The Bro Code

by Elizabeth A. Seibert

  “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable either,” she said. “I like when you surprise me and kiss me without asking.”

  Our bodies were dangerously close together, and she placed her fingers on my naked chest, one by one. We’d been this close before, but now it was skin against skin.

  I kissed her nose, then dove underneath her, surfacing with her legs around my shoulders. I grabbed her ankles, water streaming down my cheeks as she shook my hair.

  Her laughs echoed across the pool. My cheeks hurt from grinning like an idiot. The eerily fluorescent lights shone down on us. It was the least romantic backdrop ever, but also perfect.

  All of that I knew.

  And if I’d taken the time to look around me, instead of being completely distracted by the pressure of Eliza on my shoulders, I would have seen the person standing at the pool’s entrance, looking through its glass windows. Watching us.

  RULE NUMBER 16

  A bro shalt always check his phone.

  We played in the pool for a long time.

  “Gotta get you home,” I said, eventually, “before Carter kicks my ass.”

  “I’d definitely be worried if I were you.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  My triceps ached as I climbed out of the pool, and even more as I pulled on my sweaty T-shirt.

  “Aw,” said Eliza, “I was enjoying the view.”

  “Guess we’ll have to do this again sometime.”

  After a quick detour to my locker for my spare sweatpants, I met her outside the girls’ changing room. It was almost seven, and we were already enveloped by the setting sky and shifting seasons. A few cars were left in the parking lot, but Carter’s minivan was long gone. Eliza curled into my passenger seat and crossed her legs, bobbing as we drove over manholes and little rocks. One Direction blasted on the radio.

  “You’re wrong,” she said, “they’re seriously good. It sucked when they broke up; they were on track to be the next Beatles.”

  “You did not say that. ‘What Makes You Beautiful?’ A song about five different guys creeping on one girl? You don’t have a problem with that?”

  “See? You’ve listened to them, Nick Maguire. Don’t deny it.”

  “Last time I checked, Eliza, I don’t live under a rock. You know, like with bugs and without any news.” The car slowed as we reached the bottom of her street.

  “That’s good. I’m sorry, I don’t think I could date someone whose roommates are fire ants.”

  “What do you have against fire ants? They’re trying to provide for their families.”

  “They attack and eat dead worms. That freaks me out.”

  “Well that’s rude.”

  “Hang on,” she said, “you didn’t correct me.”

  “About the friendships of underground species?” I tried to act casual.

  “No.” The scent of chlorine dripped off her as she scooched closer. “About the ‘d word.’ Isn’t it coded in your DNA to correct girls about that?”

  “Um, do you know what’s going on with Carter and Hannah?” I asked.

  “I take it he gave you the ‘I’m not going to date Hannah because that would mean it’s okay for . . .” she paused, “‘other stuff to happen’ talk?”

  “Yup.”

  “Fantastic.” She drummed her seat with her fingers. “I told him it wasn’t his job to butt in on who I go out with. Like Josh. He didn’t want me to go out with him and I did anyway. I don’t have to listen to Carter. That little conversation isn’t going to change my mind about you, Nick. Maybe for you, though, what Carter said hits a little different.”

  That little conversation isn’t going to change my mind about you, Nick. I’d barely heard what she’d said after that.

  “Wish we’d had this conversation before I totally wrecked our picnic last week.”

  “We were a little busy.”

  Her hand twisted in mine, shocking me with its smallness. A squeeze from her was all I needed.

  “How to tell Carter, though . . .” I mused.

  “Do we have to?”

  We both knew we did.

  With a tender clatter, my Mustang crawled up her driveway. The kitchen light was on and Ms. O’Connor’s car was in the driveway. The vehicle the siblings shared was not.

  “Interesting,” said Eliza. “Carter’s spending an awfully long time at Hannah’s house.”

  Her red cheeks drew me in, but it was her whip-smart observations that kept me diligently staring at the soaking wet beauty beside me.

  We both knew, deep down, that Carter was going to lose it. Then her pruned palm covered mine, making my heart thump so loudly in my ears that it drowned out everything else. And that was that. I was sold.

  “You’re cute, Nick.”

  I’d never been described as “cute” before. I had to wrack my brain for everything I’d filed away about the Girl Code. Was “cute” good?

  “You know that thing you do with your eyebrow is incredibly sexy.”

  Sexy, on the other hand, I knew.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “What about this?” I lifted her knees and slid to the passenger side, climbing underneath her so she was now on my lap, her back to the passenger door.

  “Risky,” she said. Our knees crashed together. She glanced over her shoulder at the dark house behind us.

  “You love it.”

  “Yeah.” Her breath felt cool against my cheek, like a raindrop in May. “If you combine sweat and pool water and basically shove that smell down my nose, you know, that really does it for me.” Her arms laced around my neck. “Goodnight, Nick.”

  “Night, Eliza.”

  She rested her head on my shoulder and kept her legs draped over mine for a moment longer. Not long enough.

  After Eliza vanished into her house, I sat still, trying to catch my breath. I couldn’t tell whether it was Eliza or the thrill of sneaking around that made me feel so much joy, but I wouldn’t know while everything inside me raced.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket, coming back into reality. I had six text messages.

  Two were from Carter:

  Carter 5:30 p.m.: Thx for driving Eliza. Leaving for tutoring now, not sure if I’ll be there when you get back.

  Carter 6:30 p.m.: Still at tutoring, won’t be home.

  And then four messages from Austin:

  Austin 5:34 p.m.: Carter + Hannah . . . amirite?

  Austin 6:00 p.m.: You still at the school? Think I left the history textbook behind, if you see it lmk.

  Austin 6:20 p.m.: WYA? No one’s in the pool rn, if ur still here want to do some c-balls? Gonna go change, be back in 10.

  And then I read my last message from him.

  Austin 6:29 p.m.: dude. You and LOC? We need to talk.

  I punched the steering wheel. My phone fell, banging on the dashboard.

  Shit.

  RULE NUMBER 17

  A bro shalt always keep his cool.

  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.

  When Ben’s team caught up to him and passed it back, he made it all the way to the goal before we pressured him to pass to the winded kid heaving next to him.

  Way to use your team, Ben.

  Coach Dad would have benched any of us if we’d gone as long as Ben had without passing. Kevin and Paul descended on Ben and his teammate like flies at a picnic and I dropped into the space behind them. The gassed kid from L-W faked right to Ben, awkwardly attempting a shot instead. Our goalie, Mike Dawson, scooped it up and threw it to me. Mike was under a lot of pressure from the L-W kid
guarding him. His throw fell short. Ben tried to catch it with his knee.

  “Oh hey, Maguire,” Ben sneered. He tried fancy soccer moves to keep me from getting the ball. “Almost didn’t recognize you all the way back here.”

  Like I could do it in my sleep, I stole the ball from right under his foot and kicked it hard up the field, all the way up to Austin, who easily trapped it and passed it back to Carter.

  “How about now?” I shot back. Ben flipped me off and jogged back up to the half-line.

  “Prick,” he muttered.

  I stayed by my team’s goal. Carter worked the ball up the field. He was doing some highly technical footwork, and I couldn’t help but notice Austin gave him the ball every chance he got.

  Keep on playing defense. This isn’t about Carter. Except that maybe, it was.

  Carter sprinted into shooting range and aimed. The ball sailed through the goalie’s fingertips to land squarely inside the net. Carter jumped and crashed into Austin’s side. They slapped each other’s butts. The crowd erupted. Scoring against L-W ten minutes into the game was a big deal.

  The scouts nodded to each other and scribbled on their clipboards. My blood went cold. They weren’t there to watch me. They weren’t even there to watch Ben. They were there to watch Carter. Carter, who didn’t even need a scholarship.

  When Carter came to high five me, I almost didn’t take it. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Way to work, man.” My cheeks stung from grinding my teeth so hard.

  Carter grinned and we jogged back to our positions. It was impossible to be mad at him. Carter O’Connor was my best friend, and he wasn’t doing anything wrong. The same could not be said for me. I couldn’t think screw you, Carter, without feeling guilty.

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up—someone was watching me. I turned and found the Clarkebridge scouts staring back. Think about soccer, think about soccer.

  Even if they were there to watch Carter, I would give them something exciting to see. I had to. In the next thirty minutes, L-W scored twice, and by halftime the score was 2–1, Littleton-West. I’d touched the ball three times, and in each I’d successfully taken it away from Ben. That was all I could do.