Defending Taylor (Hundred Oaks #7) (4 page)

Mads:
Tee, I don’t care how tasty he looks, u aren’t licking him. BTW, Ben won’t stop asking about u.

Me:
What does he want?

Mads
:
YOU, obvs. He misses u. What happened with y’all? Can’t believe you dumped him! It’s all anyone’s talking about here!

Me:
I told you. I don’t want to do long distance. I’ll never see him. What if either of us ended up cheating, like my sister did with Jack?

Lies. All lies.

Mads:
But Ben loves u!

Steph:
Tell us about Ezra! How’d he look? Is he still lick-able?

Mads
: Of course he is. A boy like that doesn’t just suddenly become un-lick-able, even if he is The Asshole.

I change the subject because they are no help.

Me:
Mads, what’s up w/ Chris?

Mads:
He’s totally lick-able!

Me:
Eeeeeep!! <3

Steph
:
Gotta go. Trig time. Chat later.

Next, I text my brother about Ezra.

Saw Ezra today at Foothills dressed up like a construction worker! Why is he here?

My phone dings ten seconds later.
No clue. We haven’t talked in a couple weeks.

He’s ur best friend.

I know.

Then why haven’t you talked to him?

He hates texting & he’s never online. We’ve been trading phone calls. Keep missing each other.

I thought he goes to Cornell?

He does. Gotta get to lab. TTYL.

The plot thickens.

The school office gave me permission to go home during last period study hall to change into shorts and a tank top for soccer practice. I decide to wear my lucky smiley face socks over my shin guards and braid my hair into a long plait. I speed my car back to school with only a couple minutes to spare. Dad always says five minutes early is on time.

Feeling like myself for the first time in a week, I am grinning as I park next to the lush green soccer field. I hop out of the car and rush past an outdoor basketball court, where a bunch of guys are playing shirts versus skins. Because they are high school boys and are evolutionarily wired to do so, they whistle and catcall at me as I jog over to the benches where Coach Walker is standing next to two orange coolers.

“You made it,” he says, smiling as he reads from a paper on his clipboard.

I bounce on my toes, raring to go. “Yup. Where’s the team? Isn’t it three o’clock?”

He pulls his phone out and checks the screen. “It is.”

Instead of explaining where the other girls are, he starts tapping buttons on his phone and seemingly loses all interest in me. I edge to his side and peek at his screen. He’s checking Facebook.

I decide to use the time to stretch. I bend over and touch my toes. Next, I cross one leg over the other, then lean toward the ground again. Someone whistles loudly. I glance up from touching my toes to find the guys have stopped passing the basketball and are staring at me.

The tallest one sticks his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistles again.

I ignore the silly boys and go back to stretching. I work on my arms, hamstrings, and calves, and still no team. Coach Walker is still typing on his phone. He and Mom should hang out together with their electronic devices.

A minute later, a skinny guy steps onto the field carrying a stats book, a set of orange cones, and a mesh bag full of soccer balls. He’s probably a freshman or sophomore, and with his floppy brown hair and freckles, he’s sweet looking. But I don’t know
what
to say about his T-shirt that says in huge bold letters
Not Even Flexing
.

When he sees me, his eyes grow wide behind his glasses. “Hey. I’m Danny, the team manager.”

“I’m Taylor. So you’re into soccer?”

“Not really. I’m here to meet girls.”

I raise my eyebrows. I’m the only girl here so far. He better not get his hopes up about me, but I can tell what he’s thinking thanks to his big smile.

“Danny, where are the other players?”

“Still in the locker room, but I’m not sure what they’re doing because I’m not allowed inside.”

Good to know.

Danny pulls out an air pump and begins making sure the balls are fully inflated. I take a deep breath and wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. It’s at least 3:10 p.m., and I’m still the only player here. If the team’s first game is on Saturday, we’re losing valuable practice time. Especially if we’re supposed to be done by four o’clock.

What if I’m the only one who shows up to practice? I imagine standing in front of a goal, defending against a team of eleven other girls all by myself. Sounds like a bad sitcom.

The basketball boys start whistling again. Girls are trickling out of the gym door. Not only are they late, some of them aren’t even wearing shin guards. Coach Clark never would’ve stood for that. She benched anyone who didn’t show up prepared. One time, I accidentally forgot mine and didn’t get to play the entire game, even though Madison had an extra pair I could’ve borrowed.

My new teammates walk toward the field, gossiping and laughing. I feel a pang in my heart when I remember how I used to walk to practice with Steph and Madison. They’re probably doing that right now. Are they thinking of me?

When my new teammates see me, the chatter stops. The smiles disappear.

I recognize a few from my new classes. The tallest girl, the only one I remember from last year, steps forward. I don’t know her name, but she has big, expressive hazel eyes and long black hair that’s pulled back in a ponytail. She’s also one hell of a player. She places a hand on her hip as her eyes roam over me.

“What is
she
doing here, Coach?”

“Taylor’s new to Hundred Oaks, and she’s joining the team. Now we have enough players to have two subs! Isn’t that great news?”

“Yeah, great news,” the girl says, staring at me like I have the plague.

I step forward and hold out my hand. “Taylor Lukens.”

“I know who you are,” she says, ignoring my handshake. “You’re the snobby rich girl who laughed in our faces last year after your team beat us.”

“I was happy we won the game. I wasn’t laughing
at
you.”

“You may as well have been. The other girls on your team did.”

Uneasiness settles over me when I remember how some of my teammates had laughed at Hundred Oaks after we pummeled them 6–0. But I wasn’t one of them. I was in line to be this year’s captain, so I had to be a role model. I can’t say I wasn’t laughing internally though, and thinking about that makes me feel like a terrible person.

“Are we good enough for you
now
?” she adds. “Did all your expensive soccer camps not pay off? Someone better take your position on the St. Andrew’s squad? Daddy couldn’t convince them to keep you?”

“Nicole, c’mon. Just drop it,” Coach Walker says, and I’m grateful. It was becoming difficult to hold my tongue. Coach adds, “Let’s get stretched out, okay?”

My new teammates sit down on the grass and begin to stretch whatever way they want. One girl fiddles with a complicated-looking metal knee brace. I feel bad for her—she must have torn her ACL or something. Not only is that painful, you always have to wear a brace while playing after that kind of injury. Another girl does splits, like a gymnast, showing off more than actually stretching. At St. Andrew’s, for the two weeks I was captain, I had my team stand in a big circle and do the same stretches together. It builds cohesiveness and camaraderie. Since I’ve already stretched and each girl is doing her own thing, I decide to use the time to juggle a ball with my feet. It’s a good way to practice control and improve balance.

I begin kicking the ball up over and over again to myself, sometimes using my head and chest to control the ball. I bounce the ball back and forth off my thighs.

“Show-off,” a girl says. It’s not even a mutter; she wanted me to hear it.

I’m tempted to call her a slacker for being late to practice, but I hold my tongue. I’m trying to be the bigger person in this situation.

“All right, let’s scrimmage!” Coach calls, handing out neon-green mesh pinnies to half of us, splitting us into two groups. Nicole ends up on the green team with me. I’m actually kind of excited to see how we play together, given how good she was last year.

“What about drills?” I ask the coach. “Are we doing them after we scrimmage?”

“Nah, we have a game Saturday. We’ll use the time to simulate real game conditions.”

“Drills are important though. Good mechanics will help us in the game.”

“Taylor,” Nicole says. “Listen to Coach. Get your butt on the field. You’re on D.”

“I play forward.”

“I said,
you’re on D
.”

Okaayyy. I jog out onto the grass and take left back, loving how my cleats sink into the dirt. It’s only been a week since I’ve played, but it feels like a hundred years.

I notice our net is empty. I look to the younger girl playing center defense, who must be a freshman or sophomore. She’s wearing one pink sock and one yellow. Her legs are super skinny; I bet she’s quick on her feet.

“Hey!” I call to her. “Where’s our goalie?”

“We only have one. She’s playing for the other side.”

Great. Our team doesn’t have a backup goalie? What happens if she gets hurt? Given that we only have thirteen girls, we’ll be in a rough spot if
anyone
is injured.

“What’s your name?” I call out to the girl with the colorful socks.

“Sydney.”

“I’m Taylor.”

“I know.” She gives me a nervous smile.

Coach blows the whistle. The other team kicks off, and I streak forward to engage them. Nicole steals the ball and dribbles straight toward the goal. Their defense chases after her. She darts left, then right, and shoots. The goalie doesn’t stand a chance. The ball sails into the upper right corner of the net.

“Woo!” Nicole yells, then accepts high fives from the other players on our team. I look at the goalie. She slaps the goalpost, looking humiliated.
I’ll talk to her after practice
, I think, to tell her Nicole is a formidable opponent and any goalie would have an issue defending against her.

After we get back into position, the other team kicks off. Nicole immediately steals the ball and scores again. Okay, I can handle her doing that twice, but after she does it a third time, I totally snap.

“C’mon, Nicole!” I shout. “Pass the ball. The rest of us need to practice too.”

Everyone stops.

Nicole storms my way and hovers over me. “What did you say?”

“I said pass the ball.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the shocked expression on the girls’ faces. A few are laughing, but most just glare at me. I don’t regret yelling at Nicole, but it’s not the best start with the team.

“Get back on defense,” Nicole barks, then jogs to her position.

I glance over at Coach Walker. He’s shaking his head, looking distressed. When he offered me a spot on the team, I bet he didn’t think I’d be this vocal. But I have a lot riding on this team.

My future…my spirit.

• • •

I run on my own after practice.

Doesn’t Coach Walker understand that if we don’t run at least three to four miles a day, our team won’t have the endurance to last an entire game, much less win one? Today’s practice consisted of a half-hour scrimmage during which Nicole showed off and everyone else chased the ball around like kindergartners. Whenever I rushed for the ball, Nicole went out of her way to boot it out of bounds. Some team player.

After practice, I tried to share a few words with the goalie, Alyson, to encourage her, but she told me to mind my own business.

Hopefully, our game on Saturday will go better.

I run up Spring Hill, down Spring Hill, past the crumbling flour mill that closed ten years ago, around the sheriff’s station, avoid looking at the cemetery because it scares me, and go back out into the country.

Running reminds me of how Ben and I used to jog before dinner sometimes, him training for basketball and me for soccer. We enjoyed being alone together—away from our classmates, who unfairly judged him.

He had a hard time at St. Andrew’s. Beastly Buick aside, my classmates knew my father is wealthy, so they treated me like one of their own. But nearly every day, some asshole would make a crack like, “You’re really into dating down, huh, Lukens? You must like ’em on their knees.”

I speed up. Run faster. Harder. Run, run, run. Forget, forget, forget.

When I reach my driveway, I sprint the quarter mile to my house. I dart up the back porch stairs, then lean over onto my knees, panting hard. Air is all I need, all I want. I feel good, and I grin.

Once I’ve caught my breath, I open the back door, and I’m heading for the stairs to my room when I hear voices in the formal living room.
His voice.
All the air
whooshes
back out of my body.

I enter the living room to find Mom talking to Ezra.

He stands when he sees me, ever the gentleman. After a long moment of us staring at each other, Mom breaks the silence. “Taylor, isn’t it nice that Ezra stopped by?”

I swallow hard as I look into his green eyes. He’s changed clothes since I saw him earlier. Instead of jeans and a T-shirt, he’s wearing a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up his forearms, navy pants, a silver watch, and chestnut-brown leather shoes. Definitely Ralph Lauren and Prada, but I doubt he knows that. His mother always picks out his clothes. Just like my mother does with Oliver.

He checks me out too. I took off my shin guards and cleats earlier, but I’m still wearing the same tank top and short shorts I wore to practice.

“I remember those socks,” he says, nodding at my smiley faces. “Those are your lucky ones, right?”

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“He dropped by to see how we’re doing!” Mom says. Seeing Ezra is a treat for her. “I’ll go pour us some iced tea while you two get caught up.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Ezra says.

He watches her leave the living room, then turns back to me with a slow smile. A smile that gets my lady parts all revved up. Stupid lady parts.

I glance down at my white tank top as I take a seat on the couch. Yup, I’m covered in embarrassing sweat stains.

Only once I’m seated does Ezra sit back down. I had forgotten how much I love the dark freckles on his tan nose and cheeks.

He speaks first. “I’ve missed you.”

I lift an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you’re in Franklin.”

“I was surprised to see you too… I talked with Oliver,” he says softly with a knowing look in his eyes.

“Great, so you heard everything.”

“I’m so sorry, Tee.”

I bite a hangnail dangling from my thumb. The pain distracts me from my thumping heart. Ezra has gotten cuter and cuter over the years. Now, I’d call him handsome. And buff. His tan forearms are corded with muscles. He’s a man.

“How do you like Hundred Oaks?” he asks.

“The soccer team isn’t that good,” I say, knowing he’ll understand, since he was the St. Andrew’s goalie for four years.

“Are you okay?” he asks with genuine concern.

I give him a curt nod.

“Do you want to talk?”

No thanks, I don’t care to gut myself.
It took forever to get over Ezra. Only when I met Ben did I think there might be more than one guy for me, and look how that turned out.

I internally repeat my mantra. No. More. Boys.

I decide to go on the offensive. “I texted Oliver this morning. He didn’t know you’re here.”

“He knows now.”

“Why
are
you here?”