by Liz Tigelaar
When she showed up on the field after school that day, she was happy to see a few familiar faces. Not that she had ever spoken to anyone besides Charlie, but there was Pickle from her gym class and a few other girls she recognized.
“Gather around, everyone,” Martie said. The girls formed a semicircle around her. “I’d like to welcome back all our returning players and introduce myself and the team to those of you trying out.” All the wannabe walk-ons looked around, hopeful, as the teammates from last year clustered together, already close. They seemed more like sisters in many ways than friends.
“Last year’s state win was incredible,” Martie recounted, giving the potential players an idea of what they had to look forward to. “Especially because we came from nothing, came out of nowhere to win. Now, this year, we have a reputation to uphold. We have a title to defend. We won’t be under the radar anymore. Everyone’s going to be gunning for us, so we’re going to have to work harder than ever. And that hard work starts with … ?” She paused for the team to fill in the blank.
All the old players chimed in together. “Hell Week.”
Lucy looked around, nervous. Hell Week? She’d never been part of any Hell Week back in Ohio—except the week of studying for midterms and finals.
“Hell Week’s where the real fun begins.” Martie smiled.
The next afternoon, Lucy found out that Martie’s definition of “fun” was cruel, hard, endless torture. The girls headed up from the locker room after school, to meet in the parking lot behind the athletic field house. Together, they hopped in a van to drive to the beach. Lucy was the last to climb in and shut the door.
On the ride over, all the girls talked ninety miles an hour, about everything from what teen star was following Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears’ foray into rehab to a sale at ZJ’s Boarding House they wanted to check out. Pickle was listening raptly to a story Heather was telling, about one of the football parties two years ago where some guy had tried to jump off the roof into the pool. Heather was a senior this year and had shoulder-length golden hair with corkscrew curls.
“God, why don’t we ever get invited to those?” Pickle asked wistfully.
“Because we play soccer, not football,” Jamie reminded her. “Football players and cheerleaders only.”
Charlie rolled her eyes.“I’m glad they’re willingly containing themselves. Then we don’t have to worry about running into them on Friday nights.” It was no secret that Charlie wasn’t a huge fan of that crowd.
“Still …” Pickle sighed. “It’d be nice to see what the big deal is.”
“Casey Peterson’s D-cups,” a cute brunette, Erica, piped in. “That’s always the biggest deal at those parties. The guys throw quarters in her cleavage and she keeps the change.”
“No way!” Max, a freshman spitfire, exclaimed. Max had short, choppy, bleached blond hair and just looked tough. Lucy had figured out that Max was short for Maxine, when she saw the tryout roster.
“Not that I don’t want to talk about Casey’s D-cups the whole drive,” a pretty Hispanic junior named Carla said. “But did anyone see Real World last night?” Her deep brown eyes sparkled as if she’d just received good news.
On the front bench of the van, Lucy spun around. She loved that show!
Forgetting her shyness, she rattled off a list of highlights that had the entire van of girls enraptured.
“And then Tucker said Marlo should just go back where she came from. The gutter!” Lucy quoted.
“He did not say that!” Heather gasped. “He’s so homophobic, anyway.”
“And obviously closeted,” Jamie pointed out. “No one protests that much.”
“I know.” Lucy laughed. “It’s like the same thing every season.”
Carla giggled. “I know. I love it.”
Pickle leaned over the seat, adding her two cents. “By the end, Tyler and Jason’ll be making out.”
“I’m so sick of that show,” Erica complained.“I’m seriously not watching anymore.”
“You say that every season,” Heather pointed out.
“At least you’re allowed to watch it,” a sophomore redhead, Ruthie, chirped from the front seat. “My mom won’t let me. Can you believe that? No MTV?”
Max recoiled. “No MTV? That’s, like, globally unfair.” Lucy giggled and Max looked at her for confirmation. “I mean, it is, right? Does she even let you google?”
As Ruthie explained, Lucy listened and relaxed a little, genuinely enjoying herself for the first time in a long time. It was fun to be around these girls. Lucy hoped she’d be around them for a long time to come.
That all changed once they arrived at the beach. While the girls were still fun, practice was not. Martie announced they were going for a short three-mile run.
“Is that an oxymoron?” Erica asked. “Short? Three miles?”
“You’re an oxymoron,” Heather countered playfully, as Erica fake-punched her in the arm.
Karen, a pretty blond senior, scoffed. “Heather, that didn’t even make any sense!”
As the girls took off running, Lucy took her place securely at the back of the pack, where she struggled to keep up. Her lungs felt as though they were going to explode; running on sand was about a million times more difficult than running on cement. Somehow Lucy made it through, coming in third to last, which was a small victory. At least she wasn’t the very slowest.
After the run, Martie prepared to take them through various drills.
“Can someone grab the bag of balls?” she asked purposefully.
“I will,” Karen offered. “Or maybe Heather should. She loves to grab the balls.”
A bunch of the girls snickered. Clearly, they enjoyed ribbing each other and giving each other a hard time. Charlie and Carla exchanged amused looks, trying not to laugh … but it was hard not to.
Karen’s comment elicited a very real punch from Heather.
“Ow!” Karen yelped. “That seriously hurt!” She nailed Heather back in the arm.
“Girls!” Martie said sternly, and Karen instantly snapped to attention. Lucy giggled. Heather grabbed the balls and the girls composed themselves as Martie explained what they were doing next. Of course, when she said, “We’ll do various touches on balls,” everyone—Lucy included—burst out laughing again.
But soon, Lucy was hard at work, focusing on the ball in front of her as she tried to follow Martie’s footwork instructions. Running behind Carla and Charlie, Lucy dribbled around orange cones in as fast and controlled a manner as possible … and then came the trapping drills.
Lucy hated trapping. Using her body to stop a ball careening toward her wasn’t really at the top of her to-do list. In fact, it was a giant “to-don’t” ever since she’d been nailed in the chest by a soccer ball three years ago. To this day she blamed that incident as the reason her boobs had failed to grow past A-cups.
Now, as a punt came right toward her, she backed up, letting it fall to her feet rather than stopping it with her body.
“Lucy, go to it,” Martie ordered. “You don’t back away!”
I do, Lucy thought. But instead she just mumbled, “Sorry.” She hoped Martie wasn’t making a mental note of that weakness—but then she saw Martie taking literal notes. Crap! Had she noticed how many extra mountain climbers and push-ups Lucy had done? Had she written that down on her yellow pad? By the end of practice, Lucy was too tired to worry about it.
When she arrived home that night, thanks to a ride from Charlie, her eyelids were so heavy she was barely able to make her way from the car to her bedroom. She collapsed on the bed without eating dinner, doing her homework … or, worse, calling Annie. When her dad came in to ask how practice had gone, she could barely muster a response. All she could think about was sleep, but once she finally drifted off, she even dreamed of soccer.
The next morning at breakfast, when she was well rested and more alert, she gave her dad a rundown of the girls on the team.
“There’s Charlie,” Luc
y explained. “She’s the surfer I told you about. From the beach that day. She’s kind of what Mom would call a tough cookie, you know? Like, hard to get to know. I guess she had this older sister, Krista, who graduated—and was totally best friends with Brooks Sheridan!”
From her dad’s blank expression, he had no idea who that was.
“You know, Brooks Sheridan? The actress? She had all those straight-to-DVD movies? Remember Girl for Sale? And then Mom got me the sequel, Boy for Sale? Anyway, I guess Charlie and her sister were, like, the big stars of the team last year and now that Krista’s gone, Charlie’s the leader. Along with Carla …” Lucy told her dad how Carla was from East L.A. and commuted all the way to Malibu in order to play soccer and have a better education. “She was recruited, like, handpicked by Martie last year and got this, like, mondo scholarship—”
“Mondo?” her dad questioned. “Wow. You’ve already been living in California way too long.”
Lucy kept going. “Charlie and Carla are funny together. They’re kind of opposites—Charlie’s, like, dark and sarcastic, while Carla’s totally optimistic and, like, super-positive. Then there’s Pickle. Her real name’s Nicole, but everyone, like, calls her Pickle. She’s a sophomore too—we have, like, three classes together—”
“What’s with all the ‘like’s?” her dad asked.
Lucy sighed. “Do you want me to tell you or not?”
“No, no, go ahead,” her dad urged, then added, “minus the likes.”
Lucy glared, then continued. “Well, I heard she—Pickle— was cut from the team last year. She tried out as a goalie, but then she played on this league all summer, as a fullback, and now she’s trying out on the field. So it’s cool because we’re, like—” She stopped abruptly, realizing she’d said “like” again. “Sorry,” she said quickly, then continued. “So we’re both defenders—me and Pickle—”
“Pickle and I,” her dad corrected.
“Pickle and I,” Lucy emphasized. “And we get to practice together. I’m just happy because maybe we’ll get to be friends or something. Oh, and there’s Max.”
“Max?” her dad questioned.
“Short for Maxine. She seems pretty cool, too.” Just up from eighth grade, Max had been recruited by Martie this summer. With her short blond hair and slightly rebellious attitude, Max had so much confidence, she could even make the senior girls laugh. Lucy couldn’t help but be awed by the younger girl’s lack of intimidation—and by what a strong player she was. Every shot on goal that Max took, she made. Not to mention, she was fast. Max had been clinically diagnosed as hyperactive, although Lucy wondered if that was due to the twenty Pixy Stix she consumed daily.
“Well it sounds like this team was just what you needed, kid,” her dad said, pleased, as he helped himself to more coffee.
Lucy nodded. “Yeah, I think it is.” As she scooted her cup closer for a refill and watched her dad pour, she decided that the glass—or in this case, coffee mug—was definitely looking half full.
That afternoon, Martie divided the girls up into teams in order to scrimmage. Lucy was placed on a team led by Carla, as were Karen, Heather, and Jamie, who was an amazing senior defender. Lucy played stopper, nearly the last line of defense before the goalie, a position that always felt like it came with a lot of pressure—probably because it did.
Twice the other side scored, and both times, Lucy felt responsible. Carla instructed her to get more aggressive. “Don’t wait to go to the ball!” she ordered. “Step up!”
Lucy was caught off guard by Carla’s intensity. She’d expected that kind of tone to come from Charlie. She nodded obediently. “I know. Sorry.”
Carla softened a little. “Listen, just clear it. If it gets anywhere near the box, just clear it!” She patted Lucy on the back. “You got this, okay? I’m being hard on you because I want you on the team.”
Lucy nodded, blinking back tears. She knew Carla was just trying to help. She reminded herself that she could do this. That she needed to be aggressive. She remembered when she was eleven and scared to learn to snowboard. Her mom, a great skier, had stayed with her as she learned, encouraging her the entire time. As Lucy had taken face-plant after face-plant and had begun to cry, Lucy’s mom had told her, “You’re Tough Lucy! Tough Lucy doesn’t cry.
She gets back up. She tries it again.” By the end of the day, Lucy was not only staying up on her snowboard, she was actually turning!
Now, on the soccer field, Lucy told herself to be Tough Lucy. This time, when Charlie passed the ball across the field, in Max’s direction, Lucy sprinted forward. This ball was hers to clear. In one swift motion, she booted the ball, hard. It soared past half field, traveling at least thirty-five yards, right into the feet of Heather, her one open teammate. Heather trapped it perfectly.
On the sidelines, Martie was stunned. Even the other girls gave Lucy a look.
“Whoa,” Carla gasped. “Nice leg.”
“And nice aim,” Carla added.
Lucy beamed proudly. After a rough start, she felt like she’d finally shown Martie what she could do. Now she just needed to do it about fifty more times.
After practice, Lucy considered calling her dad for a ride, but knowing he was working late all week, she suspected she’d be waiting outside school for a while. She saw Charlie, Carla, Pickle, and Max walking to Charlie’s car and could hear their conversation.
“Come on!” Pickle pleaded. “In-N-Out.”
“But I want a salad,” Charlie complained. “What about CPK? Then Max can get pizza.” Max only ate things coated in cheese.
“What about Chili’s?” Max said. “I could get chips and queso, then nachos, then broccoli-cheddar soup… .”
“You are seriously disgusting,” Charlie commented.
Carla noticed Lucy sitting on a bench by herself. She nudged Charlie in the side. “Hey Lucy,” Carla called out. “Want to come get some dinner with us? We’re going to Baja Fresh!”
“Really?” Lucy asked happily.
“No!” Pickle said. “Baja again? What, just because you’re Latina, you can only eat Mexican food?”
“Hey.” Carla shrugged. “I like to support the cause. Besides, a burrito sounds so freaking awesome.”
“I’m in,” Max agreed. “I’m gonna get mine covered in cheese.”
“No Mexican,” Pickle begged. “Come on …”
“Yeah,” Charlie agreed, and then turned to Lucy who had walked over with her book bag and soccer bag. Charlie folded her arms across her chest. “What do you want for dinner? Mexican or something else?”
Lucy looked from Charlie and Pickle to Max and Carla. They were all waiting expectantly. “Um—I don’t know …” Lucy said, meekly. She hated being in this position. Here people were actually being nice to her, but there was no way to make everyone happy. “Mexican’s fine with me… .”
Charlie and Pickle threw their hands up in the air.
“Or not,” Lucy quickly said. “I’ll eat anywhere … or anything… .”
Suddenly, she noticed a car pull into the parking lot. It was her dad’s Toyota Highlander Hybrid, the new car he’d purchased a few days ago. It was not nearly as flashy as the red convertible but more practical and environmentally friendly.
“Oh,” she sighed, disappointed. “That’s my dad. I guess I can’t go to dinner after all… .”
Her dad pulled up and came to a stop but kept the car running. He rolled down the window. “I’m in kind of a hurry, Luce. I have a meeting I have to get back for… .” He gave a wave to the other girls.
Lucy turned to them. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks again for the invite.”
She hopped into her dad’s car. “Did those girls invite you somewhere?”
Lucy shrugged, not wanting to complicate things.“Oh, not really,” she said. “Just dinner. But I have a lot of homework. And besides, that way we can eat together.”
“Oh,” her dad said slowly. “I just—I have to get back for that meeting. Maybe w
e could pick something up really quick. What’s good around here?” He thought for a minute. “Maybe Mexican?”
Lucy sat back in her seat, trying not to cringe at the irony. “Yeah, Mexican’s great.”
That night, Lucy realized she was in bad shape. She’d rolled her ankle but the trainer said it wasn’t a sprain. She just needed to ice it. In fact, she decided, she needed an ice bath for her entire body. Her quads and hamstrings hurt from running up the sand dunes at the beach. Now she could barely walk up the spiral staircase to her loft without leaning at least half of her one-hundred-and-fifteen-pound frame on the railing. Her chest and triceps ached so badly from the push-up and reverse push-up drills that she cringed even when she was lifting a Diet Coke to her lips.
But still, the next day, as she changed in the locker room, with the buzz of the girls’ conversations swirling around her, she couldn’t believe she’d ever considered not playing soccer—even if every part of her body hurt. As she strapped on her shin guards and wrapped the laces of her cleats around the bottom of her shoes and double-knotted them, she reveled in this feeling. It was as if she was putting on armor that would make her invincible.
As she headed upstairs and outside, the sunlight felt warm on her face, and the smell of freshly cut grass engulfed her. It was better than the smell of bread baking or the smell of laundry detergent. This smell reminded her of everything she loved about soccer.
Of course, moments later, as the team ran suicide sprints, Lucy remembered what she hated about soccer. She could feel the sweat pouring off her as she ran from the white end line to the eighteen on the field, trying her best to keep up with the pack. Running, like trapping, was not her strong suit.
Martie cheered encouragingly. “Okay, girls. Now to midfield.”
The girls quickly turned at the end line. Some ran while others jogged to the midfield line. Carla and Charlie had already hit the line and were running past Lucy in the opposite direction.
“You got it, Lucy,” Carla shouted out.
“Thanks,” Lucy gasped as she stayed tight on the heels of Jamie, who trailed right behind Pickle.