“Hey, good job out there, everyone,” Karey says. Next to me, John snorts, and Karey shoots him a glance of pure annoyance before she continues in her calm team captain voice. “I know the score didn’t turn out the way we were hoping, but I saw good things out there, from all of you. We could definitely stand to be more aggressive, as I’m sure you noticed. Fight harder, push more, get in their faces.”
“And you need to learn how to tackle,” John whispers in my ear. I stiffen and scowl before he adds, “Though you proved you could take a hit like a pro.”
Jackass. I smile.
“For those of you who played your first game,” Karey continues, “congratulations. It can be overwhelming compared to practices and scrimmages, but please know that the more you play the more this will all become normal. You’ve got so much potential, and I can’t wait to see how much we can improve.”
She smiles around the circle, and in spite of my aching right shoulder, I feel something like acceptance creeping up through my chest. Melissa stands up a little straighter.
“Hey, Houston!” The League City captain, a tall Black boy with braids, waves from the middle of his team huddle and approaches us. “Are y’all hungry? We usually grab sandwiches after practice.”
Karey shrugs, clapping him on the shoulder as she looks around the circle. “I could eat. Drivers? It’s really your call. Is anybody rushing back to anything?”
Nobody is. I didn’t know how long the game would last, so I’m not worried about Connie thinking I’m late, but I text that I’ll be another couple of hours just in case. We all caravan the few blocks to the restaurant, a sandwich shop owned by two old ladies who know the League City team by name and are extremely excited to meet the rest of us even though they can’t remember how to pronounce quidditch. I order an avocado sandwich, pleased that I have an option besides peanut butter. We sit to intentionally mix Houston people and League City people, so I end up at a table with Elizabeth, John, two League City chasers, and the short beater boy who tackled me.
“I’m Alex,” he says, flashing a gap-toothed smile, “and you’re alive, thankfully.”
“Ellen.”
Alex ignores my outstretched arm and reaches across the table to hug me, doing the hovering cheek kiss Connie’s sisters always do when they see me. I’m not a huge fan of hugs, but I do like this type. I might stumble over Spanish, and I don’t know any of the singers Elizabeth’s been showing me, and I chose the diet favored by self-righteous white hipsters, but I can return Alex’s cheek kiss and feel, for a second, that I’m not failing any identity tests. “Sorry,” he says, “I’m Colombian, Filipino, and gay; my people don’t do handshakes. Good to meet y’all.” He hugs John, too, but lets Elizabeth stop him when he reaches for her (“Not into physical contact off-pitch”) and offers a high five instead.
The restaurant settles into a brief silence as hungry quidditch players stuff sandwiches into their mouths. My sandwich has spicy mustard and peppers and some kind of spiky green lettuce, and it is delicious. At the table next to us, Melissa chomps down on a BLT and grins at me from between Karey and the League City keeper. Across the restaurant, Chris seems to be moping again. If he’s not careful, his face is going to stick like that.
When our hunger dwindles, talk turns to the game and, inevitably, to my tackle.
“You’re just so tiny!” Alex exclaims between the final bites of his tuna melt. “Are you sure you’re all right? You went down hard.”
I grimace and rub my shoulder. I can’t wait to play “find the bruises” in the shower tonight.
“She’s fine,” John pipes up. “This kid is tough.”
This kid didn’t need you to speak for her, I think, but I just shrug.
“How long have you been playing, though?” Alex asks me. “You’re going to be, like, super dangerous with a little practice, I can tell. You were basically growling at me on the pitch.”
I don’t remember growling, but I laugh and apologize anyway. I guess I might have growled, a little. I felt like growling. “She definitely growled at me during practice last week,” Elizabeth says, face impassive but eyes twinkling behind her (much-less-intimidating-than-the-sports-goggles) normal glasses. “When you’re our size, attitude is all you have, and Ellen’s definitely got it. I was afraid she was going to bite.”
“That’s also how she handles boys,” Melissa, apparently eavesdropping, calls out.
“By biting them?” John asks, raising an eyebrow at me. I bury my face in my Dr Pepper until my blush fades while the whole table has a good laugh at what an (apparently) uncontrollable beast I am. I don’t mind the teasing. If anything, I’m proud that Elizabeth thinks I’m capable of violence. It feels like a sign of our growing friendship.
“Well”—John shrugs—“growling and yelling don’t really mean anything if you can’t back it up with plays. We need people who can get physical and hold on to a bludger. No offense, but the last thing any team needs is another mediocre beater girl.”
“Wow, be more of a dick, please.” Elizabeth glowers. One of the League City chasers, who hasn’t said more than two words since we sat down, glances at the ceiling and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with her middle finger. John shrugs, huffs, and then gathers all the dirty napkins from the table and piles them on his tray before retreating to the trash can.
“Don’t worry about him,” Alex says, reaching to pat my arm. “Every team has one overcompetitive asshole beater who hits too hard and prefers victory to friends.”
I smile. Sounds like an accurate description. “Who’s your team’s asshole beater, then?”
“Oh, it’s me, obviously. Why do you think I tackled you in the first place? You looked like the weak link, and I play to win.”
Alex’s smile shows off all his teeth, and I have to remind myself that I am dangerous, too, damn it, and stop myself from leaning away.
“But”—his smile turns genuine—“off-pitch and all, I’m super glad you’re okay! Just work on being a little less squishy.” He pokes my (sore) shoulder, gathers his tray, and follows John to the trash can, joining the group of finished players lingering around the exit.
Melissa lets me have shotgun on the ride home, even though Chris whines about it being his turn. Karey talks about all the great potential she saw and how she wants us new players to know just how important we are to the team.
I don’t fall for it. The team doesn’t need mediocre players, and right now I’m the weak link. Fine. Then I’ll learn not to be mediocre.
“You’re good, right?” Karey asks when we all get out of the car to hug in front of her house. Quidditch players (or quidkids, a term I learned today) really like to hug. “You had fun? It seemed like people were giving you a hard time . . . John’s not getting to you, is he? That boy is a treasure when it comes to running drills, but I’ll talk to him if he’s being too harsh to the newbies.”