by CJ Daly
was busy lining up with the other cheerleaders on Team One’s side to practice
their cheers by cheering on Pete. Wel good I thought. I wanted an audience today. You could practically hear the Rocky theme song playing in my head as I scraped my hair into a ponytail. Mentally crossing myself, I lifted my necklace
to my lips. Then, in an incongruent move to the one I just performed, I folded
down the waistband of my shorts, which had the dual purpose of making
them shorter and exposing a slim expanse of belly—a little trick I could thank
Ashley-Leigh for. I smug-smiled, bouncing up and down on the balls of my
feet in anticipation.
The whistle blew, but before I could spring into action, Coach Sams
caught my arm. “Take charge out there today, Katie . . . no holding back.”
Determination reflected from my eyes. “You can count on me, Coach
Sams.”
She smiled widely back at me before blasting the whistle. “Okay, play
ball!”Our team, it was decided, would kick off first due to the fact that we
didn’t have Pete Davenport, and therefore, the obvious underdogs. A stoner by
the name of Jake (who might could’ve been athletic at one point in life) took
the lead. He kicked it towards another guy on our team. Pete easily intercepted
the ball, dribbling it around players—trucking to their field positions—like
they were standing still. He would be halfway to the goal before anyone
could catch him. So I held back from the throng going for the ball, hiding
out behind lagging players, ready to make my move.
I didn’t have to wait long because Pete dribbled it back my way, around a
knot of inadequate defenders. While his focus was momentarily distracted by
a junior boy, who vainly attempted to steal it, I sprang forward like a panther,
coming up as he kicked it left, to intercept it right out from under him. It was
a split-second sneak attack that caused him to crash into me, so that I toppled
• 287 •
over and fell. It wasn’t pretty, but it got the job done. The ball went sailing back to our side, where it shot straight out to an unprepared team member . . .
to roll out of bounds. The whistle blew.
It was an opportunity lost by Team Two, but a big opportunity to stick
it to one Pete Davenport by Kate Connelly.
His head whipped around to see who’d finally gotten the better of him on
the soccer field. When Pete saw me sprawled on the grass with a triumphant
smirk on my face, he looked absolutely dumbfounded for a split second. Then
he threw his head back and laughed. It was so mesmerizing I momentarily
forgot to be mad. A hand was quickly offered, which I accepted, and he
hoisted me up. I immediately withdrew from his grasp but couldn’t find it in
me to move yet—it was the first time I’d seen humor transform his glorious
face in a fortnight.
I couldn’t help the curve of my lips. We stared at each other—all animosity
momentarily forgotten—until awareness that I was already getting sucked
back into his vortex nudged me. I turned, and began jogging towards my
team, when I heard him come up behind me, then watched as he blew past
in a swirl of colors before slowing to a backwards jog. “Somehow . . .” he said,
eyes dancing, “I don’t think that was a lucky shot.” I just smirked back at
him, and he flashed me a grin before turning himself around to join his team.
The ball was put in play again, and I was determined to stick to my game
plan: focus on the ball and not the man. Because if I didn’t implement that strategy, I’d definitely lose my concentration on the field. And I had to work
twice as hard as Pete, being the fairer sex and naturally not as fast or muscular.
So I’d have to outwit him, if I could.
It was frustrating, hard work, playing defense against the master. I held
him off better than anyone else from getting a clean shot at the goal. But that
only lasted for as long as it took me to realize he was laughing, deep in his
throat, as he took me back and forth across the field. Soon, it became an itch
I just had to scratch. Infuriated, I shot him a dirty look. He took advantage of
my lapse in concentration to send the ball hurtling toward the goal. I didn’t
even have time to blink. Or have to turn around to know it hit the net.
The whistle blew, the cheerleaders jumped, I ground my teeth in
frustration.
Pete took one look at my face and busted into a grin. “That’s for cutting
me off,” he said.
And I knew he was referring to more than just cutting him off on the
soccer field. A guy like Pete was used to getting his way in life. Everything
was probably gift-wrapped and handed over to him on a silver platter. But I’d
• 288 •
proven more difficult than he’d anticipated. Most likely even getting him in trouble with his organization, I realized with a small pang. So he was mad at
me, and using my former best friend to punish me. It just dawned on me that
he probably didn’t even like her. How could he? I glanced over at her blowing kisses at him. Puh-lease. I didn’t even like her . . . and she used to be my best friend.
It occurred to me that the best revenge would be to simply sit back and
let him be with her. That was punishment enough—just allowing him to
marinate in her high-fructose life until he rotted from all the sugar. I barked
out a laugh.
His head tilted my way, a smile already forming. “What’s so funny?”
“Your girlfriend.”
He obliged by looking over to where Ashley-Leigh was busy tying up
her shirt with the assistance of one of her minions. Never one to miss an
opportunity, she smiled and blew him a kiss, just in case he missed the first
three. He turned back to me for a laugh, but I was already gone.
Coach Sams called for a timeout, and we huddled up, most of the misfits
already wheezing. “Jake, I want you to fake right to Diego, but get the ball to
Connelly instead. He can’t man the field all by himself, so let’s take advantage
of the sleepers out there. “Okay Team Two . . . let’s break!” Team Two couldn’t
even manage to clap our hands in unison; I shook my head in dismay.
I also knew my own limitations on the soccer field so grabbed Shelby-
from-the-locker-room and whispered in her ear while I watched Pete idly
bouncing the soccer ball from knee-to-knee then foot-to-foot, as was his
custom. Unable to help myself, I trotted over. “Showin’ off again, Cadet
Davenport?”
He laughed and caught the ball. “Trying to impress a girl.”
“Anyone special?”
“Oh, she’s special alright.” Pete stared into my eyes, all traces of humor gone.The way he said this made my stomach feel funny. I swallowed, feeling
guilty even though I didn’t quite know why. And didn’t have time to dwell on
it, because we were up to kickoff. Jake made an obvious eye-intent to Diego
that anyone with half a brain would realize was a fake out. Sure enough, Pete
pointed two fingers at his eyes and then at me—he was watching me. I rolled
mine and feigned looking off into the distance, trying to keep the smile I was
feeling inside from creeping on to my face. Jake did his best imitation of a
fake-out then kicked the ball to me. But instead of immediately
intercepting,
• 289 •
Pete allowed me to safely get the ball before getting in the game. He was throwing his game, which was so galling because I was bringing my best.
Dodging in front of me, arms hanging loosely by his sides, he said, “Okay,
Connelly, let’s see what you got.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, trying not to focus on how exasperating he
was. And hot. Gah! That word just popped right in my head. I made an effort to refocus and set forth my very best effort of moving the ball forward without
him taking it away. As I had foreseen he easily stayed with me, so I was unable
to move it more than a few feet. Time to implement my plan: tapping a toe on
the ball, I halted it, then kicked it backwards to a (hopefully) waiting Shelby.
She was back there, but immediately botched the play because of nerves and
general lack of know-how, kicking it directly out of bounds. Honestly, it was
like playing with fourth-graders, but I didn’t care—I’d managed to hold my
own with Cadet Davenport.
His face lit up at my little maneuver. “Lady’s got moves,” he said, twisting
his baseball cap around and leaning, hands on his knees, so that we were eye-
to-eye. “. . . Looks like I’m gonna have to bring my A game today.”
I laughed but felt more like crying. Of course , I realized with a dispirited pang, Pete had not been playing his “A” game this whole time. We were
doomed. But at least I was alive out there on the field. I hadn’t laid down for
him and everybody else to run over me. And I wouldn’t anymore.
No more throwing my game.
A new flare of determination rose in my chest, so that I was burning up
the soccer field. I managed to intercept a pass meant for Jake and shoot a
long, hard kick at the goal before Pete had a chance to come along and steal
the ball away. It missed by a couple of feet, but it was a nice attempt. Some of
the spectators must’ve thought so, too, because half the football team started
cheering. I even heard a shout-out from Steph Aguilar, before Ashley-Leigh
smacked her on the arm for her lapse. The whistle blew, and Team One and
Team Two huddled up again. It was 2-0 in favor of Pete Davenport, because
he may as well have been the sole player on his team, everyone else being mere
props for his dazzling performance.
I was getting pretty winded but tried to act otherwise, desperately wanting
to stay in. Coach Sams and I were on the same wavelength today—she
obviously wanted to beat the notorious, misogynist Coach Hampton at his
own game as much as I wanted to beat Pete. I glanced over to their huddle
to see that Coach Hampton appeared to be disgruntled, and that Pete was
walking off the field. He sat on the bench, squirting water into his mouth,
looking, for all-the-world, like a commercial for some kind of manly product.
• 290 •
It could be anything: soap, sport drink . . . jock-itch cream. No matter—
females would’ve gone out in droves to buy it.
Realizing I was staring, I snapped out of it and ran back to the field
determined to take advantage of Pete’s absence. The whistle blew, and I was
off. And to use his own expression: It was as easy as taking candy from a
baby without him in the picture. I accepted the first pass and easily drove
the ball all the way to the goal, sidestepping two defenders to fake left, but
kicked right . . . and the ball nailed the goal with a rewarding thwang that reverberated off the goal post and into my soul.
Team Two just scored one goal. The round of applause coming from my
team and the football field was nice, but I only had eyes for the one, who rose
from the bench, to cheer with everyone else.
That reminded me of something about Pete I had suppressed due to my
anger at his betrayal—he was nice. As I stood there watching him cheer, I
remembered how Mama always reminded me to never underestimate the
power of being nice. Pete Davenport wasn’t just nice . . . he was kind. And,
now that I thought about it, I realized it was actually his most dominant trait.
Forget about the looks and athleticism, the smarts, the prestige that dripped
off him like sweet sweat, he was just a great guy plain and simple. I felt this
in my core, the same way I felt his academy was bad. That’s why his betrayal
cut me particularly deep. I also realized that he’d asked Coach Hampton for a break, in order to give me mine. He did it in a way that he hoped I wouldn’t
notice. But I did notice, as I did all things Pete Davenport.
Both teams huddled back up for the second half. Coach Sams ended up
playing me the whole time. It felt good to finally flex my athletic muscles
after years of atrophy. And more than once, after a particularly swift kick or
steal, Pete would shake his head and chuckle to himself like it was the funniest
thing he’d ever seen.
The game ended with an air-horn blast, and groans of disappointment
from the crowd. Our little soccer match seemed as fascinating to the spectators
as The World Cup. The final score: 4-2 in favor of Pete Davenport. But I was
pleased with my performance. Apparently, so were my team, Coach Sams, and
an exuberant Miguel and Ron, who came bounding over from the football
field. I found myself ringed by a small crowd of well-wishers. Ron even hoisted
me up, so I was able to see Pete’s own fan club congratulating him on another
victory. Ashley-Leigh was hugging on him, but his eyes searched to find mine.
We grinned over at each other, two sweaty gladiators showing mutual respect
for a well-fought match. An intrusive pat on my behind brought a frown to my
face at the same time Pete’s grin slid from his. That was the last thing I saw
• 291 •
before being twirled around and set back on my feet. I felt dizzy and euphoric and shy all at the same time.
As we headed back to the locker room, everyone settled back down to a
more normal temperature. I was still way too sweaty to put my street clothes
back on, so just grabbed my gym bag and backpack, and ducked out the door,
heaving a sigh of relief. It had long been ingrained in me not to seek attention,
so I had my fill quickly, much like when I had cotton candy at the county
fair—savoring the first few bites before the beginning of a stomachache set in.
I’d just made my escape when Coach Sams came trotting over, her whistle
bobbing up and down the same way my glasses used to.
“Katie!” she called, “wait up.”
“Hey, Coach Sams,” I greeted with a wary smile.
“Katie,” she huffed with exertion, resting a hand on my shoulder, “I want
to talk to you about your performance this afternoon.”
“Okay.”
“How do you think you played?”
“Um . . .” I hesitated over the adverb, years of inbred modesty causing
me to remember why I’d felt guilty. I thought of Mama claiming I made
a spectacle of myself when I out-performed my friends. “Well, I guess,” I
answered with a shrug.
“Wel ? Yes, well, I’d consider that to be an understatement. I always
knew you had loads of untapped potential, but really . . . I had no idea what
an athlete you really are!” Her face was the kind of bright that accompanies
discovering
gold. “Your performance today could rival Mia Hamm on her
best day!”
Uh-oh. I got a sinking feeling my temper had caused me to make an
error in judgment today. “Um, thanks,” I said, “but I think that might be an
overstatement—I probably just got lucky.”
“Luck has nothing to do with a performance like that.” She eyed me
speculatively. “Not only did you perform like a pro, but you looked like you
were sure having a lot of fun out there.”
I smiled and shrugged again, scuffing the toe of my sneaker on a piece
of gravel. After an awkward pause, she finally got to the crux of why we were
standing outside gym having a conversation. “Katie, is there any way at all you could join athletics?” She saw my face freeze and quickly added, “You could
certainly earn a scholarship that way.”
I shook my head sadly, my throat feeling full. “I’m sorry, Coach Sams. I
really can’t. I have to take care of my brothers after school and help with the
ranch.”
• 292 •
“Maybe I could talk to your father, work something out?”
“I’m sorry . . . it’s impossible. But thanks for thinkin’ of me.”
She sighed, clearly disappointed, but let me go. “If you change your mind,
my door’s always open.”
“Thanks, Coach Sams.” I smiled over my shoulder. “I really do
appreciate it.”
The wind in my sails abruptly subsided under these sunny skies. Hunch-
shouldered, I wove my way through the parking lot. Life was unfair. What’s
the point of being good at something you can’t do? Or fal ing for a guy playing for the wrong team? It all seemed senseless as a crossword puzzle in Chinese.
I slipped on my shades, averting my gaze in the opposite direction of
someone calling my name, already slipping back into my bubble of solitude.
But someone was able to penetrate the protective surface of my bubble. My
head automatically pulled to where Pete stood, rubbing at his jaw, while
staring at me with an inscrutable look on his face. My feet stopped in their
tracks. His hand dropped to his side. Ashley-Leigh was standing right next to
him, one hand attached to him like a barnacle. But she was relegated to the
size of an ant in my mind, so I paid her no matter mind.
I thought, for half a sec, that he was going to head my way. I felt the
