Off the Field

Chapter Six

Hey! So glad I could update within a week - it's so hard to find time. I would have earlier, but I was out of town, I'm sorry. I try to update both my books once a week at LEAST so it's a struggle. And I have 3 huge tests in the next three days, as well as an AP Chem Lab Saturday this weekend - about as awful as it sounds, yes - so whew, we'll see if I have time. Thank you all so much for being patient! I really appreciate it. Pic of Ray ---->

Gracias! <3 vb123321

Chapter Six

I always forgot how awful early September heat felt while sitting bored stiff in a classroom. It wasn’t much better out on the field in the beating sun, with sweat dripping down our faces and soaking our t-shirts, but it was different on the field. That was my territory, my playing ground, and no weather could change that.

But something else could.

Coach told us at the start of practice that he would announce captains at the end, and that in the meantime we could look forward to a long hard conditioning practice. It was a good thing I had remembered to bring my running shoes, because the next two hours was packed with running endless laps and drills.

“I would love to make Mallory run this,” I panted to Ray as we rounded the field for the billionth time. “Show her that soccer players run more than cross-country.”

Ray snorted, swiping his hand across his face to spray sweat everywhere. “Yeah, right. You know she runs, like, six to ten miles a day. You couldn’t do that.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” I grunted, pushing harder against the grass. I heard Ray mutter something in Spanish in exasperation as he fell slightly behind me for a moment before catching up again. He stayed doggedly at my side for the remainder of the lap, and then we headed to the goal line for sprints.

Usually I felt like throwing up during suicides, but that day the feeling multiplied. My legs burned, my stomach churned, and sweat poured down my face as I ran, but I wasn’t thinking about the exercise. My only focus was to beat everyone else, to show my dad that I could be a captain. The thought of his choice made me want to puke more than the sprints.

I could keep ahead of most of the guys on the team, except a few seniors who stayed neck-to-neck with me and, to my extreme displeasure, Jackson Davis. The guy was fast, I had to hand it to him, but that alone didn’t make him a good player. And it definitely didn’t make him any more likeable.

When finally he called us into the center, I made my way over to him though I felt like running away. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that I wouldn’t be picked – when had my dad last thought I was someone he could trust? Someone like Jack?

After his usual pep talk, my dad looked around our semi-circle, making eye contact with every exhausted, grimy guy. I held his gaze though I didn’t want to, but his face was impassive, moving as steadily across mine as anyone else’s.

“I know you all have been wondering about my captain choices,” he began in his deep coach voice, which he didn’t really need at that point; everyone was listening closely. “And I want you to know that it was difficult this year because there are many of you to choose from.”