Playing With the Boys (25 page)

“Now’s your time, little girl,” he said, “to make up for what you did out there. You lost us five yards; then you missed the field goal. You make up for it right now!” He let go of her mask. “I want you to set the ball to the left,” he instructed. “They only have one kick returner, and we’ll force him to come down the side.” Lucy wondered if someday coaches would be saying “and we’ll force
her
to come down the side.” Probably not any time soon if she continued to screw up like she had tonight.

Coach Offredi pulled everyone into the huddle to explain their strategy. “Funnel the coverage to the left, understand?You close that gap. Lucy, all the way to the end zone. Let’s go. Hands in.”

Everyone’s hands went into the center, including Lucy’s. She didn’t even notice that Ryan was only one hand separated from her. She didn’t even care.

“Break!” they yelled simultaneously.

Lucy ran back onto the field, determined. She wanted to make it up to the team. She knew she’d screwed up.
Everyone
knew. Her dad was watching. She wanted him to see what she could do. To show him why she should be playing football. She set the tee down and placed the ball on top of it. She took a deep breath and raised her hand. The ref blew the whistle.

Lucy’s foot hit the ball squarely in the lower center of the ball, sending it just where Coach Offredi had ordered—down the left side of the field. Her teammates ran downfield toward Carter’s end zone to cover the kick as the ball hung in the air, traveling far and deep to the left and into Carter’s backfield. Carter’s returner caught it at the eighteen-yard line and looked for an opening as Beachwood tried to close any gaps on the left side. He ducked behind his blockers, who held off an aggressive Beachwood. He juked to the left, then cut back to the right, shot through a small gap between two Beachwood defenders, and sprinted down the center of the field.

Lucy, standing on the field a little bit shy of the fifty-yard line, was suddenly terrified. The Carter ball carrier careened toward her, skirting around one Beachwood defender after another, gaining yard after yard after yard. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She was the last line of defense—the only person who would be able to stop him!

A million thoughts raced through Lucy’s head. Was she supposed to actually attempt to tackle this guy? She’d never tackled anyone in her life! Forget breaking a nail—what if she broke something worse? She quickly knew she didn’t have a choice. She’d already blown the field goal. She wasn’t letting this guy into the end zone. If she was the last line of defense, she was going to defend! She raced toward him.

The Carter player cut over the sideline. Lucy took a step that way, but he cut back the other way. She followed and felt her ankle twist just seconds before she threw her body weight into him. CRUNCH! They collided and both went down, hard, at Beachwood’s own twenty-five-yard line. The crowd went wild. Her teammates rushed over. The Carter player pushed himself up. Lucy lay on the ground, motionless. She wasn’t getting up.

seventeen

Coach Offredi and the team’s trainer rushed onto the field. Lucy could hear their voices above her but couldn’t open her eyes.

“Lucy!” Coach Offredi called out. “Lucy, can you hear me?”

Lucy wanted to tell him that she could, but getting the words out felt impossible, as if her mouth were cemented shut.

But suddenly, she heard another voice.

“Kid,” a panicked voice cried. “Kid, come back to us.” Lucy would have known that voice anywhere. It was her dad’s.

She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t move.

It felt like two bricks were sitting on her eyelids. It took all the strength she could muster to open her eyes. She pressed them open. Her dad came fuzzily into view.

“Dad?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” she assured him.

Her vision was blurry, but still, she could make out the look of relief on her dad’s face.

“Can you stand?” Coach Offredi asked. Lucy nodded weakly. The coaches started to help her up until Lucy let out a cry of pain.

“My ankle,” she gasped. “It’s my ankle.”

“Can you put any weight on it?” Coach Offredi asked.

Lucy shook her head. She didn’t think so. In an instant, Coach Offredi scooped her up in his arms.

As he carried Lucy off the field to wild applause, Lucy didn’t know which was more shocking: the fact that she had tackled someone, or the fact that Coach Offredi was protectively holding her in his arms.

The next hour was a blur to Lucy, as trainers checked her ankle, then sent her to the hospital for x-rays, her dad by her side all the while. And it wasn’t until after the x-rays came back and the doctor explained that Lucy’s ankle wasn’t broken, it was just a severe sprain, and that she had a slight concussion, that she and her dad finally spoke.

They were in the car, heading home. Lucy’s crutches were crammed awkwardly in the passenger seat with her, and she was still wearing her football uniform.

“Lucy,” he said slowly.

This was it, she thought. Now it was coming. The lecture. But instead he said . . .

“There was nothing we could have done. She wasn’t living any more with tubes coming out of her and a machine breathing for her—she wouldn’t have wanted to live like that. That’s not a life, kid.”

Lucy inhaled quickly, caught off guard. That hadn’t been what she was expecting her dad to say. She looked down at her hands. He waited a long time . . . until she finally said something.

“It’s just . . . you didn’t ask,” Lucy said softly. “You just
decided
. Like I had no say. What would you have done if I’d said no? If I’d said I didn’t want you to shut down everything?”

Her dad thought for a moment.“I don’t know,” he said, at a loss. “Maybe that’s why I didn’t ask.”

Lucy took in this admission. It made sense. He didn’t give her a choice because he didn’t want her to have one. She looked down at her ankle and thought about her mom.
What would her mom have told her to do in this situation?
The words came to her.

“Then ask me now,” Lucy said, determined. “Ask me what I want.”

Her dad sighed. He touched his hand to his forehead and rubbed it, as if his head hurt. “What do you want?”

“To play football,” she answered, quickly. “That’s what I want.”

He looked at her. “You’re on crutches, kid. Your ankle—”

“Will heal,” she interrupted. “And then I can play.”

They pulled into the driveway. He turned off the ignition. “No, you can’t,” he responded sternly.

“Dad, just listen,” she begged. “Being out there? On that field? I feel like I can do anything. I feel strong and brave and tough . . . and it’s pretty much the only place I feel that way. I need that. And I don’t want to give it up.”

“You can talk to the coach tomorrow,” he said.

“About what?” she asked, confused at what he was implying.

“You’re going to tell him you’re sorry, but you’re quitting the team.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Luce. I’m not going to sit on the sidelines and watch you get hurt. I lost your mother and I’m not going to lose you too.” He tried to put a hand on her shoulder but she just wiggled away. “Can I help you get out of the car?”

In a swift, angry motion, Lucy grabbed her crutches, not caring what they banged into. “No,” she snapped. “I don’t need your help. I’ll do it myself.”

And with that, she clumsily made her way into the house.

 
So it was official. Everything had changed. Now that she was injured and forbidden by her dad for the
second
time to play football, Lucy could describe tenth grade in two ways: B.T. and A.T. Before the tackle and after the tackle. Because the tackle changed everythin
g
.

Well, okay, maybe not
everything
. Regan and Kendall were still monumental witches to the one hundredth degree. Pickle, Max, and Charlie still didn’t speak to her at all. Ryan was still friendly despite knowing she had a huge crush on him. And her dad was still crazily overprotective. So the only thing that had really changed was her relationship with Benji. But the change had been significant.

First, Benji had been named Beachwood’s new first-string placekicker. Lucy hadn’t been there for the announcement, obviously, but she’d heard it through the proverbial grapevine. She could only imagine how happy Benji’s father was that Lucy was off the team. She and Benji hadn’t actually spoken until he approached her the Tuesday A.T.

“Does it hurt?” Benji asked. She’d been sitting out in gym class, watching everyone play touch football, of all things, while she lamely did sit-ups on the grass.

Lucy stopped at forty-two sit-ups. “Yeah,” she gasped, out of breath. “My abs kill.”

“I meant your ankle,” he admitted.

Lucy looked at the crutches strewn beside her. “Oh, right.” She smiled. “Not too bad. That’s what Vicodin is for.” Benji took a seat on the ground next to her . . .

... and from that moment on, he barely left her side. He sat with her at lunch. He helped her with her books, since she was on crutches. He even took her to the movies and made sure no one sat in front of them so that she could elevate her leg. Truthfully, it was the best time she’d had in Los Angeles, except for maybe those Hell Week van rides with the soccer girls. Some nights they stayed on the phone until two in the morning. Her dad even let Benji hang out in the bedroom, confident that nothing would happen between them.

“Who’s this?” Benji asked one day, looking at the pictures taped to her wall.

“Oh, that’s Annie,” she replied. “My best friend from home.”

“This isn’t home yet?” Benji asked.

Lucy shrugged. “Not really.” But she couldn’t deny that the more time she spent with Benji, the more it started to feel home-ish. She loved having him to hang out with—but she couldn’t ignore the simple fact that if she were still on the team, Benji wouldn’t be giving her the time of day either. It made her sad to think that they were only friends now that he’d been given her position.

“So you’re not upset?” he asked, as they downloaded songs off iTunes. “That I’m placekicker?”

“Upset?” Lucy asked, incredulously, as if the very thought were preposterous. “Why would I be upset? You deserve to be placekicker—especially after how hard you’ve worked. Your dad must be happy.”

“Yeah, he is,” Benji said. And as he went on to explain the moment that Coach Offredi told him, Lucy had to admit to herself that maybe she was a
little
upset. But it wasn’t about his kicking—it was about their friendship. She didn’t want it to be based on who was taking the field for a stupid extra point! Not that she planned to tell him that . . . and risk pissing off the one friend she had left!

“Seriously, Benj,” she said sincerely. “I’m happy for you. You really worked hard for this.” It was true. Benji often stayed after practice to work one-on-one with the assistant kicking coach, trying to develop his aim and accuracy. He hadn’t become better overnight. Little by little, he became better every day. Maybe he wasn’t as good as she was, but still, he was clearly better than he had been.

“So you’ll come?” Benji asked. “To my first game?”

Lucy forced a smile and clicked on a new Killers song. “Of course! I wouldn’t miss it. Even if I have to sit in the lame bleachers ...” And the bleachers were exactly where Lucy sat—for two Friday nights in a row.

Finally, on the third Friday, Lucy received good news at her weekly checkup. The physical therapy she’d been doing had paid off. She could ditch her crutches at last. Her specialist, Dr. Cane, was impressed with her fast recovery.

“You’re still icing?” he asked as he wrapped her ankle with an Ace bandage.

“Three times a day,” Lucy said. “It’s really working, huh?” She stood up and put full weight on her foot.

Dr. Cane examined her stance. “Any pain?”

Lucy shook her head no. It probably helped that her ankle was tightly wrapped but she actually felt great. “It’s good,” she assured him.

“So—when’s homecoming?” he asked.

Lucy was caught off guard by the question. “Um . . .” She paused, trying to think. “Next week. The game’s on Friday and the dance is on Saturday.”

“My son went to Beachwood,” Dr. Cane explained. “My wife and I still go to watch them kick Oakwood’s butts.” Oakwood was one of Beachwood’s biggest rivals. Maybe the fact that their names were similar made them more competitive. “Well, if you keep up the PT, Lucy, you may be able to kick by then.”