Dangerous Play

by Emma Kress

  I try to start up one of the cheers. “Say we’re small?”

  But the others don’t join in.

  “Let’s just do a simple word, okay?” Ava says. She doesn’t ask it like I have a say.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Sasha?” Ava asks.

  Sasha looks between us. She shrugs. “Teamwork?”

  You’ve got to be kidding. Everyone shouts it. I fake it. Because teamwork doesn’t look like boxing your captain out.

  When we crash onto the field, I try to focus. The enemy is in yellow and blue, not green and blue. But right now, the colors feel a little too close for comfort.

  I race into position. I can beat Queens Falls with my eyes closed.

  Bella takes the ball from the start. She passes it to Sasha, who knocks it to Quinn. But Queens Falls steals it. They drive it hard, and it flies over my stick, landing in front of Kiara, who knocks it back.

  Our girls are playing scared.

  The ball shoots back and forth between their sticks and ours. Nobody’s gaining. It’s like a grandfather clock going ticktock with every tap-tap across the field. I’d be hypnotized by it if I weren’t so pissed.

  We’re sweaty and tired at the half, my arm is killing me, and something is up. I run to Ava in the goal. “What’s going on out there?”

  “I don’t know.” She takes off her helmet but avoids looking at me.

  “First you pull that power crap before the game. Then—”

  “I pulled power crap?”

  “Yeah. You. Did you talk to the other girls about me? Did you—”

  She holds her hand up. “I didn’t have to.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She sighs and starts walking toward Coach. “You freaked everyone out on the bridge, Zoe. We just need time.”

  “What, I’m like on probation now?”

  She walks faster, even with all her pads. “Maybe?”

  “I need to trust that you guys have my back out there. I can’t win this by myself.” I’m talking to her back.

  “No shit, Cap’n.” She turns and glares at me. “And we need to trust you. Think about that.”

  “Girls!” Coach says. “You beat them before, you can do it again. But you’ve got to keep those passes tight, Zoe.” She gives me the stare. “Your pass to Liv was like a lazy turd. If you lay a turd on that field, you better race yourselves in to flush it down the toilet. Ava, you’re holding strong, but Dylan! You’ve got to keep the ball out of her lap. She needs help out there. Nikki, you’ve got long legs but this isn’t a runway. Let those bad boys loose. Like we say, it’s easy to talk the talk, but you’ve got to walk the walk. Do you want to win this or what?”

  They scream their way out onto the field, while I try to forget the screams in my arm, my knee, my head.

  Straightaway, we plow through them. The triplets are a pinball machine, tap-tapping the ball between them. But Queens Falls’s sweeper slings it back and they get the ball. I steal it away and drive it toward Nikki. She stops it and passes it on to Liv, who takes it to Sasha, who runs it right down the field. But we get whistled. I flick the ball over an opponent’s stick and get whistled. Every time we get momentum, we get called. It’s like the ref is so old she needs to slow us down so she can catch up. We get third-party obstruction and raised ball and dangerous use of stick and stick interference, all of which means dangerous play, and she threatens us with a yellow card. The call always goes their way. Coach turns herself purple trying not to tell the geriatric ref where to stick it.

  They win: 0 to 1. It was close. It was so close. And we made them fight for it. But we still lost.

  And now, if we don’t win our next game, we can’t go to sectionals. We get just one more shot.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  AFTER THE GAME, I DRIVE home with Liv. We talk about homework and how she’s applying for a job at the mall after the season’s over and other nothings that don’t add up to somethings. I don’t even know if she’s had sex with Jake yet. I don’t want to know.

  I feel itchy again, like I need to run, like I need to be the girl who dresses in black and hurdles gravestones and swings from rafters. And yeah, like I need to be the girl who pushes dickheads off bridges. Because I don’t really see that it was all that bad. He was fine. And so what if he wasn’t? He deserves a broken leg. Or more.

  Right when we turn onto my street, she says, “Are you okay?”

  Which pisses me off because she knows I’m not.

  “Because,” she goes on, “I’m worried about you.”

  Oh, thank goodness she’s on my side. “Thanks, I—”

  “I mean,” she continues, “since when did you become the person jumping off things, tossing people off bridges? Think of your dad. You—”

  “Yeah,” I say. I cannot believe she brought up Dad. As if I’m ever not thinking about him. “Ava already schooled me.”

  She nods and pulls into my driveway. “Okay then. I—”

  But before she can finish I’m out the door, hurrying up the driveway. She always waits until I get inside. It’s the nice thing to do. It’s a best-friend thing to do. But so is sticking by your best friend, no matter what.

  When I get to the door, I hear the music. If Mom is having a second Rebels night in two weeks, I’ll lose my shit.

  I open the door. Down the hall, I see Dad. Dancing. I walk closer. He’s baking cookies. Mom’s sitting on a stool at the counter.

  I can’t even.

  Does nobody remember what happened the last time he tried this?

  Of course, Dad slept through the aftermath on pain meds while Mom passed out on the couch with the Rebels. So yeah. I’m probably the only one who remembers.

  “Welcome home, champ!” He pulls me in for a bear hug. “I’ve been watching some video of you, and man, you are having a season to beat.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Eileen put together this little highlights movie for me. She just sent it over today. Zo, I thought I was watching a Sports Forum feature.” He wraps his arm around my shoulder. “You are a phenom.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” But it feels like a lie. Because I didn’t play well today. Anybody can look good in a highlights reel. It takes a star to play a highlight season.

  Dad dances his way over to a bowl and starts to stir.

  “Wasn’t that nice of Aunt Eileen?” Mom asks.

  Nice? It would be nice if Mom were the one cooking instead of Dad, since she’s actually home for once. But instead I say: “Really nice. I had no idea she was doing that.”

  Dad laughs. “You didn’t notice Eileen filming you? Man, we’ve got to work on your observation skills. You—”

  “No. Trust me, it’s impossible to miss her. I was just trying to pretend that flaming ball of embarrassment didn’t belong to me.”

  “Don’t be mean, Zo,” Mom says.

  I try not to eye roll out loud. I open the fridge to hide it. It looks like they chose to make cookies over dinner. But I am so not cooking tonight. I grab a bowl and fill it with cereal.

  “Actually”—Dad scrapes the sides of his mixing bowl with a spatula—“you might like Eileen more than you think. After all, she was quite the field hockey player.”

  I’m sure she was an epic benchwarmer.

  “That’s right!” Mom says. “She played for SU, I think.”

  “Huh.” Syracuse is a top D1 school. I didn’t know she was that good.

  Dad waves the chip-covered spatula at me. “You just never know, Zo. You never—”

  He drops the spatula onto the floor and grips the counter. Mom comes around the counter to his side.

  I close my eyes for a moment.

  What I don’t say: Great choice, Dad. Too little too late, Mom. What I do: grab the spatula and clean up the mess. I sneak glances at Dad. He looks exhausted. He’s probably trying to do something nice for us again and instead of helping, Mom just sat there.

  “Dad was in bed most of the day, but he
got up about an hour ago,” Mom says, like she’s making excuses.

  I can’t even look at her. “Are you okay, Dad?”

  He breathes deeply for a minute before smiling. He spoons batter onto the tray.

  I pull up a stool. To cheer him, I dip a spoon in the bowl of batter. “Mmm.”

  “No batter dipping on my watch.” Dad smiles, steals my spoon, and drops it into the sink.

  Mom starts the dishes. For once.

  Dad dances over to the fridge, and I sigh. “Do you think you should be dancing around?”

  His shoulders rise like he’s taking a deep breath.

  “Mom? Don’t you think he should take it easy? In your medical opinion or whatever?” If she can’t act like a nurse, then she should at least act like she gives a shit.

  Mom drops the sponge, turns off the water, and just stares at me. She wipes her hands on her apron and walks away from the rest of the dishes in the sink. Typical.

  Dad smiles tight and catches Mom before she leaves the kitchen, pulling her into his dance, singing along to the music, until she’s smiling.

  I walk to the sink to pick up where Mom left off. I take a deep breath and try to chill. I close my eyes and focus on the suds, the sponge, the music. “This is a cool song. Is it new?”

  I hear him stop dancing. I turn.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I put it on ZoTunes. The CD? The one I made for you?” He shakes his head. “You never listened to it, did you.” It’s not a question.

  I drop the sponge and turn all the way around. “Oh, Dad. I’m so sorry. I—”

  He shrugs. “It’s okay. It was for you. You could listen or not. It’s up to you.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I—” And I can’t tell him why. I can’t tell him what happened, how every time I saw the CD on my dresser I was reminded of what happened, and how I felt that morning. How I tucked the CD away so I wouldn’t have to keep facing it. I can’t even tell him all that I’ve been doing since to make it all better, to change things not just for me but for everyone. And Mom’s looking all judgey-eyed at me, and I just feel like yelling because nobody’s getting what I’m doing here. I swallow my scream. “I’ll listen to it tonight, Dad.”

  Mom takes his hand and spins herself in for a kiss. “Well, at least she likes this song. Oh! I know,” she says into his shoulder, “you can make a playlist for the next Rebels night.”

  I wish I could punch something, or someone, right now. I turn back to the sink.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asks me.

  “Nothing.” I keep my back to her and just scrub away at the stupid bowl.

  She shakes her head. “You know, you’ve been really self-centered lately. Maybe if you spent a little less time moping around, you’d notice things like that gift from your father. Maybe—”

  “I’m self-centered? I should notice more about Dad?” I shake out my hands and dry them on my jeans. “I notice plenty. Trust me. I’m not the one who needs to—”

  “Okay, okay.” Dad pats the air with his hands. “Let’s just calm down.”

  I shrug. “Oh, I’m fine, Dad. No problem here. I don’t have to do the dishes. I’ve got plenty of homework anyway.”

  “Good,” Mom says.

  Unfuckingbelievable.

  Sure enough, next day, Dad’s laid up. Again. I pour my screams and I told you sos and How could yous into tiny little bottles and screw the caps on tight. I tuck them away on the back shelves inside me but those shelves are getting crowded.

  Life would be a lot easier if everyone just listened to me.

  My friends avoid me. I want to wait for them after their classes, but if I get off schedule, I might run into Reilly and that can never, ever happen again.

  Every day, we walk through the same halls. At any minute, he could be on a different route and bump into me. Every time I turn a corner, I think this might be it. And when I’m safe, sitting in class, while the teacher talks about nothing important, I think I was right.

  I was right to push that kid off the bridge. Because nobody else did. Nobody else would.

  * * *

  I look toward the Greenville game. I’ll prove myself to the team. Win them back.

  Saturday, we count cows on the way to Greenville. Once we’re beyond the curving streets with short driveways and clipped lawns, beyond the trailer park hidden off the thruway, beyond the columned mini-mansions by the lake, it’s like falling back in time. Cows lounge against hillsides, the afternoon sun lighting them against the browning grass.

  I can’t imagine growing up here—the closest house miles away, the chores that come from living on a farm, the food coming from your land instead of the supermarket.

  We pull into the school, but I don’t let myself look at the girls. I don’t let myself wonder whether they’re stronger from lifting hay bales. If we win this one, we’re off to the sectional semifinals. That’s further than our team has ever gone. We’ll be back on track.

  We take our laps. We run our small drills in our small groups.

  In the locker room, Coach talks, but her voice buzzes around my ears. I only hear the slamming of the ball against the backboards. Again and again.

  Finally, we race out of the locker room, the sound of our cleats matching the beat of my heart.

  We shake hands with Greenville, and I train my eyes on their hands instead of their faces. They’re calloused and tanned.

  I call tails. The coin flips and lands on heads.

  I don’t let it rattle me. Nothing will get between us and this win. It belongs to me, to us. Like our uniforms, our sticks.

  I sink into the national anthem, letting it drum through me as it builds to the finish.

  Right away, Quinn steals the ball. She passes it to Bella, who drives it long to Sasha. Sasha leans low, her whole body pushing it toward the goal. It slips between the goalie’s legs.

  The triplets hug and run while the rest of us cheer. I run up and knock sticks with Sasha. She smiles. Maybe this is us getting back to normal.

  After that, Greenville wakes up. No more cakewalks to the goal. They score on us: 1 to 1. Their sweeper is big and fast—she drives the ball hard anytime it comes near.

  We get another goal. Then, so do they: 2 to 2.

  We hold it steady to the half.

  Coach is jittery on the sideline. It’s all she can do to contain herself. “I’ve heard some people in AA say ‘You can eat an entire elephant one bite at a time.’”

  Liv nudges me with her foot.

  Quinn drops her braid to raise her hand. “I don’t want to eat an elephant, Coach.”

  Coach flaps her hands like little wings. “Oh, shut up, Dobson. You know what I mean. Just take it one pass, one push, one drive at a time and you’ll make one goal at a time right to the finish.”

  She’s right. We just need one goal for the win. Ava and Dyl can hold them off, and we can put one in. It’s that simple. And that hard.

  I run in place. Stretch. A boxer readying for a fight.

  The whistle blows, and green and gold take it. But I plow in, my stick a scalpel, carving a new path for the ball. I knock it to Liv. She sends it up to Sasha. But it gets blocked.

  I try to do the same thing in the next play, but they’re ready and dodge me, their sticks sending the ball toward Ava. She barely knocks it clear.

  The score holds tight, neither side gaining, minutes ticking. We’re a few minutes from the end, and I refuse to go into overtime. This game is ours.

  At the next whistle, something unleashes in me. A heat. A fire. A lunging sort of power. I roar toward the ball, shouldering the others out of my way, my stick a magnet for the ball.

  We’ve got less than a minute. I don’t hear anything, everyone and everything are just background, and I drive toward the goal through a tunnel. I shoot and score.

  Yes! We’re going to sectionals. For the first time in Northridge’s history, we are going to sectionals. I turn and whoop.

  But my team
isn’t rushing at me with hugs and screams.

  On the other side of the field, there’s a clump. A mess of kilts, sticks, and cleats. I see two cleats. Toes up.

  Someone’s hurt.

  I barrel across the field to my team. With each step, I see more—ankles, knees, blue-and-green jersey. I run faster.

  It’s one of ours.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  SASHA.

  Her head rests at a funny angle with her eyes closed. A Greenville trainer rushes up, kneels down, and holds her head in between his hands. Mrs. Dobson runs onto the field and sinks to her knees.

  She lets out a hiccup-cry. Bella and Quinn cling to each other.

  Sasha opens her eyes, and we breathe again. But she closes them fast against the trainer’s questions.

  Someone says, “The middie’s stick.” That’s what got her.

  Nikki mutters something. I step closer. “She just collapsed. Like she didn’t have any bones.” I move away when she starts to repeat it.

  The ambulance should be here by now.

  Tears streak Kiara’s cheeks as she squeezes Dylan’s hand.

  The middie sobs into the arms of her coach.

  Bella and Quinn look lopsided. Like they shouldn’t be able to stand without Sasha. Singing and dancing to “Three Is a Magic Number” just doesn’t work without Sasha.

  It takes forever for the ambulance to come, and the whole time I’m thinking of all the stupid farms in between where we are and wherever they are.

  The ref rules my goal counts. We won. I can’t believe we’re going to sectionals. I can’t believe we’re going, and I feel this awful.

  Finally, the ambulance arrives. They ease Sasha onto a stretcher, keeping her back straight. They talk about CAT scans and MRIs, and her mom clutches a tissue and runs beside the paramedics. The doors slam behind Sasha and Mrs. Dobson, and the siren wails. We’re left behind, as out of place as the ruts dug into the field from the ambulance’s tires.

  Our bus drives us to the hospital, and we pile out. Our grass-stained knees and mud-caked cleats track through the shiny halls in search of Sasha. Everything is wrong.