Karey groans in pleasure as she stretches her legs and steps out of the van. John rolls his shoulders and beams at me, and even Melissa smiles in my general direction. I stretch my arms over my head and try not to wish for another half hour of traffic. Just the nerves.
A lot of yawning people in cleats and headbands swarm past us, toting balls and brooms and bags of all sizes. I follow Karey to a table under a plastic awning, where a volunteer chatters into a cell phone while checking us off a registration list.
“Last name?” she asks me.
“Uh . . .” It’s too early for this. “Lopez-Rourke?”
“Huh?”
“It should be under L-O-P . . .”
“David Lopez?”
“Uh, no, it’s actually hyphenated.”
“Huh?”
“Try R-O-U-R . . .”
The girl shoves the list and pen into my hand. “Sorry, can you just . . .” She grabs the sleeve of another volunteer and pulls them into her phone conversation.
I find myself (as “Lopez, Rourke Ellen”) and check the space with a sigh. Scanning the list shows the names of my teammates and League City players, along with some names I know from Facebook only. Merrick (whose last name is not really TheGreat) from S.P.I.F. is reffing, and Nico (whose last name really does start with an “X” and is too long for me to read at a glance) is apparently here somewhere. The prospect of meeting new people amps up my nervous stomach, in a sort of good way.
Erin’s car arrives, and I join the huddle around a tree near the parking lot. I dub it Replacement Tree and drop my bag between the roots. The Katy team warms up a few yards away, and Alex stretches with his League City teammates one pitch over. I recognize some of Karey’s A&M friends and UT players from the last tournament, but there are still so many new faces.
“Okay, folks, time to get pumped,” Karey orders. “Let’s take a couple of laps and then start stretches. We play San Antonio as soon as the refs are ready. Game faces!”
Elizabeth yawns and lifts her goggles to rub her face. Erin and Aaron cross their eyes at each other. Jackson wobbles on his right foot while trying to tie the laces of his left cleat. Lindsay and John bicker about potential starting lineups. Nobody starts running.
“Y’all,” Karey sighs. “I said game faces. Come on, we’ve got to kill this first game—set the tone of the day.” Her voice turns extra Southern and extra loud. “Who’s ready to kick some ass?”
Sleepy and reluctant, we start running.
* * *
• • •
We don’t exactly kick ass. Our game against San Antonio is short and close, but we scrape a win thanks to a desperate, beautiful snitch grab by John that brings the game to an end before San Antonio has time to run up their lead. For five solid seconds as we rush the field, I actually want to kiss him.
With so many beater subs and such a short game, I didn’t even make it onto the pitch. I shake hands with the San Antonio team, relieved but restless.
“Y’all are superstars,” Karey gasps at us, sweat soaking her tank top. Chris shakes his head, definitely beating himself up for missing a couple of crucial shots. I pat his shoulder, and he leans an elbow on my head in response.
“Beaters, we’ll aim for quicker subs next time.” Karey looks pointedly at John and Lindsay, who are not great at remembering to take breaks when the score is close. “Next game is against Austin. Meet back here at eleven thirty to warm up.”
I follow Elizabeth to watch a game between League City and College Station. Someone from San Antonio passes a tube of sunscreen down the sidelines. It’s fry-an-egg-on-the-top-of-my-head hot, but I’m happy surrounded by other sweaty quidditch players, cheering for Alex as he rips a bludger out of the hands of the other team’s weak link.
“He’s my role model,” Elizabeth deadpans as Alex beats a charging keeper in the face from point-blank range.
My laugh turns into a yelp as someone pokes me, hard, in the side.
“What the hell?” I spin around and turn my best death glare on—oh. John.
“Hey, you,” he says. “You ran off before you could tell me how great I am.”
“I said you were great,” I protest, and then immediately wish I hadn’t.
John’s smile is positively smug. “Maybe I just wanted to hear it again.”
“Maybe we should be strategizing,” Elizabeth interrupts John’s preening. “Did you catch the end of the Austin/San Marcos game? I think our next game might be one of our hardest—their beaters are going to kill us if we don’t have a plan.”
John argues, because of course he does. He and Elizabeth discuss the relative strengths and weaknesses of our opponents while I shift to let the sun bake a slightly different plane of my face.
Melissa sits on the opposite side of the pitch—not that I’m looking. She pours water on her head and flicks drops at Karey to distract our captain from her intense study of the gameplay. Only a very petty person would be annoyed by Melissa’s apparent happiness. I guess I’m petty.
* * *
• • •
We have every advantage over the Austin team, in theory. They had a much shorter break between games than we did, for one, and the majority of their team lost sleep for days prepping the tournament. We even win the coin toss and get to choose the side of the field that puts us with less sun in our eyes.
And yet . . .
Austin scores on a Brooms Up fast break before our line can get on defense. Lindsay takes a tackle wrong and subs out with a sore ankle, putting everyone on edge and messing up our beater pairings. By the time I go in, we’re down thirty points.
With no ball, I’m on mosquito duty, trying to get a ball back and annoy the other team. One bright side: my cleats bite deep into the grass, planting each step secure and solid. I wonder if my mom felt like this on the soccer field.
For a few possessions I buzz around the other team’s hoops, swatting a ball here and there. Chris and Karey make some impressive passes, but they can’t bring the quaffle in close enough to score.
So the next time I approach the tall opposing beater, I drop into a crouch and tackle him.
My cleats work like magic. Instead of sliding to my knees, I stay upright through the tackle, pushing into the grass as my arm gropes toward the crook of my enemy’s elbow. I even get a hand on the bludger before the team’s second beater swoops in to take me out. As I disentangle myself, I hear Karey’s triumphant whoop and the joyful whistle blast—goal!
We pick up momentum, but the score still hovers near a tie, and the thin plastic of someone’s empty water bottle (future landfill waste) crackles as I twist it between my hands on the sideline. Next to me, Elizabeth’s lips move silently as her eyes track the snitch. I watch her because I can’t watch the pitch for more than a few seconds. Lindsay calls for a sub, and I look up just in time to see Austin’s seeker wrap her fist around the snitch and rise into the air.