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Our game against League City (Team Viridian City for this tournament) is closer than last time, and it stresses me out. This time Aaron does manage to tie the game with a snitch grab, sending us into overtime, with a second Brooms Up lineup that’s even more hectic than the usual kind and a second chance to catch the (extremely buff) snitch. We even have a ten-point lead when the Viridian City seeker does an involuntary front flip past the snitch and emerges with a handful of snitch sock. It’s not a win, but it’s not an embarrassment.
I’d like to win a game, though. Just to see what it feels like.
“Hurry up and grab water,” Karey yells after the handshakes. “We’re scheduled almost back-to-back this time, so we start warming up in fifteen minutes!”
I empty my water bottle for the second time and follow Elizabeth to the water fountain in the student center, stopping in the doorway to enjoy the blast of cold air-conditioning. “How many games are we playing today?” Our last game went on for more than half an hour thanks to overtime. One of the pitches is getting more and more behind schedule because their snitch refuses to be caught, dragging games out longer than the average twenty minutes. Even though I’m not playing nearly as many minutes as John or Lindsay, I’m getting exhausted just thinking about too many more rounds.
Elizabeth squints hard at the water fountain. “Um, at least four? Or five? It depends on how much we win. So, you know, not that many if we don’t change our luck.”
I nod, fill up my bottle, and soak up the air-conditioning for a few more seconds before heading back into the heat of the now midday sun. I shield my eyes as we make our way to our team huddle.
“Sunscreen,” Karey reminds everyone. “If I need it, so do you. There’s extra here if you didn’t come prepared.”
John squirts white lotion into his palm and then holds the bottle out to me. “Hey, you. Need any?”
I hold out my hand. “You know I have a name, right?” I’m more amused than annoyed, but more unsettled than anything. Why do I care what John calls me? Is it just because he’s cute and we played well together? Or is Melissa getting into my head? And if he really likes me like she says, why doesn’t he just act nice?
John just shrugs and squeezes way too much sunscreen into my hand. “Shit, sorry. You can share that with Larsen.”
Great. He knows Melissa’s name.
I let Melissa scoop up half my puddle of sunscreen and then rub my face, neck, and arms while John and Karey give us a pep talk. Blah blah, we’ve been playing so well today, this team is young, we should make sure to have fun, but keep playing like we want it more than anything, but be good sports. My left calf cramps, so I touch my toes while they talk.
At least four more games to go. You can handle that, legs.
“. . . Ellen at beater and Roshni at chaser.” I glance up when Karey says my name.
“Sorry, what?”
“I want you to get practice starting.”
I bite my lip. I’ve never done a real official Brooms Up at a tournament. “Uh, sure, I guess I can do that.” I sip water to soothe my dry throat. Me starting? I’m not at all sure about this decision, but I take a deep breath and step onto the pitch. I just want to carry my weight in this game.
I get set up on the starting line with John as my partner, the only one on the field who’s a normal starter. I’m not totally sure what Karey’s thinking—Carlos is an experienced (if second-string) keeper who plays solid offense and defense, but Roshni, Jackson, Melissa, and I are all staring at each other like so many deer at a headlight convention. I kneel, sweaty hand clutching my broom, waiting for the ref to start the game.
Brooms Up is fast and disorienting. Carlos scores before I can finish losing the scuffle with a wiry dark-haired beater who laughs like he’s having the best day of his life as he snatches the ball from my hands and beats me—THWACK—straight in the face.
My eyes water as I wobble toward our side of the pitch. I slap the hoops and turn toward midfield. Face-beating beater is going down.
It doesn’t take many plays for me to realize why Karey let me start. Our team has no trouble breaking through their defense, even with both bludgers focused on keeping our chasers back. The wiry beater comes up to distract John when we’re on defense, but for all the openings he creates, his chasers never make it in to score. The pep talk makes sense now that I know how to decode it. This team is terrible, and there’s no way we’re going to lose, but don’t let that make us cocky, and don’t be assholes about it.
The only one struggling at all is me. Face-beating beater can’t carry his whole team, but he is perfectly capable of ruining my beater game.
“Come on,” John teases, recovering his bludger after another easy save. “We should have bludger control by now. Get in their faces!”
I want to say that I’ve been trying, but I use the breath to sprint past him instead, catching up with Carlos and then jogging a few feet in front of him to protect him from bludger attacks. My legs burn and my face drips and I might need to sub out soon, before I really lose my wind.
Face-beater approaches, flicks his eyes toward me, and then turns back to Carlos with an unconcerned smirk that says, This wimpy beater isn’t going to do anything to stop me. He throws his ball hard, aiming over my head at Carlos.
But instead, I throw both hands up, legs crossed around my broom, and snatch the ball out of the air.
Carlos charges past the now useless defense and scores while I dash for the safety of our hoops. I’ve never caught someone’s ball before, and the bubbling of triumph plus the fear of a revenge tackle gives me extra speed as I laugh my way back down the pitch. I look back at the opposing beaters, who both gave up chasing me around midpitch. The girl scowls and bites her lip, grinding her bludger against her hip—classic signs of “Dang it, how did you do that?” But the guy grins, and when he shakes his dark hair out of his eyes, he laughs. He even gives me a thumbs-up, looking so genuinely entertained by his mistake that I revise my previous assumption about his smirk.
So I’m feeling pretty good about myself when I sub out.
Karey and John pat me on the back, and Lindsay congratulates me. Our sidelines are full of chatter and cheers instead of the strained silence of our last game. The resulting wave of team love is so intense that when Melissa subs off the pitch and squats in the grass to drink, I take a knee beside her.
“Nice goal,” I say. Melissa flashes a thumbs-up and keeps drinking. “I like this whole ‘winning’ thing. We should try it more often.”
Melissa snorts, chokes on her water, coughs. “What an idea,” she gasps.
“So this after-party . . .” I say as the one player with any muscle on the blue team scores their first goal.