The Academy (The Academy Saga Book 1)

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