Dad raises his eyebrows while Connie hisses a long breath. “Okay then. Sorry for jumping to conclusions.”
Melissa shakes her head. “No, you’re right; I definitely would have gone along with it if I’d known,” she says. “Sometimes drastic rules call for drastic measures.” She holds both Dad’s and Connie’s scandalized gazes. “Brooms Up in a few minutes,” she tells me, giving my shoulder a squeeze.
Dad turns to Connie, then to me, but I don’t give him a chance to say we’re leaving. “I want to finish the tournament with my team.” The words come out breathy and rushed, but at least they come out. “I know I broke the grounding deal, and I get that there will be consequences, but this is important to me.”
Connie rolls her eyes up to the sky but stays quiet. Dad stares hard at me, head tilted, and then nods.
“Dude,” Melissa whispers as we scamper back to our team. “I’ve never seen your dad look scary before.”
“I know, and why is Connie so quiet? I just want her to scream at me already.”
“Maybe your new punishment is going to be psychological torture,” she speculates as we reach the tree.
“Psychologically torturing who?” Karey asks, pausing her conversation with Lindsay when we plop down in the vague half circle of people and bags.
“Ellen’s parents came to get her, since she technically snuck out to come here,” Melissa says, shrugging when I shoot her a What the hell? look. “What? You already got caught.”
Karey blinks, looks from me to my family and back. She points an accusing finger first at me, then at Melissa.
“Someone should’ve told me that,” she says darkly. Then she turns to Lindsay. “So you were saying that you might want to captain next year, please? Handling the hijinks of all of these hooligans is stressing me out.”
I stick out my tongue while Aaron and Erin groan and Chris glances at Melissa and then quickly away, but Melissa shoots Karey a raised-eyebrow smirk. The captain hasn’t exactly steered clear of drama herself.
“You’re staying for the game, though?” Karey asks me, and when I nod she relaxes. “Good. I’m worried about beaters.”
“Seriously,” Lindsay tries to protest, “I can play.”
“You can sit down and follow the medic’s instructions,” Karey scolds.
“We can always send in chasers as beaters,” Elizabeth suggests, “just so we can catch our breath.”
Chris raises his hand, but Carlos drags it down. “You’re my sub,” he protests.
“I volunteer as tribute,” Jackson pipes up. “I’m not much use for anything else anyway.”
“Not with that attitude.” Lindsay holds out a hand for Jackson to hoist her up, then hobbles with one hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get some warm-up drills going, then, so we can see what we’re working with.”
“I have some tiger balm in my bag if you want it,” Jackson offers as they make their way slowly to the pitch.
We start throwing balls at each other while Lindsay works with Jackson (“I can’t throw a ball at an injured girl!” he protests as she beans him in the side with her bludger). After about five minutes she calls us into a strategy circle.
“You two”—she waves a hand at Erin and Aaron—“can I count on you to start together?”
They make eye contact for maybe the first time all day. Erin shrugs, Aaron pulls a couple of faces, and then they turn back to Lindsay and nod.
“Good. Sub as soon as you need a rest. Jackson, stay back and stick to close-range beats. Ellen and Elizabeth, y’all can play up or back depending on your partner, yeah? Sound good?” We all nod. Elizabeth tightens her goggles and glares at the Katy team. On the pitch, the head ref gathers her assistants and calls for team captains.
“Ellen”—Lindsay reaches for my elbow—“give me a hand back?” She points at the pile of bags, and I help her hobble toward it. “I’m counting on you this game,” she tells me as we walk. “You got this.”
I shrug as best I can with her arm on my shoulder.
“You do,” she insists. “With John and me gone, Katy’s going to expect an easy beater game. They’re going to underestimate you because . . . you know.”
“Because I’m small and lack muscles,” I laugh.
“Because they don’t know you,” Lindsay corrects me. “You are a total badass who will never let a ball go without a fight. Who shuts down ridiculous boys with poise and who—apparently—runs away from home to play quidditch. You’re tough.”
I stare at the ground, not sure what to do with Lindsay’s words. “Thanks.”
Tough. Badass. I don’t know how accurate it is, but it’s better than “nice” and “quiet.” And even if it feels like a gift right now, maybe it’s something to work on, to live up to.
“Perfect,” Lindsay says as I drop her back down against the tree. “Melissa’s rumor says you might not get to come to practice after this, but it’s been great playing with you. Hope to do it more next summer. You’re cool, Ellen.”
I turn several shades of red and manage to mutter, “You too.” I clear my throat. “I, uh . . . I’m really glad I got to, um, meet and play with—and you’re, like, my beater role model, so . . .”
“Okay, okay, get out there before Brooms Up.” Lindsay shoos me back to the pitch with a smile.
“Yeah. Yep. Hope your ankle feels better.” I jog toward Karey.
“Kick ass,” Lindsay calls behind me. “If we’re going to win, we have to stay on top of the beater game.”
* * *
• • •
We do stay mostly on top of the beater game, at least for the first two minutes; it’s the chaser game where we start to fall 30–10. Aaron and Erin sub out for me and Jackson, who gives me a wide-eyed nod and whispers, “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”
“Just . . .” I shrug. I barely know how to move around the pitch strategically, and I’ve had months of practice. “Maybe stay by the hoops. Don’t let them score.” It’s a bare-bones plan, but it’s the best we have, and I want to make it work. I take a deep breath, and Jackson takes one along with me. I want to win.
With Jackson playing close defense, I move up the field to play more offensively, painting a nice target on my back for the opposing beaters. I’m so busy fighting with them, losing and regaining bludger possession and trying to make it easier for my chasers to score, that it takes me a minute to realize that Katy isn’t scoring. That they haven’t scored, in fact, since I left Jackson in front on the hoops. Where he still stands—I discover as I spin around—his feet planted and throwing arm cocked with the wicked grin of someone who knows just how intimidating he looks.