Beyond Lucky

At home, Dad makes coffee. Mom puts up her feet. The painkillers let pain live. If I move, my entire mouth throbs.

The newspaper sits folded on the table. Steve the Sports Guy tells Sick of Being Nagged to get off the couch and confront his girlfriend. And Frustrated About Work needs a new job. I’m surprised when he thinks the Galaxy fan who doesn’t want to read about the Lakers is overreacting to her daughter’s boyfriend. Usually, he tells people to trust their guts. But this time, he advises the guy to “Sit back. Wait and see. Maybe the kid is sincere. Maybe he isn’t. Just love your daughter. Time will tell.”

I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to hear any excuses. I only get out of bed to e-mail Sam. “We lost,” I write. “Everything is falling apart.”

She calls three more times in the first hour. Two times in the next. The last time, Mom says, “She sounds really sad.”

The next day, right before dinner, Coach stops by with Mac. “I don’t care how things got out of hand,” he says, “but now I want you to make it go away.”

Mac goes first. “I guess I really let Parker get to me.” He puts out his hand to shake mine. “I guess I let a lot of things get to me. It made me mad, when you blamed me for your lost card. We are friends. Teammates. I couldn’t believe you thought I could do something like that to you.”

But I am not honest. Coach is here. He doesn’t look like he wants to actually talk about what happened. He expects me to accept whatever it is Mac is offering and move on for the sake of the team.

So even though nothing has been resolved, that is what I am going to do. I try to think of something to say. Something honest. Something that will get them out of my house.

Mac says, “You know, All-Star Soccer says that Wayne Timcoe card is worth two thousand dollars. You were really lucky to get it back before Parker tried to unload it.”

He does not understand the first thing about collecting. “Since when did you care about the value of trading cards? I thought you said the cards were worthless.”

Coach clears his throat. “Ari, give your friend a break. I don’t think Mac was suggesting that you should sell the Timcoe. I don’t think he believes it is worthless.”

Mac jumps all over that. “I don’t. I know how much that card means to you. I’m glad you got it back.” We stare at each other in silence until he blinks. “This has been the worst week of my life. I want to put this entire chapter behind us.”

When I don’t immediately chime in, Coach frowns. He thinks I’m stalling. “Ari, Mac is reaching out to you.” In other words, say something. Do the right thing. Shake hands and make up, so we can get back to work.

So I shake Mac’s hand. When he hugs me, I hug back. And for Coach, this means that the conflict is over. “Good. I’m glad we had this little talk.”

They are about to leave, when Dad brings out a pot full of chili with side dishes of cheese and very soft for-a-sore-jaw tortillas. Coach looks at his watch, tells us he needs to go, but he will stay a bit longer for some comfort food this tasty.

Mac and I eat three servings each. Coach stops at two. “Boys, if this team is going to succeed, you two are going to have to put all this behind you. You’re going to have to play together. You’re going to have to find a way to—”

Mac takes the last of the tortillas, but leaves the last scoop of cheese for me. He promises he’ll lead the team to victory. He’ll even get Mischelotti off my back. “I know I’ve been a total jerk. That whole scene in the cafeteria was not right. But trust me—I am going to make it up to you.”

He burps too. A little one. “Yes. I’m sorry.” We each grab a bottle of soda and chug all the way until there’s nothing left. It is easy to believe Mac. It’s fun to be his friend. We take turns burping—each time, a little bit louder—until Mac lays a loud, long one, and I give up. Then we both start laughing and I hiccup a bunch of times, so hard it hurts. Mac says, “I never want to drive anywhere with Mischelotti again. His car stinks!” And I say, “And I never want to hear the Mia Hamm story again.”

Coach leaves the room to talk to Dad. Mac shakes my hand again. There are no jokes. No one is listening. He says, “I know I haven’t always been the best friend, and I’m sorry about that. I’m really glad this is over. I hope you will be able to trust me again.”

It’s the key ingredient of a team. You have to trust that your teammates have your back. You have to trust that everyone is playing their best.

Parker trusted us to play, but she shouldn’t have. I trusted her with the card, but then she stole it. Now Mac wants me to trust him.

I want to believe him, but something doesn’t feel right. “You’re my striker. We have to stick together.” I don’t think that is exactly what he wanted to hear, but right now, it’s the best I can do.

Coach makes us promise to be fair to Parker. “She may have done something terrible, but we’re a team, and that means you’re not allowed to hold it against her.” He says he is too old for this nonsense, but it is obvious he believes Mac. “It will be rough at first. There will be some bumps. But I won’t lead a team that can’t play together.”

After they leave, when I am alone in my room, when Mom isn’t asking me if my mouth is still sore and Dad isn’t worrying that the next shipment of grass-fed beef is going to be late, and I’m not worried that Sam still hasn’t returned any of my desperate, urgent e-mails, I secretly can’t help feeling a little bit of doubt.

The truth is Parker could have framed Mac. But Mac could have framed Parker too. If it hadn’t been for him, we never would have lost that game.

In the early morning, the sun turns the sky from red to pink to a misty blue-gray haze. Behind some clouds, the sun is a white-yellow ball.

Even though the sky is light enough for me to see the red leaves on the trees, I can see the moon. It looks like it is made of dust, a shadow of the big yellow sun, determined to stick around.