We lock eyes for a long second, his forehead wrinkled, mouth opening and then closing, and I can almost feel the questions he’s going to ask, the rant bubbling up in his brain, before he shakes his head, rubs the back of his neck. “So here we are,” he says to the asphalt.
I nod like I understand, but I don’t. Why would Yasmín care? Why are Connie and Dad smiling fake smiles instead of unleashing serious punishment?
Yasmín tugs Connie’s arm. “Ellen has to finish her game,” she says.
My stepmom sighs. Everything about her face screams that she doesn’t want to be here, but here she is. For Yasmín. And for Yasmín, I guess, she’s not going to interrupt my tournament. “Isn’t there anywhere to sit?”
* * *
• • •
“So those were the quarterfinals,” I babble after the game ends, back to standing awkwardly with my disapproving family. “So now we move on to the semifinals.”
This is my first tournament, and I’m no expert, but it sounds pretty impressive to me. I wish Dad or Connie would look even slightly impressed. They didn’t see much of the game, focusing more on finding the bathrooms and buying food from the concession stand set up on the other end of the park.
“How many more games?” Connie doesn’t sound impressed, either.
“Until they lose,” Yasmín pipes up. “Right?”
“Right, except they let the losers of the semis play for third, so I think it’s two more games either way.” I point to the wall-sized whiteboard that contains the full schedule. “See? Next we’re on pitch two playing College Station, and then they’ll update the results of that game . . .”
Dad’s poker face doesn’t break, but he eyes the whiteboard closely. “This is all pretty elaborate, isn’t it? I mean, for . . .”
I shouldn’t mind his hesitation or the confusion in his eyes. I should be glad he’s here at all and that he hasn’t dragged me home yet. So I take a breath and ignore his almost hidden smirk.
“For a Harry Potter game?” Connie’s smirk does not hide, and Dad’s mouth twitches more firmly upward at her words.
I round on her so fast my ponytail lashes against my cheek. I know it’s unfair to blame her for saying what Dad was hinting at, but I can’t stop myself. “Not that you have any context,” I snap, “but I put a lot of time and work into quidditch, and so does everyone else here. And it’s not a game. It’s a sport.”
Dad’s eyes widen and Connie’s flash, and our volatile truce almost detonates into a full-blown public disturbance, but then Yasmín catches my eye over her shaved ice and shakes her head.
She came here to watch quidditch, to watch me, not to watch another scene.
“Sorry,” I say. “I just . . . Sorry.”
Connie huffs. Yasmín sighs. The stiff and formal peace settles back over us. Except . . .
Dad is staring at me. Or at the ground in front of me. Or . . .
“Those are cleats,” he says. “Where did you— Why are you wearing cleats?”
I swallow. “I found them,” I say. “I need them. To play.”
“Okay,” Dad says. “Of course. I didn’t know you wanted a pair. I didn’t . . . They fit?”
There are so many questions hidden in that one. “Yeah, they fit.”
He blinks fast. “Good, good. I’m sure she’d want— She’d be happy to see you getting into it. Into a sport.”
He coughs, and I stare at the sky while goose bumps crawl up my arms and threaten to release a flood of irrational tears. I don’t want to have emotions when I’m trying to be a jock!
A middle-aged woman with a burnt orange T-shirt and a fancy camera interrupts our teary moment, walking up and introducing herself as Austin’s team mom-slash-photographer. I use her friendly chattiness to cover my retreat.
Karey calls the beginning of warm-up when I reach her, and I’m happy to dive into the routine even though I’m physically and mentally exhausted. The whole team moves like the grass is knee-deep Jell-O, even our stretch counts sluggish. Karey tries to pump us up, but her “y’all”s drawl more than usual, and a tiny sigh escapes her when she says, “Whatever happens, we’ve done an awesome job this weekend, and y’all should be proud of yourselves. College Station is tough, even in the summer when I don’t live there.”
So basically it’s no surprise when we get our asses handed to us.
Dad, Yasmín, and Connie come find me after the game. Connie’s eyes stubbornly scan the field where Katy Quidditch is presumably trampling San Antonio on the way to the finals.
“Well,” Dad says, raising his hand and then hesitating and glancing at Connie before clapping my shoulder lightly. “Good effort. You were all really . . . running hard. It looks complicated.”
I don’t contain my eye roll as much as I turn it into an inspection of the cloudless blue sky.
“Is that girl okay?” he asks. I glance at Lindsay, who rolled her already sore ankle during the snitch game and now sits surrounded by first aid volunteers.
“I think so.”
“You have one more game, right?” Yasmín asks. “For third?”
Connie tugs the neck of her blouse to fan herself. I sense her restlessness, her impatience, and I feel myself rising to the unspoken challenge. But then Dad shifts, checks his watch. “Do you have to stay for it?” he asks.
I deflate. “I guess we can—”
The thwack of running footsteps interrupts our departure as Melissa crashes into me from behind in an enthusiastic hug.
“Did you see?” she asks, breath hot on my neck. “Katy lost! We’re playing them for third—we can beat them!”
I spin to see the San Antonio team celebrating. “Wait, really? I thought there was no way . . .”
“Yeah, big upset.” Melissa bounces in place. “And now Katy is exhausted and cranky, and we have a shot at redemption and sweet, sweet revenge!” She raises a fist in the air, then drops it with a giggle. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Rourke. Yasmín. Having fun?”
“Melissa,” Dad says, face and voice chilly. “I guess you had a hand in this great escape?”
Melissa shrinks a little. I don’t think she’s used to disappointing my parents.
“She had nothing to do with it,” I say quickly. “Nobody did. Well, Xiumiao did. But I asked her to do it. And Melissa didn’t even know. It was all me.” And I’m not sorry I came.