex heard someone politely clear his throat. She looked up. Two men and a woman were standing next to their table, waiting for them to stop squabbling.

All the Sacketts froze and plastered smiles to their faces.

The people looked a little amused. Alex could feel her ears burning. Her family was fighting in public! That was
not
a good first impression!

Her dad stood up to shake hands.

“Just stopped by to meet the new coach!” said the lady.

The two men swept off their hats. “Welcome to Ashland, Coach!” said one of them, pumping Coach's hand hard.

Alex smiled weakly and slumped down in her seat. “Welcome to Ashland,” she whispered quietly.

The following morning Ava settled into the bleacher seats at the football field and checked the huge stadium clock. Six a.m. sharp. It looked like all the players were on the field.
Nice to see these boys have discipline,
she thought.
And respect for their new coach.

The sun had not quite risen in the eastern sky, but the morning light was golden, and the players cast long shadows across the turf field—an unnatural green color in this brownish-gray Texan landscape.

The team was assembled in six straight lines, spaced five yards apart. They wore helmets, but no pads yet—her dad had explained that the first few days of practice, they all had to get
used to the heat. Two days with helmets, two days with helmets and some pads, and then full pads going forward.

The captains led the team through dynamic stretching. Step forward with one foot. Bend arms and raise above the head. Turn the torso. Arch the back. Next foot forward.

It was like ballet, except with football helmets and very large guys. And no tutus.

She counted four—no, five—no,
six
!—other coaches: her dad's assistants. That was a lot of coaches. Coach had explained their roles—defensive coordinator, defensive line coach, running backs and defensive backs coach, quarterbacks coach . . . she couldn't remember the rest. Coach had mentioned that one of them, Byron Hardy, the defensive coordinator, was a single dad with two little kids.

She had seen them arrive; the kids were cute. They looked like they were about four and six years old. They were sitting near the locker room door, coloring with crayons. Ava loved little kids. She felt comfortable being goofy around them. Not quiet and reserved the way she was at school, and sometimes with kids her own age.

Ava turned her attention back to the field.
She had to make sure her dad's practice was running smoothly. She wanted to assess the way the players and fellow coaches felt about him. Sure he was from Texas originally, but maybe they still saw him as an outsider, an untested guy from a fancy private school in New England.

Her gaze moved to the stands across the field. They were dotted with spectators. Not filled or anything, but a considerable number of people had shown up to watch practice. Were they all parents? She didn't know. Several people had clipboards in their laps, and Ava noticed them jotting things down from time to time. Were they taking notes on her dad's practice? She felt a stab of concern. Was Coach being judged on his very first day?

She heard voices a few rows down from where she was sitting and noticed a group of boys—about her age, it appeared—who must have just gotten there. What were
they
doing here?

Just then, two players jogged onto the field from the locker room.
Uh-oh,
she thought, glancing at the clock. They were twenty minutes late to practice. This was not going to go over well. It was the first day, and Ava knew Coach had to make an example of them.

Her dad blew the whistle and beckoned the players over. She could tell by his stance that he was not happy with their excuse.

She heard one of the boys sitting near her say “Coach Sackett,” and her ears pricked up. What were they saying about her dad? She inched over in her seat
ever
so slowly to get into better eavesdropping range.

“—Tyler Whitley,” one of the boys was saying.

Oh. So one of the late arrivals was Tyler, the star receiver she'd been hearing about.

“He's only six foot one, but I heard he has a thirty-one-inch vertical leap!” said another kid. “And he runs a four point forty-eight second forty-yard dash!”

“I heard it was four point forty-five!” said a kid with reddish hair. His hair wasn't bright red the way Charlie's was, back home. She loved Charlie's hair. Plus, it was nice to be friends with someone who had as many freckles as she did, not counting Alex.

“Last season PJ threw for five hundred yards and four touchdown passes in that one game against Culver.”

Hmm,
Ava mused. So the other late arrival was the other star of the team, PJ Kelly. The
quarterback. Tommy was a quarterback too. He'd been a star on his team back in Massachusetts, but here in Texas it looked like he might be backup to PJ's backup. She wondered how much that bothered him—or bothered Coach, for that matter.

Ava watched Coach point to the end line. He was going to make Tyler and PJ run sprints for being late. That was standard coaching procedure, of course. Surely everyone in the stands understood that. But Ava was worried. Why did they have to be late on the first day of her dad's practice?

“My dad says Sackett is an unknown,” said one of the boys. “And he probably doesn't get what Texas football is like.”

Ava felt herself flush with indignation. Her dad was
from
here! He'd only moved to the East Coast to play college ball, and then he'd met her mom, so he stayed. She felt the urge to get up and storm over to these boys. She'd tell them they had no idea what they were talking about. But she knew she could learn more by listening.

“I heard that if the coach doesn't win—and win big—he's out of here. No second chances in Ashland.”

That came from the reddish-haired boy. By now Ava was fuming. She clenched her fists and glared at the boy. How
dare
that kid say that about her dad! Who did he think he was? She took a mental snapshot of the boy's face, which she could see only in profile, and vowed to dislike him for the rest of eternity.

“Hi!” said a shy voice on her other side. She turned. Coach Byron's kids were standing next to her. The younger one, the girl, held a pink rubber ball.

The boy smiled at her encouragingly. “Want to play catch?”

Ava pushed aside thoughts about the reddish-haired boy and how much she didn't like him. She hopped up and smiled at the two kids. “I'd love to!” she said.

Later that morning, Alex was sitting at her mom's computer in the living room when Ava, Tommy, and their dad traipsed in from practice. Tommy had on eye black—the stuff players put below their eyes to cut down on glare from the sun—and it was weeping down his cheeks. His face
was still flushed with heat and exertion. Her dad wasn't smiling. Even Ava looked uneasy.

“Hi, guys!” Alex chirped brightly anyway. She clapped the computer closed and hopped up from her chair. “Mom found the griddle. She's going to make grilled tomato and cheese sandwiches for lunch. And we finished the first coat of paint in my bedroom! I have to sleep on the couch tonight because of the paint smell. I looked it up: The paint fumes contain harmful chemicals such as solvents and volatile organic compounds, which when inhaled in large quantities can damage the central nervous system.”

“That sounds great, honey,” said her dad, making his way toward the kitchen.

Tommy didn't say anything, but he tromped heavily up the stairs. A minute later, they heard the shower going.

“What's going on?” Alex asked Ava. “Did the first practice go badly?”

Ava nodded. “It was rough,” she said. “They did a lot of running. And also, I think they're both really stressed. Tommy's stressed because suddenly he's just a regular player, not the best. Coach is stressed because a couple of players were late—star players. So he made them run
sprints, and I guess you're not supposed to make PJ Kelly and Tyler Whitley run sprints. I hope people understand why Coach did. I hope it will be okay.”

“I'm sure it will,” said Alex confidently. Her dad was beloved by everyone at their old school. She was sure people here would love him too. “Daddy knows what he's doing.”

Upstairs, they heard the shower stop, and a minute or so later, the sound of Tommy playing his keyboard in his room. He loved to play piano—he said sometimes it helped him relieve stress more than football did.