Drinking Life (Keeper of the Water Book 1) (4 page)

The couple seems not to look our way and I think we might avoid any ugly scene. I’m wrong. At the last second, Tanks steps in Jeff’s path and lowers his shoulder. Jeff bounces off and hits the floor as if he’d just walked into a wall. If Jeff was smart he would stay down but he scrambles to his feet and rushes toward Tank. I don’t want Jeff to die prematurely so I jump between him and Tank. Tank and I are now face-to-face, only inches apart, much closer than I care to be. I smell a mixture of cheap cologne and beef jerky. Stacey can’t see his face so he smiles at me and licks his lips. I’ve never been happier that I can’t read minds.

I want nothing more than to slug him in the mouth but Cassie suddenly shows up and jumps between us.

“It’s okay, nothing to see here,” she tells the crowd that has gathered nearby. Tank smiles even wider but I refuse to back off first. He and Stacey finally turn away.

“Cassie, I don’t know why you hang out with Big Foot,” Stacey calls out as she walks off down the hallway.

I turn to Jeff, who won’t make eye contact with me. I guess he’s embarrassed about a girl sticking up for him but now he knows what he made me feel like in class. His shirt is disheveled from his fall and a few of his books are scattered on the floor.

“Are you okay?” I ask him.

Before he answers, Cassie grabs me by the hand and drags me away. She’s strong when she wants to be and I don’t stop her.

“Are you
trying
to make things hard for me?” she asks. “If you keep starting trouble with the wrong people and hanging out with that nerd, we’ll
never
get in with the right crowd.”

I yank my hand away. Moments like these make me realize how different Cassie and I truly are. She’s only trying to make things better for herself but I don’t waste my breath pointing this out. Besides, Cassie storms away before I can say a thing. I look up to see Tank puckering his lips toward me as he and Stacey round the corner. I wish there were some way to teach him a lesson without making life harder on Cassie.

Fate suddenly heeds my call. A piece of paper flutters off the bulletin board beside me. It’s not the first time I’ve seen the LAX TRYOUTS announcement but I have a totally different feeling about it now.

“There’s no way we’re playing with a girl, coach,” says one of the jocks.

“I don’t know, it could be fun,” Tank disagrees and winks in my direction.

As I stand on the lacrosse field along with every other semi-athletic guy in school, I want nothing more than to shove a lacrosse stick up Tanks a–
“I know what you’re thinking, fellas, but my hands are tied,” the lacrosse coach says. He makes no secret of the fact that he doesn’t want me here either. “But it’s against the law to deny a girl the chance to play.”

I’m not so sure about the coach’s last statement but thankfully neither is he. Minutes before tryouts were scheduled to begin, I found him in his office and told him my intentions of trying out. I prefaced it by telling him about my past playing field hockey but he was less than impressed. In fact, he laughed at the notion of field hockey being a ‘real sport,’ one that could not compare with the physicality of lacrosse. If I hadn’t already had enough motivation to tryout, he certainly would’ve given me more. He told me that no girl ever tried out before and I certainly wouldn’t be the first. He chuckled as he walked by me and headed for the field.

That’s when I harnessed my inner-Cassie. I asked if he knew the rules about girls trying out for sports, if he really wanted to break the law by denying me a chance. I told him I had no trouble suing the school and having him named as the defendant, having him portrayed to the public as a sexist woman-hater. He backtracked so quickly he nearly tripped. He apologized and told me he had no idea about the rules. That was a good thing for me since I made it all up.

“Don’t worry, I can cut her if she’s not good enough,” he tells the rest of the guys. That had been the last part I told him to guarantee he would give me a shot. “Ammo, tell the guys how much lacrosse experience you have.”

I wasn’t expecting this question. “None,” I answer, the first honest thing I’ve told him. “I’ve never held a lacrosse stick in my life.”

The rest of the guys laugh but that doesn’t dissuade me. In fact, it only adds fuel to my fire.

“This should be easy for you, fellas,” the coach says. “Now gear up and get back on the field.”

Most of the jocks own their own equipment but the rest of us—those with little chance of making the team—must use the old school gear in boxes near the sideline. I jog over with the rest of the guys but don’t get far before Tank and his buddies block my way.

“I’m not going to take it easy on you, sweetheart,” he says to the delight of his friends. I have a witty comeback ready but Tank adds one more thing that shuts me up. “Or your nerdy little boyfriend.”

I turn to see Jeff standing behind me. My stomach sinks. I was so busy eyeing up Tank and his buddies that I didn’t even notice Jeff among the big group. Tank and his friends take their spots on the field as Jeff walks with me to the equipment box. Jeff wears his own gear but it doesn’t look like it’s ever been used. I’m the last one to get to the box so pickings are slim.

“It will be okay,” Jeff says. “Just do what I do. I’ve been practicing.”

He demonstrates how to hold the stick but it looks bigger than him. At least he shows me how to put on the gloves, pads and helmet. I have a feeling that’s the extent of help he’ll actually offer. I run onto the field and my helmet bounces around my head; it’s way too big and smells like a mixture of sweat and feet.

I’m not even sure where the players are supposed to be positioned on the field but I take direction from the coach. Not that he’s doing us any favors. He wants us to scrimmage and separates everyone into two teams: the jocks—the biggest, best players who only showed up to tryouts as a formality—against the rest of us. The coach blows the whistle but may as well be throwing a bucket of blood into the shark tank. The jocks immediately target the players on my team and bodies soon fly everywhere. They seem less interested in scoring—I guess that’s the point of this game?—and more interested in punishing those foolish enough to try joining their team.

I’ve never even watched a lacrosse match before but I figure it can’t be too different from field hockey: score the ball by getting it passed the other team’s goalie. Natural instinct takes over and I run around the field—
this
is what I’ve been missing the last six months. I can tell that some of the jocks take aim for me but they don’t expect my speed and agility. I dance around their bullish attempts to check me; unfortunately, my teammates aren’t so lucky.

The ball ends up on the ground by my feet and I scoop it up in the triangular-netted head of my stick. I barely take a step when the ball threatens to fall out. I shift the stick to keep hold of it and quickly figure out that a slight side-to-side movement keeps the ball secure. I take off across the field, spinning around defenders, leaping sticks swung at my legs, ducking sticks swung at my head. I feel like I’m in the middle of an epic battle, a position that somehow suits me just fine.

Before I know it, the opposing goalie is just in front of me. I’ve never passed or shot the lacrosse ball but it’s pretty self-explanatory. I flick my wrists and the ball zips passed the goalie, crashing into the back of the net. The coach blows his whistle. He wears a look of shock, which I’m sure most of the others have beneath their helmets. As I jog back to the center of the field, I hear primal growls from some of the jocks, especially Tank. I’m unable to resist gloating.

“This isn’t so hard,” I tell him.

The coach yells at his real players while the rest of my teammates peel themselves off the grass and get back into position. When the game resumes, the jocks play with new purpose. They’re more focused on passing and less concerned with hitting—at least hitting the others. The sole purpose of several of them seems to be slowing me down, taking shots on me whenever they can. If the coach notices the cheap shots, he doesn’t blow his whistle to stop them. I’m about to avoid most of their swinging sticks and body checks but a few of them land. But I refuse to go down, refuse to let them slow me. These hits may have stopped some of my teammates but I absorb punishment as easily as I did in my field hockey days.

The rest of my team is woefully under-skilled. But since half the other team tries to stop me instead of trying to score, my team somehow gets the ball back. Someone flings it high toward the center of the field. I leap high and snag it in midair, out-jumping Tank and his friends. For the second time in minutes, I streak toward the goal, dodging their attempts to stop me. With most of them focused on me, I spot Jeff all alone next to the goal and zip a pass toward him. All he has to do is catch it or even
deflect
it into the goal but he totally whiffs. The coach blows his whistle and walks onto the field.

“You!” he yells, pointing to Jeff. “Get over here.”

Jeff jogs to him and the coach snatches his stick from his hands. He looks over the brand new stick, paying extra attention to the netting in the head. After a few seconds, he drops it on the grass.

“Nope, no hole!” he calls out.

The jocks laugh and the coach blows his whistle to restart the game. It’s not long before my misfit team loses our element of surprise. No matter how hard I try—how much I run around the field—the jocks begin to score goal after goal. They quickly realize that stopping me stops our entire team. It gets harder for me to avoid their attacks; I can’t dodge everyone who tries to smash into me. It’s not long before I’m frustrated and can’t take the abuse any longer. One of the jocks rushes at me with his shoulder pads lowered, expecting me to just take my punishment. But I lower my own shoulder and explode through him.

He’s lifted off his feet and the ground shakes when he crashes down. He’s slow to get up. I look for my next victim but the whistle blows and the coach yells at me for making an illegal hit.

“What about all the hits
I’ve
taken?” I snap back. “Were
they
all legal?”

“Who do you think you’re talking to, young lady?” the coach yells back. “I don’t need anyone with an attitude problem on my team. Now focus on the game and watch those dirty hits.”

I’m not used to be chastised by a coach; my field hockey coach treated me like a star. I’ve only been playing lacrosse for an hour but I think I could be really good if the coach gives me a chance. But he doesn’t seem interested. The game no sooner starts back up when someone decks me from behind. It’s the first time I hit the grass all day.

“And
stay
down,” Tank growls at me.

But there’s no way I listen to him. For the next twenty minutes, it turns into less of a game and more of a bloodbath. The real lacrosse players make the Spanish soldiers who attacked me seem like pussycats. The coach constantly blows his whistle but not because many goals are being scored; any time I initiate contact he admonishes me. Finally I don’t care anymore. I’m not making the team anyway so I plan to teach Tank and his friends to leave me alone once and for all.

As I race down the field, I feel a presence chasing me from behind. I won’t allow myself to be blindsided again. I stop running and spin around quick as lightning, lowering my shoulder and smashing into my stalker. I can tell right away that I made a huge mistake, feel that I hit someone not nearly big enough to a jock. The lacrosse player grunts as his feet lift off the ground—I recognize the sound of the voice before he even hits grass.

My heart sinks as Jeff painfully squirms on the ground. He tries to stand but stumbles back down. The jocks gather around and laugh as the coach blows his whistle until he’s red in the face.

“You aren’t supposed to hit your own teammates,” the coach says. “This is why I don’t let girls on my teams; the rules are too confusing for them.”

I’m too worried about Jeff to be pissed off at the coach or jocks. I kneel next to my friend and gently take his arm to help him up. But he angrily pulls free from my grip.

“Don’t touch me!” he yells at me. His voice cracks and I can hear that the wind is still knocked out of him. I think I spot a few tears through his facemask so we both turn away. I don’t think I’ve ever felt worse for another person but Jeff seethes in anger from the pity he senses from me. He drags himself to his feet and runs—or more like stumbles—away from the field. I want to tell him to stop but know that would only cause him more embarrassment.

“It’s a tough sport, kid,” the coach calls out. “If you can’t handle the pain, consider yourself cut.”

Jeff doesn’t stop and I take a few steps in his direction.

“Don’t, Nia,” a voice calls out from the bleachers. “Just let him go.”

Cassie watches the tryouts with the rest of the popular girls. I’ve been so involved in the game that I didn’t even notice their arrival.

“If this is too tough for anyone else, quit now and stop wasting our time,” the coach says. Even though he says this to my entire team, his eyes are focused squarely on me.

I’m ashamed to admit that I actually consider the offer. I turn to watch Jeff run away but spot a lone person standing just beyond the lacrosse field. Everything and everyone around me seems to fade away as I’m struck with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. This person is watching the game but I feel his eyes directly on me. Maybe that’s because I’m the idiot who just leveled my own teammate. Even though this feels just like what happened during my last field hockey game, the person watching me now is no old man.

Even from far away I can see that he’s young and dark and handsome. Boys don’t usually have this kind of effect on me but I stare back at him without another thought in the world. I totally forget about Jeff running away until he rushes right by the stranger. Jeff throws his stick on the ground, which finally causes the stranger to break eye contact with me. My face feels warm but not because I’ve been running around.

“No other quitters?” the coach asks. “Let’s get back to the game then. I guess the second team will be down one player.”

I watch the stranger pick up Jeff’s stick and walk toward the field. He hops the short fence with ease.

“I’ll fill the empty spot,” the stranger tells the coach. His voice is deep and smooth with a hint of an accent that sounds familiar though I cannot place it. He looks away from the coach just long enough to lock eyes with me again. I immediately turn away and wonder how to calm the flapping of butterfly wings in my belly.

“Who the heck are you?” the coach asks.

“My name is John Leon,” the handsome boy says. I could listen to him talk all day long.

“Never heard of you,” the coach responds. “These tryouts are only for students of Mt. Pocono High. I’m gonna need you to leave now.”

My heart sinks and I’m determined to leave if John Leon does. But he suddenly wears the ghost of a smile that makes my legs feel like spaghetti.

“I
do
attend this school,” he answers. “I just moved here; today was my first day.”

I think he’s bluffing but one of the guys on my team speaks up.

“It’s true, Coach. I saw Principal Andreano giving him the tour earlier.”

I’d been so focused on lacrosse tryouts all day at school that I totally forgot about getting a new student. But one look at John and I’m sure I’ll never forget him again. The coach’s brow furrows and he looks John up and down, considering what to do. He’s certainly not dressed for sports. The rest of us wear shorts, T-shirts and athletic sneakers but John wears a button down shirt, pants and casual sneakers—all black. He also wears his long jet-black hair tied back. I’m not the only one to notice this last part.