I laughed but felt more like crying. Of course, I realized with a dispirited pang, Pete had not been playing his “A” game this whole time. We were doomed. But at least I was alive out there on the field. I hadn’t laid down for him and everybody else to run over me. And I wouldn’t anymore.
No more throwing my game.
A new flare of determination rose in my chest, so that I was burning up the soccer field. I managed to intercept a pass meant for Jake and shoot a long, hard kick at the goal before Pete had a chance to come along and steal the ball away. It missed by a couple of feet, but it was a nice attempt. Some of the spectators must’ve thought so, too, because half the football team started cheering. I even heard a shout-out from Steph Aguilar, before Ashley-Leigh smacked her on the arm for her lapse. The whistle blew, and Team One and Team Two huddled up again. It was 2-0 in favor of Pete Davenport, because he may as well have been the sole player on his team, everyone else being mere props for his dazzling performance.
I was getting pretty winded but tried to act otherwise, desperately wanting to stay in. Coach Sams and I were on the same wavelength today— she obviously wanted to beat the notorious, misogynist Coach Hampton at his own game as much as I wanted to beat Pete. I glanced over to their huddle to see that Coach Hampton appeared to be disgruntled, and that Pete was walking off the field. He sat on the bench, squirting water into his mouth, looking for all-the-world like a commercial for some kind of manly product. It could be anything: soap, sport drink . . . jock-itch cream. No matter—females would’ve gone out in droves to buy it.
Realizing I was staring, I snapped out of it and ran back to the field determined to take advantage of Pete’s absence. The whistle blew, and I was off. And to use his own expression: It was as easy as taking candy from a baby without him in the picture. I accepted the first pass and easily drove the ball all the way to the goal, sidestepping two defenders to fake left, but kicked right . . . and the ball nailed the goal with a rewarding thwang that reverberated off the goal post and into my soul.
Team Two just scored one goal. The round of applause coming from my team and the football field was nice, but I only had eyes for the one, who rose from the bench, to cheer with everyone else.
That reminded me of something about Pete I had suppressed due to my anger at his betrayal—he was nice. As I stood there watching him cheer, I remembered how Mama always reminded me to never underestimate the power of being nice. Pete Davenport wasn’t just nice . . . he was kind. And, now that I thought about it, I realized it was actually his most dominant trait. Forget about the looks and athleticism, the smarts, the prestige that dripped off him like sweet sweat, he was just a great guy plain and simple. I felt this in my core, the same way I felt his academy was bad. That’s why his betrayal cut me particularly deep. I also realized that he’d asked Coach Hampton for a break, in order to give me mine. He did it in a way that he hoped I wouldn’t notice. But I did notice, as I did all things Pete Davenport.
The whistle blew and both teams huddled back up for the second half. Coach Sams ended up playing me the whole time. It felt good to finally flex my athletic muscles after years of atrophy. And more than once, after a particularly swift kick or steal, Pete would shake his head and chuckle to himself like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.
The game ended with a whistle blow and groans of disappointment from the crowd. Our little soccer match seemed as fascinating to the spectators as The World Cup. The final score: 4-2 in favor of Pete Davenport. But I was pleased with my performance. Apparently, so were my team, Coach Sams, and an exuberant Miguel and Ron, who came bounding over from the football field. I found myself encircled by a small crowd of well-wishers. Ron even hoisted me up, so I was able to see Pete’s own fan club congratulating him on another victory. Ashley-Leigh was hugging on him, but his eyes searched to find mine. We grinned over at each other, two sweaty gladiators showing mutual respect for a well-fought match. An intrusive pat on my behind brought a frown to my face at the same time Pete’s grin slid from his. That was the last thing I saw before being twirled around and set back on my feet. I felt dizzy and euphoric and shy all at the same time.
As we headed back to the locker room, everyone settled back down to a more normal temperature. I was still way too sweaty to put my street clothes back on so just grabbed my gym bag and backpack and ducked out the door, heaving a sigh of relief. It had long been ingrained in me not to seek attention, so I had my fill quickly, much like when I had cotton candy at the county fair—savoring the first few bites before the beginning of a stomachache set in.
I’d just made my escape when Coach Sams came trotting over, her whistle bobbing up and down the same way my glasses used to.
“Katie!” she called, “wait up.”
“Hey, Coach Sams,” I greeted her with a wary smile.
“Katie,” she huffed with exertion, resting a hand on my shoulder, “I want to talk to you about your performance this afternoon.”
“Okay.”
“How do you think you played?”
“Um . . .” I hesitated over the adverb, years of inbred modesty causing me to remember why I’d felt guilty. I thought of Mama claiming I made a spectacle of myself when I out-performed my friends. “Well, I guess,” I answered with a shrug.
“Well? Yes, well, I’d consider that to be an understatement. I always knew you had loads of untapped potential, but really . . . I had no idea what an athlete you really are!” Her face was the kind of bright that accompanies discovering gold. “Your performance today could rival Mia Hamm on her best day!”
Uh-oh. I got a sinking feeling my temper had caused me to make an error in judgment today. “Um, thanks,” I said, “but I think that might be an overstatement—I probably just got lucky.”
“Luck has nothing to do with a performance like that.” She eyed me speculatively. “Not only did you perform like a pro, but you looked like you were sure having a lot of fun out there.”
I smiled and shrugged again, scuffing the toe of my sneaker on a piece of gravel. After an awkward pause, she finally got to the crux of why we were standing outside gym having a conversation.
“Katie, is there any way at all you could join athletics?” She saw my face freeze and quickly added, “You could certainly earn a scholarship that way.”
I shook my head sadly, my throat feeling full. “I’m sorry, Coach Sams. I really can’t. I have to take care of my brothers after school and help with the ranch.”
“Maybe I could talk to your father, work something out?”
“I’m sorry . . . it’s impossible. But thanks for thinkin’ of me.”
She sighed, clearly disappointed, but let me go. “If you change your mind, my door’s always open.”
“Thanks, Coach Sams.” I smiled over my shoulder. “I really do appreciate it.”
The wind in my sails abruptly subsided under these sunny skies. Hunch-shouldered, I wove my way through the parking lot. Life was unfair. What’s the point of being good at something you can’t do? Or falling for a guy playing for the wrong team? It all seemed senseless as a crossword puzzle in Chinese.
I slipped on my shades, averting my gaze in the opposite direction of someone calling my name, already slipping back into my bubble of solitude. But someone was able to penetrate the protective surface of my bubble.