“Yeah, he pulled a Lucy on you,” Charlie said dryly. “I’m cringing at the irony.” Martie walked over. Max bounded up beside her, joining them.
“Lucy, you look awesome out there,” Max encouraged.
“You really do,” Carla agreed. “So stick with it! You’ve got this!”
Martie put an arm around Lucy. “You’re the best kicker out there. Now finish this, hon.”
Lucy’s heart swelled. That was what her mom had always called her. Hon.
“Okay,” she said, determined. “I’m ready.”
Wordlessly, she jogged back onto the field, ready to kick again. Coach Offredi’s posture deflated. There was no way anyone was stopping her now.
“Come on, Luce,” the girls yelled. “Do it!”
Devon set up the ball again. Lucy shot him a dirty look. If he moved the ball again, she planned to conveniently kick him in the head . . . or somewhere worse.
Another deep breath.
Benji stood up to get a better look.
The cheerleaders crowded in. It was so quiet that Lucy imagined even traffic on the road behind her stopped for a minute. She popped forward, and this time, her foot hit the center of the football perfectly. It sailed up . . . up . . . a perfect end-over-end . . . five . . . ten . . . fifteen yards. It was right on target, heading for the metal posts . . . twenty yards . . . and it took a turn toward the left post. . . .
“No,” Lucy whispered. As if it could hear her plea, the ball sailed through, just grazing the post, but still—good!
From the sidelines, the cheerleaders exploded! She’d done it! Lucy had done it. She’d kicked a forty-yard field goal! Farther than any other guy on the team.
Coach Offredi turned his back, upset, and looked down at the ground. He appeared momentarily distracted by a patch of dirt.
Lucy ignored his not-so-subtle reaction and proceeded to kick two more times. She made them both! She couldn’t wipe the smile off her face as she grinned from ear to ear.
Coach Offredi shook his head. “That’ll be it,” he muttered. “Hit the showers.”
Lucy looked at him, surprised. That was it. No “good job” or “awesome kick” or “you made the team.” Just “hit the showers.”
Devon looked at him, panicked. “Well, who’s supposed to show up to kick at practice tomorrow? We’ve got a game on Friday—”
“I’ll make a decision when I decide,” Coach Offredi barked. “Now hit the showers.”
Devon slunk off, clearly worried. The other guys followed. Lucy walked to the bench to grab her athletic bag and book bag.
“Hey,” a boy’s voice called. Lucy turned. It was Ryan. “Nice job out there. I didn’t know a girl could kick like that.”
Lucy shrugged. “Lots of girls can—it’s just no one ever asks them.”
Ryan nodded. “Good point. And, you know, good luck.” He turned and jogged to catch up with the other guys. Lucy watched him go, a broad smile spreading across her face. Then she hurried to join the girls on the sidelines.
They grabbed her and without a word of explanation ushered her into Charlie’s car.
“Where are we going?” Lucy asked, laughing.
“To celebrate,” Pickle informed her as she pulled the car door shut and cranked the radio.
“But I haven’t even made the team yet,” Lucy pointed out.
Charlie peeled out of the school driveway. “Oh, don’t worry. You will.”
Thirty minutes later, Lucy was suffering from a full-out sugar coma.The girls had taken her to Ben & Jerry’s, where, between the five of them—Lucy, Pickle, Max, Charlie, and Carla—they had scarfed down an entire Vermonster.
“A what?” Lucy had asked when Pickle ordered.
“A Vermonster,” Pickle explained. It was a tub of thirty-two flavors of ice cream, bananas, hot fudge, caramel, whipped cream, nuts, and all the toppings. Lucy seriously doubted she’d be eating dinner tonight.
Max collapsed back into her chair and rubbed her belly. “I look pregnant,” she lamented. “At least, like, six months.”
Pickle stuck out her belly. “I look nine months pregnant!”
“I just feel sick,” Charlie groaned. “I could seriously puke.”
Lucy’s eyes widened. “Oh God, really?” she gasped. Some people were scared of spiders or drowning—she was scared of throwing up. It didn’t matter whether she was the one doing it or whether someone else was the culprit; the whole idea of it terrified her.
“Someone’s going to need to roll me out of here,” Carla said. “Thank God we don’t have practice tomorrow.”
Pickle nudged Lucy in the side. “But you might.”
Lucy smiled. She’d momentarily forgotten about football tryouts but suddenly, football was back at the forefront of her mind.
If she did have practice tomorrow, she’d be ready for it.
Yeah, she thought with a private smile. Bring it on.
That night, as Lucy boiled the hot water for another dinner of mac and cheese, the phone rang. She wasn’t the least bit hungry, but she couldn’t exactly tell her dad she’d pigged out on thirty-two scoops of ice cream before dinner.
“Probably one of your friends,” her dad said, not looking up from the work he was doing at the dining room table.
“My friends call my cell,” she reminded him as she hurriedly dumped the macaroni into the pot and grabbed the cordless off the wall. And by friends, she meant Annie. Although since the girls from the soccer team had cheered for her at tryouts and taken her out for ice cream, Lucy couldn’t help but think she might have a few more incoming calls than usual. All the girls had programmed her cell number into their phones at Ben & Jerry’s.
“Hello?” she said into the phone, as she headed back over to the stove to stir the noodles and add a little salt, just the way her mom had taught her.
Coach Offredi was on the other end of the line. “Ms. Malone?”
Ms. Malone? That was her mom. Or, as her mom would say, that was her grandma.
“This is Lucy,” she responded nervously. She wasn’t sure if Coach Offredi calling her at home was a good sign or bad one.
“I just wanted to tell you . . .” He took a long pause, as if the words were hard to get out. “You . . . uh . . . yeah, you made the team.”
“I did?” she gasped.
“Mm-hmmm,” he responded, his voice tight. “You’ll be our first-string placekicker this year. Congratulations.”
Lucy was so surprised she dropped the wooden spoon directly into the pot. Quickly, she grabbed tongs to fish it out.
“I . . . really?” she stammered, in complete disbelief.
Her dad looked up from his work. “Is that Coach Reese?” he asked. Since Hell Week, Martie’s name had become a fixture around the house.
Lucy shook her head no and turned her back toward her dad for privacy. She listened as Coach Offredi told her to be there tomorrow before school for weights. Weights? Lucy had never lifted anything heavier than three-pounders.
“Okay.” She gulped. “I will.” She paused, feeling obligated to say something nice. “Um . . . thanks.” Coach Offredi muttered something on the other end.
Lucy cringed as she hung up the phone. It was obvious the guy hated her. She turned the water down to a low simmer and placed the metal lid on the pot.
Her dad looked at her expectantly.
“Well?” He waited.
Lucy smiled and gave a cute shrug. “I, um . . . I made the team.”
Her dad beamed. “Luce, that’s great! I knew Coach Reese would come to her senses.”
“Not the soccer team, Dad,” she explained. “The football team. The boys’ football team. Can you believe it?”
It took a minute for her father to process this information. “Wait—you tried out for football?” he asked, unable to wrap his head around the concept. “When?”
“Today, after school,” Lucy admitted. She hadn’t told him because she hadn’t definitely planned on trying out.
But from the look of bet
rayal on his face, it was obvious this had been a mistake.
“How could you have kept this from me?” he asked, clearly upset.
Lucy recoiled, surprised at his reaction. “It’s just football, Dad. It’s not like I have a crystal meth addiction or an illegitimate child or something.”
Her dad gave her a look that quickly shut her up. The timer on the oven went off. Lucy turned the burner off and searched in the drawers for pot holders. She was still learning where everything was.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” she said, as she slipped the pot holder mittens over each hand and grabbed the handles on either side of the pot, dumping the water and noodles into a colander in the sink. She loved the feeling of the steam hitting her face. It was like getting a facial—not that she’d ever actually had one before.
“We’ll eat after you call the coach back,” he responded firmly.
Lucy gave him a funny look. “Call back? Why? I’m gonna see him tomorrow. . . .”
Her dad folded his arms across his chest. “No, you’re not . . . because you’re not playing.”
Lucy sighed. Not this again. What was with all this forbidding and arguing? Her dad had never been like this back home. First Ryan’s party, now this . . .
“Don’t tell me,” Lucy replied, exasperated. She ripped open the packet of cheese powder and dumped it over the noodles. “I can’t play football until I’m sixteen, too?”
“You can’t play football period,” he snapped.
“But why?” Lucy cried. This morning, she hadn’t even wanted to play football, but now, after going through the tryouts and making the cut, she had something to prove—to the coach, to the other players, to Benji, to her dad . . . to herself. “Why can’t I play? I made the team, fair and square!”
“Because I am your father, and I said so!”
“Dad, come on,” she begged. “Remember how we used to play in the backyard at home?” When she was seven, her dad had given her a Nerf football for Christmas, and for three days straight they’d practiced different running patterns and passes. Of course, she’d quickly lost interest when a Barbie Dream House had shown up from Grandma. Hello, Ken and Barbie. Goodbye, Nerf.
“I’ll drop you off early tomorrow,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re going to tell Coach . . . Coach whoever . . . that you’re not playing.”
“But Dad—” Lucy protested.
“But nothing. I don’t want you playing. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Lucy couldn’t believe it. “Who died and made you boss?” she spat, then realized what she’d said. They both knew who’d died.
“Go to your room,” her dad said sternly.
“Dad . . . wait . . . I’m sorry—”
“GO!” he ordered.
Lucy tearfully thrust the bowl of macaroni and cheese at him. “Fine.”
As she slammed her bedroom door and collapsed on her bed, she thought back to being in the hospital with her mom. She thought back to sitting by her mom’s bedside, talking to her, telling her about some stupid thing she and Annie had done in school, or how she’d done on some test that didn’t matter—not really—or what disgusting meal her dad had attempted to cook for dinner. And then she’d told her she couldn’t leave her, that she had to wake up, that she couldn’t be in this world without her. . . .
And then her dad had come in and told her that he’d made a decision.
Now, today, Lucy was certain of one thing. There would be no more letting her dad make the decisions. He’d controlled her fate for long enough. She was sick of it! She’d made this team, and no matter what anyone said, she was playing football.
Period.
eight
The smell of stale sweat hit Lucy like a ton of bricks as she pushed the weight room doors open. It was six-thirty in the morning, and the players who didn’t have eighth period free to lift had to do their weight workouts twice a week before school. Lucy was definitely not a morning person, and the idea of getting up before the sun rose was not exactly her cup of tea. Of course, she didn’t drink tea, she drank coffee . . . so whatever. It wasn’t really her cup of anything.
At least getting a ride hadn’t been a problem, since her dad had already offered to drop her off early so she could tell Coach Offredi that she was quitting the team. Which, for the record, she wasn’t. Although her dad didn’t know it.
As soon as she’d hopped out of her dad’s car, she’d run into the girls’ bathroom and changed out of her white knee-length peasant skirt and ribbed orange tank top into her workout clothes. Wearing baggy shorts and a white sleeveless tee, with her hair pulled up into a messy bun on the top of her head, she’d hoped to blend in as much as possible. But as soon as she walked into the weight room— into a sea of biceps and testosterone—she knew she’d be out of place no matter what she wore.
All heads swiveled toward her as the door opened. Chalk dust filled the air. The squeak of the machines came to a grinding halt as the guys gawked at their new female teammate. It was amazing, the difference boobs could make—even relatively little ones. It was like they were looking at an alien from Mars.
Across the room, Benji stopped his leg presses. Ryan was mid-pull-up. He continued, unfazed by her entrance. Lucy was grateful. She stared at him, momentarily transfixed. Being that cute should have been illegal in all fifty states.
Coach Offredi stepped in front of Lucy and turned to the guys. “What? You boys never seen a girl before? Let’s go!” Then he turned to Lucy. “You’re late.”
Lucy inhaled quickly and then explained. “I know. I’m sorry. I had to change—”
“I don’t want to hear excuses. I want you here on time. You want to be on this team? You show up with the team.” She felt as though she’d been slapped across the face. Public humiliation was never fun, but especially not before 8 A.M.
“Go join Benji,” Coach Offredi said dismissively.“He’ll show you what to do.” Lucy rolled her eyes. What was with this guy? Music blared from a radio that looked so old, it might have been Coach Offredi’s when he was in high school. Obediently, she wove around the guys, making her way over to Benji. Ryan hopped off the pull-up bar, landing right in front of her. She stopped abruptly.
“Oh, hi,” she said quickly. God, he could even make sweaty pit stains look hot.
“Hey,” Ryan said as he moved around her, headed to the bench press. “So, you made it,” he said, hitting her on the arm.
“Oh yeah,” she responded. “I just had to change—that’s why I was late.”
Ryan laughed. “I meant the team. You made the team.” Lucy’s eyes widened. “Oh, right,” she realized. “Right, right. Yeah. I made it. The team.” She shifted uncomfortably, staring down at her gray New Balances.
“Lucy, you ready?” Benji asked, interrupting the moment. Lucy spun back around. Benji was standing at the leg press, smiling, waiting for her.
“See ya,” she told Ryan. She hurried over and Benji engulfed her in a huge hug.
“Congratulations,” he said proudly. “Obviously, you made the team.”
“I know,” she admitted bashfully. “I hope—I know you wanted to be the placekicker—”
Playing With the Boys Page 9
