He told himself it wasn’t a big deal. But for the rest of Bio, and the rest of the day, his head was hot and buzzing. He told himself it was the game and the pressure he was feeling, but that wasn’t true. All he could think about was Shane. Sad little Shane. Was the kid even a hundred pounds? And those giant ears—worthless ears. Those glasses and those big scared eyes. In his nightmares he was Shane. Wasn’t that how everyone saw him? Thinking about the parents was almost worse. How could he not think of his own parents? Of all the crap they’d had to go through, all the extra meetings, all the times they’d had to work so hard to get him involved and included. He swallowed hard on the acid tide rising in the back of his throat.
That was one advantage to going to college, he supposed. They wouldn’t be around to see him fail. He stood up. What class was he in anyway? He glanced up at the board. French. The day was practically over. He threw his backpack over one shoulder and mumbled something incomprehensible at Madame St. Clair. Foreign language teachers never knew what time it was anyway. She looked mildly confused at his exit, but she didn’t stop him.
He walked slowly down to the gym but paused at the entrance to the locker room. Coach would be the only one in there, and he really didn’t feel like a heart-to-heart with anyone right now. Running alongside the locker room was a small hallway, an equipment room, and a door that led outside. He walked past the locker room quietly. The hallway and equipment room were empty, and he kept walking until he pushed through to the outside into kind of a brick alcove. He’d never been here before, though he knew the stoners who hung out there regularly called it the Bridge. On three sides of him were the walls of the school, and in front of him was a paved path that led out to the athletic fields. There was a huge piece of machinery—clearly some part of the heating system—and on either side of it, the brick walls of the school rose up toward the blank sky. As he looked around, someone pushed past him fast, bumping into his shoulder.
“Excuse me,” he said, annoyed at the skinny skater kid with his sideways trucker hat and blue hair.
“No problem,” said the kid, glancing over his shoulder. Jesus, was that eyeliner? Ben stared at the face, but it turned away and ducked back under the brim. His eyes dropped down the length of the kid’s body. It was a girl. He watched her slide through the door back toward the gym and the locker room. She was carrying a long skinny green plant in one hand, the root ball shedding crumbs of dirt on the tile floor as she went. The smell of cigarette smoke hung behind her. Cigarette smoke and something else. Ben inhaled deeply. Cinnamon.
Weird, but Ben shrugged it off. Stoners were weird. He sat down against the wall. It was cold but not too windy, and he was protected on either side by the high brick walls. He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a textbook. He opened it to a random page of French verb conjugations, afraid to look like he was just sitting there having some random freak-out.
He stared down at the incomprehensible lines of text on the paper. He felt like crying, but that wasn’t an option—hadn’t been for years. He did what he always did in these situations. He played the whole thing out to its worst conclusion in his head. He imagined touring that Shane kid around the school. What if he couldn’t even speak right? What if he tried to sign to Ben? He imagined each of these possibilities, taking care to note the horror and disgust on his classmates’ faces. He repeated this process over and over again, relishing the sick pit of churning acid his stomach had become. Then he imagined Tyler.
He knew what the look on Tyler’s face would be. He would love the kid. He pictured him giving high fives and wrapping his arm around the kid’s shoulders while introducing him to every hot girl who would, of course, be cooing as if Tyler had brought her a fluffy puppy instead of some freak who’s not even a freshman. He tried to go back to the other image, the gut-stabbing one. But he couldn’t. Just the thought of Tyler gave him a way to imagine a better outcome for the whole thing.
The door opened and Ben looked up to see Peter, their freshman equipment manager, struggling to pull out a net bag of soccer balls and another one of cones. He jumped up and stuffed the textbook back in his bag, glad to have a purpose again. He helped Peter bring the balls and cones out to the field.
When the team took the field, it was 3:15 and the wind was blowing harder than ever—an advantage for Ben since everyone would have a hard time hearing. Ben was trying to keep his mind on the game, trying not to imagine that Shane kid and his parents sitting in the bleachers, sad and lonely, by themselves in some cold corner of the stands. Half the stands were full of crimson and white, the Chelmsford school colors. Their side was all black and yellow for the Easton Fighting Hornets. Will DeGrazio was running around in his bee costume, trying to get people fired up by cheering and attempting to start the wave. The crowd was a pretty good one already—certainly a better turnout than their usual weekday games. But it was the playoffs.
Shit, this was the playoffs! He shook his head and ran out to stand in goal and take some warm-up shots from the defense. The first two he saved easily, but then a low corner ball caught him by surprise and sailed just past the tips of his fingers into the open net. No one said anything as he jogged to the back of the net to grab the ball. But he could hear them thinking: it was a shot he should have had. Another ball went wide of the net, and he ran after it. It bounced against the black chain-link fence. As he scooped it up, he came face-to-face with Julie Snow. She was cradling a cup of hot chocolate in her red mitten–covered hands. Her cheeks were bright pink, and her hazel eyes seemed brighter. “Ben Wireman,” she said, as though both amused and surprised to see him there. There was another girl standing with her.
He looked over his shoulder. Coach was working with the offense. He bounced the ball off his chest and down to his feet. “Don’t act like you didn’t know I’d be here,” he said. It sounded stronger and more flirtatious than it had in his head.
“Darcy,” said Julie, “this is Ben Wireman. He doesn’t have a plan for college. Ben,” she continued, “this is Darcy. She was my freshmen buddy last year. Now we’re just friends.”
Darcy rolled her eyes and smirked at the introduction. Then she met his eyes and seemed to hold his gaze a little longer than normal. She had freckles and dirty blonde hair, and she was definitely cute. She was wearing a light fleece and looked like at any moment she might start shaking. He was about to offer the girls his jacket when his parents appeared just behind them, waving frantically with excitement. “See you after the game,” he said casually before his mother could yell something embarrassing like, “Good luck sweetie!” He nodded again at the girls before he kicked the ball to the defense and ran back toward the net.
Brandon Rosetti fired a line drive at the back corner of the net, which he leaped for and punched away. He didn’t miss another shot during warm-ups. It felt like new blood was flowing through his veins. Talking to Julie and her cute sophomore friend had given him a transfusion of energy. After he dove for another ball, sending it wide of the net with just a touch of his fists, Coach called them into the huddle.
The first half of the game was pretty flat. Both teams played cautiously, trying to feel each other out and find a weakness. Ben only touched the ball twice, and once was when the defender kicked the ball back to him so he could send it past the midfield with a dropkick. Chelmsford had their best player marking Tyler, and the guy was sticking to him like glue. Tyler looked bored and almost angry when they came into the huddle for halftime.
Coach was intense but measured in his words, like always. “No more wasted time, guys. You know what happens when we waste time. It becomes a game not about who’s the better team, but about who gets lucky in the last five minutes. That’s not a great win, and if you lose, it’s a lousy way to end a season. If you want this game, you need to come out and play like you want it.” After that he talked specifically to the offense about how he wanted them to play. “Stop passing to Nuson. Let that kid who’s marking him get lazy, and then Tyler can free himself up.” He clapped a hand on Tyler’s shoulder. Tyler flinched as though Coach had struck him. If Coach noticed, he pretended not to. Ben stared at Tyler, willing him to remember his promise not to be an asshole to Coach, but Tyler wouldn’t meet his eyes.
He cast a glance up into the stands to see if Tyler was right about Coach’s boyfriend or whoever he was. He scanned the crowd. His parents caught his eye and waved frantically. Sitting one row below them were Julie and Darcy. Julie was talking to another senior girl, but Darcy was staring right at him. She smiled. Ben looked around him to see who she was smiling at. He looked back. Now she was grinning as though she could read his self-conscious action. He gave a little smile back.
Coach was talking to the defense now. Ben listened as Coach reminded the players about staying calm and feeding the ball forward. There wasn’t that much to say. They were all playing well, just not well enough. No one was taking risks, and it would take risks to win the game. Ben was only half listening. None of this pertained to him. His job was not to take risks but to consider them and guard against them. His job was to be the most conservative player out there. The only time he had to take risks was when a game went to penalty kicks. And then it became a different kind of game entirely. Something bright red jumped out from the sea of black and yellow and caught his eye. It was Coach’s friend in a long red scarf and a tan overcoat leaning against the fence. He was talking to Mrs. Rosetti, his arms crossed in front of his body to ward off the cold or possibly her advances. Ben instinctively tried to find Tyler’s eyes but then realized that was ridiculous. What was his point? Whatever was going on with Tyler, it was about more than just Coach.
“Ben!” Coach was saying loudly now. Ben blushed. Had he missed something? Had Coach been trying to get his attention? “Don’t get flat out there.” Coach looked up at the time clock. Seven minutes left in the halftime break. “Everyone get out and get warm. Josh and Bret, go warm up Ben,” Coach called to the two freshmen riding the bench for playoffs. The boys jumped up, clearly eager to do something besides shivering on the bench.
Both teams were more energized in the second half of the game. Twice the Chelmsford offense penetrated their half of the field. The first time they got a shot off, it was a slow dribbler—probably a pass gone missing—and Ben was able to scoop it up and send it off. The second time resulted in a corner kick: a perfectly placed ball that came down right in the middle of the pack. There weren’t too many situations more dangerous for a goalie. But this time Brandon Rosetti got a head on it, and then the midfielders were able to clear the ball.
Midway through the half, Easton got a break. It was an indirect kick just fifty feet from the goal. The Chelmsford players lined up to make a wall. Ben walked forward as the entire defense marched up to push the play forward. Tyler lined up next to Andy Debias, who was taking the kick. The whistle blew, Andy tapped it, and Tyler blasted it over the wall. Ben’s heart sank as the ball fell straight toward the goalie. But then the goalie did something unexpected. Instead of catching the ball and keeping control of the game, he punched it out. He punched it hard. The ball sailed back toward Tyler, who was running in. He jumped up, impossibly high up, and drove the ball into the back right corner of the net with his head.
The crowd erupted before Tyler’s feet even touched the ground. Ben ran forward to join his team. They were all sprinting toward Tyler, lifting him up with the sheer force of bodies coming together in one place. They were jumping and chanting and shouting until the ref’s whistle brought them back to earth. Ben dashed back to the goal, goading the crowd with his outstretched arms as he ran. The noise swelled again. Was there anything better? Was there any other place in his life where he allowed himself to enjoy this much focused attention?
The next few minutes were the most dangerous time in the game. The other team would expect them to relax with their one-goal lead, relax, and get lazy. Chelmsford took the kickoff and booted it past their midfield. They charged the ball. Their winger reached it before Brandon could get there. With a light touch, he slid past Brandon, and suddenly there was just Ben between him and the goal. Ben felt the adrenaline surge through his arms and fingers. He could see Brandon thundering just behind the Chelmsford winger, but he wasn’t going to be fast enough. Ben came out of goal to cut off the angle. He bounced back and forth on his feet and watched the muscles in the other boy’s chest. Was he going to pass? He glanced up, but his nearest teammate was behind him more than five yards. No, he was going to shoot. Ben came forward another foot. He watched the footwork, waiting for an indication of which way the ball would go. Then the kid dribbled just a tiny bit too hard. It was an opening. Ben dove, scooping the ball into his chest and tucking his head so that the kid and the teeth of his cleats sailed over Ben’s head. He could hear the crowd explode before he even opened his eyes.
He jumped up, shaking off the clods of dirt, and sent a huge dropkick up the left side of the field. It dropped right in front of Tyler, who gave a little push off his defender and settled the ball neatly at his feet. He dribbled just a few feet and shot the ball neatly past the goalie into the bottom corner of the net.
After that, it was all over. The defense was flawless, and Ben didn’t touch the ball for the rest of the game. In the last three minutes Andy Debias scored, making the final score three to nothing. When the whistle blew, Ben was walking on air as he watched his team run down to scoop him up and celebrate in the goal. It wasn’t really his win, even though he did have that one save, but the team always celebrated in their own goal.
After they rolled around on the field, Coach came running out with Peter, who had water bottles and a bag of their warm-ups. Coach kept it quick. He was proud of them. Eastern Mass finals would be played on Saturday. They would have a light practice tomorrow after school. “Go home and get some rest,” he said sternly. But he was smiling. The crowd was clearing out. Ben’s parents gave him a little wave and pointed in the general direction of home. Julie was gone.
Ben fell in with Tyler as they began to jog their victory lap around the field, first toward the parking lot and then back to the main building. Ben glanced sideways at Tyler. His face was light, untroubled, almost gleeful, and Ben realized how long it had been since he’d seen Tyler this way. “Good game,” he said.
“Great game,” Tyler agreed. He had just run for eighty minutes, but he jogged as though it were nothing. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
“Eastern finals,” Ben said.
“Yup,” Tyler said. “Might even get the old man out of his study for that one.” Ben glanced up at the stands, but if anyone had been there for Tyler they were gone now. Tyler caught his glance. “My mom was here. And Jer, of course. He’s the only reason she’s here.”
Ben knew better than to argue with this. Jeremiah was Tyler’s little brother and his biggest fan. Six years was just enough for Tyler to appear like some half-god half-man to the sixth grader. But Jeremiah’s adulation aside, sports just didn’t matter very much in the Nuson household. Except for cricket, which the professor had developed an affinity for when he studied at Oxford. Sometimes he watched it on some obscure sports channel in their living room. It was embarrassingly pretentious.
“They’ll come if we make it to States,” Ben said.
“Does it matter?”
Yes, it does. Or it should. “Is everything cool there? With your parents?”
“Oh no,” Tyler said, his face clouding over. “Not you too. It’s fine. It’s the same.”
Ben thought about what that meant. About how little time Tyler spent at home and how often he was alone or hanging out with Jeremiah, the two of them making microwave pizza or spaghetti for dinner. When his mom was around, she was constantly checking her phone, and his dad seemed to reside permanently in the den or his study. Their dysfunction was in the complete absence of anything resembling a family, at least in a social sense. But Tyler was right; it had always been that way. It was not new, the way this cold, easily snappish, pissy version of Tyler was.