The Swap (30 page)

We walk in together, side by side. It's different than getting dropped off by my dad. He usually parks the truck, gets a cup of coffee, and appears at the start of practice. He stands in the same spot. Every time. He doesn't talk to anyone. He just keeps his eyes glued down on me from the highest seats in the arena. He watches everything. Then we go over it on the way home. Usually how I screwed up. What I did wrong. How to get better. Make adjustments. “It's the little things, Jack,” he tells me. “You have to do it right.”

Whatever.

I glance over at Summer. She throws her arm around me as we walk, flashing me a big smile. “Am I going to ruin your reputation if I give you a hug?”

“No.” I grin. I lean in. It feels good. “Not at all,” I say.

“And look, don't worry, I'm not going to cheer or anything.” She laughs, “One, I don't know a thing about soccer, and two, I think you're pretty much perfect, so I'm a little bit biased.” Summer's eyes light up. “I brought a really good book.” She smiles as we walk up the steps. “I won't make a peep. Just know I'm here, okay? I'm not going anyplace.”

Inside, the Sportsplex is packed. Humming with kids with sweaty red cheeks, colorful jerseys, packs slung around their shoulders. A traffic jam at the snack bar, kids slurping back slushies, little brothers and sisters swarming around the video games, the trophy case. Summer and I walk through all of that and go separate ways when we reach the turf. She gives me a quick smile and walks off with her book toward the rest of the parents and the stacked metal bleachers.

I scan the fields for the the Thunderbirds and their pink-striped socks. I'm hoping I'm a little late and I don't have to talk. Hoping everyone's already kind of warmed up and I can just, like, slip in, unnoticed.

Yeah. Not so much.

When I jog out onto the turf, the last field on the end? They all look up.

Sassy.

Aspen.

Claire.

Mackenzie.

Girl Sammie.

Before anyone even has a chance to say anything about what happened, I'm saved by a whistle. Coach Carolyn.

“Let's go, girls, bring it in!” she hollers out, standing in the middle. Same black warm-up, same visor, same ponytail. Big smile. We gather in the center. One tight pack. I feel Mackenzie's hand grab on to mine.

“So glad you made it,” she whispers, and smiles.

“Lots to cover, ladies. Last day of tryouts.” Coach Carolyn's tone is all business. “Today is going to be similar to Friday. But last time I looked at your passing and receiving skills and how you can combine with your teammates around, and today I'm going to look more at your dribbling skills and your one versus one attacking goal.”

I keep my eyes on Coach, but I still feel it.

Sassy.

She's glaring at me. I see her out of the corner of my eye. It's, like, the meanest look I've ever seen. I glance toward the sidelines and look for Summer in the crowd of parents on the metal bleachers. She's there just like she promised, reading her book. I take a deep breath and turn back toward Coach Carolyn.

“So just like Friday, everybody is going to make mistakes. I just want to see how you react to mistakes. Put your best effort in, okay, ladies?”

Everyone's nodding. You hear some feet shuffling.

“Okay, so this is how practice is going to look—we're going to warm up, we're going to break into stations, we're going to rotate through the stations, then end with some one-v-ones going to end line and wrap up with one-v-ones to the big goal. Sound good?” She looks at me and smiles.

“Yes, ma'am!” I say. It slips out. Automatic.

I hear Sassy say under her breath, “What a kiss-up.”

After the first hour, I'm pretty sweaty. I've been playing hard and manage to keep myself out of any major Sassy conflict. I stay far away from her, and if she comes near me, I keep quiet. No talking. No eye contact. When I feel like I want to punch her in the face? I just look toward the bleachers at Summer. With her shiny, long red hair, it's easy to spot her. She's the only mom not watching, just reading.

“Okay, girls, bring it in!” Coach Carolyn calls us in for the last drill. I'm breathing hard. The tryouts are pretty intense. I slip in between Girl Sammie and Mackenzie. I feel a little bit like they're my bodyguards, the way they leave a little space for me in the huddle and make sure nobody else is between us. Coach Carolyn's instructions are kind of complicated. In hockey I just know where to go, I don't even have to think. But out here on the turf, I have to really concentrate and listen.

“We're going to finish with one-v-one to goal. Everyone who is in a red pinnie, I want you starting next to the goalpost, balls next to the goalpost, keeper in net. Everyone in a yellow pinnie, at the top of the penalty arc. I'm going to play the ball into the attacking player. Defender, you can start to defend as soon as you hear my foot hit the ball.”

Oh, man. I hope I got all of that. I'm in yellow, I get to attack. I fall into line at the top of the penalty arc, behind Sammie and a bunch of girls I don't really know. Sassy, Aspen, Claire, and Mackenzie are all in red. They line up with the balls next to the goalpost. I count it out in my head:
nine players on attack, nine players on defense
. The first few times through, I take a couple of runs against different defenders. First Aspen, then Mackenzie, then this girl Addi. Each time I put the ball in the net, I hear Sassy in line, chirping.

“Oh, that was totally lucky.”

“Wait till you have a real defender against you.”

“You started before she was even looking!”

I'll admit I'm pretty heated. The girl's such a joke.
She's getting to me
, I think, and glance over at Summer. Still nose in the book. Still peaceful. I fall back into the line with the forwards at the top of the penalty arc. I can't help it. I look. I warned you what I'm like—I count in line. Two in front of me and two in front of her. “Yes,” I say under my breath.

I'm going head-to-head against Sassy.

Coach Carolyn plays the ball into my feet. I see Sassy running straight at me, full tilt, no breaks on. I don't know how else to describe it, but something inside me just clicks. It's so easy. My feet—they just move without me even thinking. I take the perfect outside touch around Sassy, and yeah, I'm thinking, awesome. I beat her completely. And all of a sudden I hear footsteps. Sassy is about to slide tackle me, but I can see her out of the corner of my eye, sliding to take me down.

I quickly touch the ball to the outside again and, in one leaping move, hurdle Sassy's sliding leg, setting myself up, cracking a perfect low strike to the near post, beating the goalkeeper's outstretched arms. It all goes in slow motion—it all slows way down. I look back at Sassy, still on the ground. I don't have to say a word. The sound of the ball hitting the net was pretty loud. That sound alone stopped everyone in their tracks. All the girls are staring, mouths open. Coach Carolyn is going nuts. “Woo-hoo, Ellie! Now that's what I'm talking about! That's how you attack the goal!”

I move back into the line. Yeah, I'm grinning ear to ear. Girl Sammie is just looking at me, speechless.

“Wow! Where'd
that
come from?” she asks, surprised.

I know exactly where that came from. Or, I should say,
who
.

I've been thinking about that since the second the ball hit the back of the net. I definitely don't have moves like that! In hockey, sure. But not in soccer. That was all Elle! One hundred percent! The way my feet knew just what to do.

I am her and she's me!

I shake my head. I have the biggest smile plastered on my face. “That was all Elle,” I say out loud, almost laughing. Unreal. “Those moves were so sick!”

As the boys would say, “The kid's a dangler!”

And then I laugh because, yeah. If anyone is listening, I'm not sounding too humble. This is so flippin' crazy. This is nuts. And I'm proud of Elle, more than I could possibly explain. I'm so pumped! I glance over at Summer, and at that exact second, that very moment, she looks up from her book and flashes me a huge smile. I turn back to the net, watch Sassy slowly moving back to the end of the defenders line. And I'm feeling kind of suddenly grateful. Relieved. I didn't snap. I didn't hit her or chirp her, I just—
we
just—fair and square beat her.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

WALKING OFF THE ICE INTO
the locker room, I can't even think straight, I'm so amped! Inside, the room is crazy loud, country music blaring, guys joking, laughing, goofing off, unwinding. I sit back on the bench and take it all in. Number one, I can't leave this out: it really
stinks
in here, but I guess—yeah. Ahh, wow. I'm pretty ripe too. The guys are mostly half-dressed. Sitting back, pads off on the top, bare chested, big smiles. A whole lot of chirping back and forth. Nobody's talking about practice. It's like as soon as we stepped off the ice, they left it out there. They've all moved on.

“Pumped! I'm going to the Pats game today!”

“Fitzy, dude, you're so lucky!”

“Ha, Brownie, nice lip lettuce, bro!”

“Hot shower. Refill the tank. Not leaving my couch today. Giants, Eagles, Bills, Pats. If any of you hooligans want to come over.”

“Riles, I hear you hooked up with Shaylee!”

“Holy smokes, Riiiiles! Did you get any, you huge beauty?”

“Shaylee Landon is perfect. I honestly don't think she can get any hotter.”

“That new twig is sick. Where'd you get that? That curve is sick, buddy. You're gonna be sniping with this. I want it!”

I kind of like the background noise. The way they're all laughing and joking around. I could get used to this. I take my time. I don't rush. I sit back and soak it in. I feel totally spent—in the best way. I put the equipment back in the bag, zip it up, slip back into my jeans and hoodie. I stand and throw my bag up on my shoulder. The guys are cool when I get up to go.

“See ya, big dog!”

“Unreal, Mallsy, good skate!”

“Get it tomorrow, man!”

It's funny because, just like I did on the way in, I follow Happy Blond Kid out of the dressing room, through the long hall. I try and be cool, keep my smile inside. But it's hard to not, like, grin at all. I feel so hyped! Proud, I guess. Jack's gonna kill it tomorrow—I have absolutely no doubt!

I bust outside the wide double doors into the fresh air and the morning sun with pretty much a swag in my step. The bag doesn't even seem heavy anymore, strapped over my shoulder, sticks in hand. I look straight ahead and see the truck waiting by the curb. I turn to Happy Blond Kid.

“See ya tomorrow, man.”

Happy Blond Kid calls after me, “Expecting big things from you, Malls!”

I throw the bag in the back and jump up into the front, excited. I look right at The Captain. “Thanks,” I say, flashing him my best biggest smile. I'm sure he's going to be proud. I'm sure he's going to be impressed! But as soon as I see his face, my stomach just drops. The Captain doesn't even turn toward me, he doesn't even look! He just puts the truck into drive and pulls out of the parking lot. And in a matter of seconds, I go from feeling like I'm on the top of the world to feeling like . . .

Crap.

I passed out in the truck. I know this because when I wake up, we're pulling into the driveway and I have dried-up drool on my bottom lip. I kind of jerk up. I glance quickly at The Captain. To my surprise, he looks back.

“Are you happy with the way you played?” he asks, very matter-of-factly.

“Yes, sir, I think I played pretty well,” I answer quickly, confidently.

The Captain turns away, looks out the window. Then, after a long silence, he finally speaks as he opens the truck door. “
Good
is not enough. If you play like that, you're not going anywhere.”

“But . . . ,” I start. “I mean, the coach said—”

He stands outside the truck, the door open, his jaw clenched. A minute passes. Nothing. He shakes his head. “Frankly, if you can't handle the corners and finish your checks, if you can't be a man and figure it out—” His tired-looking eyes are fixed on me. “You can't be complacent. If you can't fight tooth and nail, if you can't be mentally tough, if you can't start doing what you need to do, there are a hundred kids ready to step in and take your spot.” He lingers with a shrug. “Maybe you're not like your brothers. Maybe you don't want this.”

I watch the truck door shut.

I watch him leave.

I sit in the seat, and I feel this anger just well up in me. It starts in my gut and charges up my throat. It's like an alien force. It suddenly hits me that I have a choice. Without thinking, I jump out of the truck and swing the heavy door closed. I grab my bag, my sticks. I stride with purpose to the house. I drop my bag and set down the sticks inside the entryway, and I turn toward the kitchen, my heart pounding. The Captain is standing by the sink, pouring himself a coffee. His back is to me when I walk in.