CHAPTER 17: A BRO SHALT ALWAYS KEEP HIS COOL.-1

I successfully avoided Austin for the majority of the next day. That's a legitimate accomplishment, since we're in most of the same classes and he knows where I live. Neither of us could skip soccer. He cornered me in the locker room, moments before what would turn into probably the most important soccer game of my high school career. I took my cleats out of my grimy, stained duffel bag as he plunked down on the long bench behind me. Guys changed and ran around in every direction. Carter wiped off his shin guards a few lockers away and I really hoped Austin wouldn't start something between Carter and me right before the game. We needed a win for so many reasons. "My house. Eight o'clock. Tonight." "I'll be there," I said. He was giving me an ultimatum. Austin is a great friend, to both Carter and me. Either I would go to his house tonight and give him my side of the story before he told it to Carter, or I wouldn't go to his house tonight and he would tell Carter exactly what he'd seen. "Good." He plodded to the other end of the locker room to begin his pre-game routine. Ever since Coach Dad gave us a two-hour long lecture on sports psychology, every player on the team had developed his own pre-game ritual. For some guys it was nothing more than wolfing down a candy bar or putting black lines under their eyes like we were in the NFL or something. For others, it was considerably more complex. Carter, for example, had a specific motivational quote for each piece of his uniform. He was really secretive about it, and I had no idea what most of them were, but once I heard him say, "You have a choice—you can either throw in the towel, or use it to wipe the sweat off your face," which I'm pretty sure was a Gatorade ad. My routine was to drink one of those ten-ounce cartons of chocolate milk from the school cafeteria. I did that before every practice too. It helped me transition out of the school day. I knew that as soon as the carton swished into the trash can by the locker room door, it was time to play. I washed down the chocolate milk with a mouthful of water and tried to focus. If I closed my eyes and exhaled, I almost forgot about Austin. Think about soccer, think about soccer, I thought. Think about beating the crap out of Littleton. Think about playing striker. Think about shooting the ball. Think about that "swish." Hear the cheering. See Dad's face as he nods, and you jog back to the half-line. Feel the sweaty high fives. Think about soccer, Nick. Coach Dad thundered into the locker room for our pep talk. All my emotions had settled—the calm before a storm. I'd even replaced the cinnamon scent of Eliza's shampoo, stuck in my mind for hours, with the dank smell of wet grass and dirt. I was ready. And we were going to win. "Gentlemen," Coach Dad began. A few guys on the cross-country team, who still lingered in the locker room, even turned to listen. "Last year we beat Littleton 2–1," he continued. "We would have tied them if it hadn't been for O'Connor's last-minute penalty shot." A smattering of claps came. "This year, I want to score, and I want to score early." That's what she said. I wanted to catch Austin's eye. That day, I couldn't risk it. "Maguire," my dad boomed. "Today you're playing defense. Right side," he listed off some of the other changes in our formation. I didn't catch them. Defense? Is that a joke? I'd never been put on defense in a soccer game—not once in my thirteen years of playing. During practices, sure. Never for real. Scoring goals is what I did. Carter, Austin, and I were always the three starting forwards. Every. Single. Game. "Sorry," I interrupted, "did you say I'm playing defense?" "You're goddamn right I did." My dad didn't elaborate on the fact that he'd changed my position half an hour before the game. Unbelievable. My jaw clenched. Carter's forehead crinkled. Everyone was thinking it, but no one said anything: if I played defense instead of offense, we were going to lose. Ten minutes later, we warmed up on the soccer field. Carter and Austin practiced their shooting techniques, and I was tempted to join them. Instead, I stood by the bench with Kevin Light and Paul Jones, two of the other defenders, and pretended I didn't care that I had to play beside them. The school had built a sparkling bleacher section for the parents to sit on while they watched the game, but hardly anyone used it. Instead, the spectators had gathered near the sidelines and around the field's perimeter. Apparently, none of them thought the ball would ever go out of bounds. I noticed my mom, deeply involved in a conversation with Ms. O'Connor, among forty or so of my classmates. It was a decent turnout, considering it wasn't a league title or state game. Eliza was stationed with Hannah and a few of the other junior girls who had brothers or boyfriends on our team. All of them wore our school colors: maroon and gold. Eliza looked good in those colors. Go Owls. Austin's texts flooded back to me. I squatted on the dewy grass and laced up my cleats. That was part of my ritual—not to lace them up until game time. I threw my sweatshirt next to my water bottle and jogged to my new position on the right side of the penalty arc. Kevin Light, the next closest player, pounded my fist. It was time to play. Carter did the ceremonial coin flip with Ben Johnson, the captain of Littleton-West, to see which team would start with the ball. Ben had a reputation for being a dirty player; not officially, of course, since he's never been called on it. Once he checked Carter so hard that Carter had to sit out the rest of the game because his nose wouldn't stop bleeding, and the ref, who was looking directly at it when it happened, somehow didn't see it. Yeah, right. After a quick check to see who was refereeing that day, my mood dampened. What were the odds it would be the same guy? He was still hairy, short, and wearing a faded white-and-black jersey that should have been taken off his back years ago. Wonderful. I jumped, trying to stay loose. I knew Ben's moves. Jeff Karvotsky, the new, standing center-forward, didn't have a clue. "Maguire," my dad called. "You're on corner kicks." Translation: You're playing defense, and you're going to play it like your life depends on it. That was when I saw them. They wore Clarkebridge-color windbreakers—blue and white. Their clipboards hung loosely at their sides and they both chomped gum, like they'd been chewing when I'd tried out for them. They weren't the coaches but were the administrative coordinators. We'd had our tryout. Now the coaches would be conducting their due diligence to see if we really deserved the spots on their team. The team administrators go around to confirm scholarships. They stood close enough to the half-line that they could have been scouting players from either side. My fists clenched. Today was the day I was being scouted for my scholarship, and I was playing defense. Was my dad trying to screw with me? When other players whine about what position they have to play, I'm usually the one who tells them to man up and quit complaining, because there's nothing they can do or say to change the situation. Now it was time to say that to myself. Focus on the ball, Maguire. You're going to be the best defender on the field today. No excuses. "How's the nose?" Ben asked Carter. Even from the penalty line, the smirk on that little slime ball's face gleamed. "How's yours?" Carter answered. "I'd imagine everything smells terrible, considering all the asses it's been up today." Atta boy. Then the ball was in motion. Carter immediately kicked it to Jeff Karvotsky. Jeff dribbled it a few feet and fired it towards Austin before Ben could take it away. It wasn't a good enough pass. Ben intercepted it and what do you know? The spinning sphere of black and white hexagons headed towards me. Ben tore down the field while my team raced after him. He looked up while he was dribbling and sneered at me. I stood on the right side of the field, waiting for him. I knew he recognized me, because he passed the ball behind him. He knew that since I was the farthest back defender, I had to stay where I was and keep the ball from getting in my space, or risk having them take a shot. Impressive.