Defending Taylor (Hundred Oaks #7) (6 page)

I wake up early to have a good breakfast before my first Hundred Oaks soccer game. Marina makes me a fiesta omelet with peppers, onion, avocado, Monterey Jack cheese, and a salsa dipping sauce.

“Thanks,” I tell her. “This is my favorite.”

She beams, wiping her hands on her apron. “It’s your mother’s too, but she takes hers without the cheese.”

“Sacrilege.”

“I completely agree, baby.”

While I eat, I jot down ideas for my common app essays. There are two prompts to choose from.
Describe a significant event or risk you have taken and its impact upon you
, or
reflect on a time when you challenged a belief or idea. What prompted you to act? Would you make the same decision again?

Neither question appeals to me. Up until a week ago, I’d always played by the rules. Sure, I drink alcohol when I have the opportunity. I drop the F-bomb pretty fucking frequently. I binge-watch
Game of Thrones
when I should be sleeping. But when it comes to school, I’ve always done my homework. I’ve never challenged a teacher. I haven’t really taken any risks.

A few years ago, when Oliver, Jenna, and Ezra went on a mission trip to build houses in Mexico, they snuck out to nightclubs after the chaperones went to bed. I’m a loser by comparison. During the two months I spent working in Haiti, I read the Harry Potter series for a second time and never once stepped foot on a dance floor.

I set down my pen. I have no idea what to write for this essay.

I stuff one last bite of omelet in my mouth, kiss Marina’s cheek, and head to my car.

Today’s a special day for soccer, in that teams from our region will all come together at a sports complex in Murfreesboro, where there are seven soccer fields. It will be a chance for us to watch other teams and learn what to expect from them the rest of the season.

St. Andrew’s is one of only two private schools in Middle Tennessee, so we always play against public schools. I know all about the teams in our district. We’re playing Lynchburg today. Last year, they were tough, and unless a bunch of their best players graduated, Hundred Oaks will bite the big one today.

On the way to school, I drop by Donut Palace for my latte. At 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday, the coffee shop is deserted. I feel a pang of
something
when Ezra doesn’t appear out of nowhere to bother me.

Of course, I am the first person to arrive at Hundred Oaks. I get there even before the coach. Hell, I’m here before the damn bus driver! If someone was late at St. Andrew’s, Coach Clark made the team run extra laps while the late person watched from the sidelines. That’s cruel and unusual punishment: you feel guilty,
and
your entire team is pissed at you.

While waiting for the Hundred Oaks squad, I lean against my car and sip my latte, trying to take my mind off how I have nothing to write about for my college essay. Does that mean I’m a loser? Does that mean I haven’t
live
d
? The only real risk I’ve taken is covering for Ben, and it turned out badly. Besides, I can’t write about that on my application. People would find out the truth, and I’d get in more trouble for lying, and he’d get kicked out of school. Which he deserves.

But then I think about his home life. Ben grew up on the outskirts of Birmingham. His mom works at the Piggly Wiggly, a small grocery store. His father is a coal miner. Ben has an older brother and three little sisters, and his parents can barely afford to support them. Ben hasn’t been to the doctor or dentist in years because it’s just not an option for him. I’ve always admired that he applied for a St. Andrew’s scholarship. It will take him far. I can’t be the person responsible for taking that away from him, even if he was the one in the wrong.

I’ll never forget the time his family drove up from Alabama to watch him play basketball. His mother was so proud, she cried, and his father clapped the entire game.

My parents never had time to come to my games at St. Andrew’s…

I shake the sad thoughts from my head.

Dad always says that if I can’t figure out a problem, I should think about something else entirely. Just get my mind off it. So I push essays to the side and concentrate on enjoying the warm sun on my face. It’s mid-September. Fall starts next week. It won’t be warm much longer.

About a minute before the team is supposed to leave—where is everybody?!—a dusty truck creaks into the parking lot, shaking and shuddering to a stop. An old man hobbles out and makes his way to the school bus, unlocking it.

Oh no. I’m alone with an elderly bus driver.

I reach behind me and open the driver’s side door. I’m trying to sneak back into my car when he speaks.

“Hi there.”

“Hi.”

“Ready for the game? Lynchburg’s pretty good, right?”

I pause, surprised that somebody actually brought this up. At practice the other day, Coach Walker devoted absolutely
no time
to discussing strategy or the other team’s strengths.

“Yeah, they’re tough.”

The bus driver unlocks the door and opens it, then begins to hobble up the stairs. “Well, c’mon then.”

I shut my Buick’s door and follow him, choosing a seat in the middle of the bus. I slide onto the ripped, green vinyl and pull out my phone.

Jenna sent me a text:
Kick some motherfucking ass today!

Well. That was blunt. But my sister makes me smile.

I also find a short email from my father:

I hope your game goes well.

—Dad

At least that hasn’t changed. Between his work and travel schedule, he never shows up to games, but he’s always wished me luck. It makes me smile.

I feel the bus shake and glance up to find other players getting aboard.
Finally.
I smile at them. Nobody smiles back except for Sydney, the freshman with colorful socks who was nice to me at practice the other day.

Nicole appears in front of me, filling my vision. “Get your ass to the front. We sit based on seniority.”

We did that at my school too. As captain, I would’ve sat at the very back of the bus this year. Whatever. It’s just a bus seat. I pull my bag onto my shoulder and edge up the aisle to the front until I’m sitting behind the coach and across the aisle from Danny, Soccer Manager Pervert Extraordinaire.

Did he just lick his lips at me?

Ugh.

I slip in my earbuds so I can listen to music to get pumped for the game. Then, while all the other girls are braiding each other’s hair and gossiping, I dig into my chemistry homework, which is due Monday.

By the time we reach Murfreesboro about half an hour later, I’m itching to play. The fields are filled with players passing balls back and forth. The smell of coffee and fried egg sandwiches wafts from the concession stand. I can’t wait to start running.

We don’t play until 10:00 a.m., so the team spends time getting camped out in a field where other teams have set up tents to shield players from the blazing sun. Fall may only be a few days away, but it’s still freaking hot outside.

I sit down cross-legged and pull my Adidas cleats from my bag. Two girls sit down across from me. I think their names are Brittany and Chloe. Chloe’s the one who hurt her knee and has to wear the robotic-looking brace. I like her super short blond hair; it’s trendy and mature. I’m opening my mouth to ask about her knee when they start chatting with each other.

“How’d it go with Jamie last night?” Chloe asks, adjusting the strap on her brace. “Did you hook up?”

The other girl—Brittany—squeals in response. I guess that’s a yes.

“Was it good?”

“No, it was great.” She grins. “His parents were out at a movie, so we had time to go up to his room.”

“Did you do it?”

Brittany shakes her head and giggles. “Not yet, but he was plenty satisfied, Chlo.”

“I’m surprised y’all aren’t already going at it like rabbits. You’ve wanted him long enough.”

“I’m thinking about it,” Brittany says, blushing. “Maybe next time.”

I smile to myself, remembering a very similar conversation I had with Steph when I was trying to decide whether to sleep with Ben.

That’s when Brittany notices I’m listening. “Mind your own damned business, traitor.”

Traitor?

Chloe shrugs at me, but it means nothing, because she doesn’t say a thing. I change my mind about wanting to join their conversation. I look around at the other girls. All of them are talking and playing on their phones. It’s like I’m not even here. I hug my legs to my chest, not meeting anyone’s eyes until it’s time to warm up.

Coach calls out, “Pair up for passing drills.”

Everyone quickly finds a partner except for me. I’m unlucky player number thirteen. It reminds me of recess in elementary school, when inevitably one kid is always picked last.

“Can I get with you and Chloe?” I ask Nicole, still anxious to see how we might play together.

“Didn’t you hear Coach Walker?” Nicole snaps. “He said pairs. Not threesomes. Is that the kind of shit you’re into? Two guys at once?”

I put a hand on my hip. “Sounds great to me. Who wouldn’t want two hot guys?”

Chloe and a few other girls snicker, and Nicole sneers when she sees the team’s giving me attention.

Sydney edges closer to me and whispers, “You shouldn’t antagonize her. It’s just making it worse.”

I shrug. Nicole doesn’t scare me.

Since I don’t have anyone to pass with, and I’m not going to start a
threesome
, I juggle the ball like I did at practice the other day.

After drills, Coach Walker and Nicole lead the team to field four, where we will play Lynchburg. We sit down on the sidelines and stretch as Coach goes through the lineup. “We’ve got Nicole at center forward. Alyson in goal. Chloe on right forward. Brittany—halfback. Taylor—center back.”

“You’re
starting
her?” Nicole blurts. “Are you sure about that, Coach? She just joined the team.”

“Taylor’s good, Nicole. She’ll help us win.”

I can’t help but grin, even though I hate playing defense. It’s not that I’m bad at it. I just like leading the charge.

The ref blows her whistle, letting us know it’s time to take the field.

“Let’s bring it in,” Nicole says, putting her hand out. Everyone piles their hands on top. “One, two, three, Raiders!” everybody yells, and I jog out onto the grass and take my position.

The whistle blows a second time, and Nicole kicks off. Lynchburg immediately steals the ball back, because they are really good, and start making their way down the field, effortlessly passing the ball back and forth between their players. They call each other’s names and cooperate. They remind me of my former team.

As center back, I’m the last line of defense before our goalie. I quickly glance over my shoulder at her. She’s crouched, hands outstretched, ready to take on the world. I dart forward to engage with the Lynchburg striker. She fakes left, but my reflexes are good. I thrust my right foot out and dislodge the ball from between her feet. Rearing back, I boot the ball up the right side of the field to Chloe, who dribbles a few feet before the ball is stolen away again.

Lynchburg is better than most teams in our district. That’s just the way it is. But I’m not going to give up. Over the next twenty minutes, Alyson stops two shots on goal, and I manage to boot the ball away about ten times, but Lynchburg is wearing us out. Sydney is not bad on D. She’s helping out a lot back here.

Then it happens. Thirty minutes into the game, a Lynchburg forward launches a shot into the upper left corner of the goal.

“Dammit!” Alyson yells, covering her face with her goalie gloves.

“It’s cool,” I say, clapping my hands. “You’re doing great. We got this.”

Sydney smiles gratefully over at me, but Alyson drops her hands to give me an ugly look that would make even Hope Solo cringe. “You never should’ve let her get that shot off, Taylor!”

With a sigh, I turn to face the field as the ref toots the whistle. Time for round two.

Chloe kicks off to Nicole, who dribbles up the center of the field but loses the ball when a defenseman boots it away. One of our midfielders—I think her name is Beth—takes control of the ball and hustles past Lynchburg’s right defender. Holy shit! She might actually get into scoring position.

Then she trips and falls. The ref blows his whistle. I take off running toward her.
Is she okay? God, I hope she is.
I reach Beth and squat beside her.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“My ankle.” She clutches her cleat.

I look around to find Coach. He’s taking his sweet time making his way across the field. None of our other players come over. What gives? The St. Andrew’s girls would all be sprinting her way.

This team is just getting ridiculous.

When Coach Walker reaches us, he helps Beth get to her feet. “What did you hurt this time?”

“My ankle.”

I help Coach lead her off the field. As soon as we’re at the benches, she reaches into her tote and pulls out an ice pack, prewrap, gauze, and tape. I peek inside her bag, and it’s packed to the brim with first aid supplies. It’s like a mobile hospital.

“I hope you feel better,” I tell her, and she looks up at me with quivering lips and shiny eyes.

“Thanks,” she gasps.

I jog back onto the field, passing Chloe. She grabs my elbow. “Beth does this every game.”

“Does what?”

“Fakes an injury.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“She gets off on the attention. It seriously pisses me off.” Chloe glances down at the brace on her knee. Even from this distance, I can see the pinkish-white surgical scar. I shudder, thinking of the pain she must’ve gone through. She hasn’t been particularly nice to me, but I feel for her. You don’t fake using a brace like that one.

“Don’t give Beth any more attention, got it?” Chloe says before jogging off.

Shaking my head, I get back into position. The ref blows his whistle, indicating a Lynchburg player should throw the ball back in from the sidelines.

We’re down one-nothing, and Nicole continues to be a ball hog: she seems to have a complete inability to pass the ball. A few times, both Chloe and Brittany are completely open, but Nicole attempts fancy footwork, trying to outmaneuver Lynchburg. But they are so aggressive and so in step with one another that any play Nicole tries fails.