FRIDAY, AUGUST 26

6:19 P.M.

PHOEBE

The entire house is wired with speakers, and the playlist Phoebe made especially for tonight streams through all of them, so the music never stops, no matter where she goes. She twirls from room to room, grabbing unsuspecting teammates as she goes, pulling them out of whatever conversation they’re having and making them dance with her for however long they’ll allow it, spinning each one like a top, dipping them until the ends of their hair sweep the floor.

Phoebe could dance all night. It feels that good to be back, the weight of making the cut finally and fully lifted off her shoulders. Phoebe hasn’t hung out with some girls since school ended last June. She hears about Stephanie Evans’s trip to Disneyland, where one of her cousins dresses up as Kristoff for some Frozen live show thingy. Anna Burgess’s family bought a new house directly across the street from their old house, because her mother had always loved it and the lady who lived there died. Or was it that the lady got put into one of those assisted living communities? Phoebe can’t remember. She’s just grateful there seems to be no hard feelings for the way she dropped off the grid.

After her ACL surgery in January, Phoebe scheduled her rehab appointments around the spring club schedule, so she could watch the games from the sidelines. But after her second operation—that staph infection was beyond shitty luck—she couldn’t bring herself to keep going.

It was one of the weirdest parts of her injury Phoebe had to contend with, her sudden loss of fortitude. Usually she had more than enough grit to face down any challenge, mental or physical, on the field or off. It was a well she could dip into any time, her reserves always at the highest watermark and instantly replenished by whatever stunt Phoebe managed to pull off.

But this past year took it out of her. Her grit became a more precious resource. One Phoebe needed to conserve for the greater good of returning to the field this season, not waste on dulling the torture of watching her teammates play without her.

Missing spring club was hard. Summer league was harder. It just about killed Phoebe when her doctor said she wasn’t cleared for Kissawa.

Mel had gotten her license, and the girls had been so stoked to drive themselves to the camp for the first time. They already knew the best gas stations to stop at for snacks, but now they could hit the outlet mall just past the halfway point, a detour their parents—who would immediately have to drive the return trip home—never let them take. Even though Phoebe couldn’t play, she was seriously considering riding up with Mel anyway and then taking a bus or whatever back. Phoebe missed Mel that much. They’d barely hung out at all this summer.

But Mel didn’t end up going to Kissawa either. She dropped out when the invitation came to visit Truman and attend a tryout with some other prospectives. Truman was Mel’s dream school, and thankfully, the Wildcats’ horrible performance in the championship game hadn’t completely screwed up her chance of going. This, for Phoebe, was enough good to drown out the bad of not getting an invitation to try out there herself. Phoebe always knew she’d be a long shot. And there were a bunch of other colleges Phoebe was considering. For Mel, it was only Truman.

Phoebe never got the full story from Mel about how it went. Mel never texted while she was at Truman, never sent Phoebe any pictures. There weren’t even any general social media updates Phoebe could stalk. Nothing. She knew the silence was Mel being a good friend to her. Mel being sensitive to how badly this sucked for Phoebe, who had been hoping to be there with her. In fact, Gordy was the one who told Phoebe when Mel officially committed. It was totally an unintentional slip; he assumed Phoebe already knew. And of course she played it off like she did.

“Dinner is served!” Mrs. Gingrich says, guiding everyone toward the buffet set up in the dining room.

Phoebe trails Mrs. Gingrich, and in her best impression, adds the caveat, “Seniors first!”

At Psych-Ups, the girls always eat in order of seniority. Seniors make their plates first, then juniors, then sophomores, and lastly—if there are any—freshmen. Only one girl made the cut this year.

Good thing because Phoebe is starving. She fills her plate—lemon chicken, pasta with vodka sauce, steamed veggies—but she barely eats it because she’s too busy talking with her fellow seniors, fake bitching about how their Psych-Up dinners are going to suck in comparison to Mel’s unless they hire like a sushi chef or something.

When it’s time for the juniors to eat, Phoebe stays in her seat and manages a few forkfuls while shooting the shit with Ali. She already chatted with the sophomore players who are eagerly lining up, and plus her food is cold, so she carries her and Ali’s plates to the trash.

Out the kitchen window, Phoebe sees Luci sitting by herself at a table in the backyard, staring quietly down at her lap. At least when Phoebe was a freshman, she had Mel to hang out with.

That’s partly why Phoebe pushed Mel to drive Luci home today. Mel was making excuses about the errands they needed to run, but Phoebe wasn’t having it. “Mel. Why are you being so weird about this?”

“I’m not being weird. I just don’t know where Luci even went,” Mel said, barely glancing around Coach’s classroom to look.

“So go find her!”

It soothed Phoebe that she wasn’t the only one with unkind thoughts. And, to her credit, Mel did take Luci home. Phoebe, however, still hasn’t said anything to Kearson. She hasn’t been a bitch. No dirty looks. No cold shoulder. But she can’t bring herself to go out of her way and say something nice to Kearson either. This isn’t like her. But like the clicks she sometimes feels in her knee, it’s a change Phoebe prefers to ignore.

“Hey, Luci,” Phoebe says, walking over. “What are you doing out here by yourself?”

Luci shyly brings up what she’s been hiding in her lap. Her Wildcat team binder. “Studying.”

Luci reminds Phoebe so much of Mel. Adorable yet intense AF about field hockey. She teases, “Are you worried that Coach is going to hand out a pop quiz?”

Luci clenches her teeth, revealing two rows of silver braces. “I mean … I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Phoebe shakes her head. “You’ve passed the test, Luci. So put the binder away, fix yourself a plate of food, and go make friends with your teammates. That’s what tonight is about!”

Luci exhales. “Okay.”

“However. I’m going to require that you memorize the words to the songs I was playing in Mel’s car today. I can’t allow you to live the rest of your life with that kind of musical blind spot. I’ll send you the track list.”

Luci laughs and the metal sparkles. “Thanks, Phoebe. I won’t let you down.”

Phoebe follows Luci back inside. Mr. and Mrs. Gingrich are at the kitchen island, each with a glass of wine, smiling as they survey the party. Mrs. Gingrich calls Phoebe over and gives her a big hug. “It’s so good to see you like this, Phoebe. Back where you belong!”

“Thank you.”

“Any news on the scholarship front?” Mr. Gingrich asks tentatively. He is in a collared shirt with a Truman University necktie. It’s not showy—what looks like a pattern of small polka dots is actually a bunch of little Ts—but Phoebe recognizes it.

“Dad!” Mel, clearly horrified, zooms in from the living room. She takes Phoebe by the hand and leads Phoebe away from her parents. Phoebe stiffens, trying to resist Mel, not wanting to be rude, but Mel is pulling hard and the last thing Phoebe needs is to tweak her knee, so she gives up.

Over her shoulder, Phoebe says, “Um. Not yet. But hopefully soon!”

Mr. and Mrs. Gingrich call after her, “Well, we’re all cheering for you, Phoebe!”

“I’m so sorry about that,” Mel groans. “Now that they can’t obsess over my college choices anymore, they’re moving on to their second daughter.”

It’s true. Phoebe and Mel are like sisters. Knowing that Mel’s entire family is pulling for her is a welcome change from the vibe in Phoebe’s own house.

Mel curls up against her. “I bet Coach will be getting plenty of emails from scouts wanting to come see you this season. Not that he’ll ever tell.” She hooks her chin on Phoebe’s shoulder. “Anyway, you know how he is.”

Whenever Mel typically says this, it’s usually to soften the blow of her knowing Coach better than Phoebe. And most times, Mel does.

Just not this one.

However, all Phoebe says in response is, “Does he honestly believe not telling us stops us from thinking about it? You played every game last season wondering if a scout from Truman was there.”

“Yeah, but I get why Coach does it. It would mess with our heads if we knew for sure.”

Phoebe smiles. She could have predicted that’s what Mel would say. She always walks back anything even remotely negative about Coach. Mel might know Coach better, but Phoebe knows Mel better than Mel knows herself.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed this,” Phoebe tells her.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” Mel says.

Coach has his favorites. Phoebe’s always been a proxy to Mel’s stardom. Phoebe didn’t get the same accolades Mel did. No picture in the paper. Not that she cared, really. That was never what she played for. Mel might be the star of the Wildcats, but Phoebe has always thought of herself as the heart. And tonight she finally feels it beating again.

Phoebe checks her email, then helps herself to a cupcake, which she eats in three bites while checking her email yet again. Her phone is low on battery, and she sets out to find the charger Mel’s family has in the den. That’s where she finds Coach, sitting by himself, his phone already plugged in.

He got sunburned from tryouts today, a bit of pink across his nose. His hair, still damp from an earlier shower, hangs down over his eyes. In his dark jeans and polo shirt, he looks like the kind of boyish adult who could play a teenager on television. He’s looking at something on his phone, his mouth in a sulky pout, and then clicks his phone off, leans his head back, and closes his eyes.

The Wildcats are not the only ones drawn to Coach. He’s mobbed all the time.

The guys at their high school pathetically congregate around Coach’s desk, wanting to talk to him about workouts or what supplements he buys from GNC. They beg him to come play Ping-Pong in the gym during free period.

Referees kiss his ass. Parents suck up. Their vice principal is so obviously hot for him. Other coaches always want to bend his ear, shoot the shit, even while he’s clearly trying to do his job. Then again, most coaches talk about drills but don’t perform them. In fact, West Essex’s track coach notoriously drives his car when the distance runners do a ten-miler. But Coach is always on the field with the Wildcats, deftly demoing the drills that don’t cause him pain, and gritting his teeth to get through the drills that do. It’s like he sometimes forgets his field hockey career is over.

But that’s the thing. It’s never been about his looks. She’s always been drawn to Coach’s swagger. His confidence. It’s another place where she knows she’s still lacking on the field. Phoebe felt so insecure at tryouts this week. Every day she had to shake that feeling, not let it get into her head. Especially the times when Coach would swap her out for Kearson during a scrimmage.

Kearson. Bobblehead Kearson. That’s what she looks like, her head slightly too big for her skinny little body, constantly in motion, always yessing Coach.

Anyway.

After checking her email yet again, Phoebe decides to do something brave. And possibly stupid. But she’s never let that stop her before. She uses her phone camera to check her makeup, quickly touches up her lipstick, pulls out a few pieces from her fishtail braid. Then, summoning all the confidence she can, she walks into the den and flops down next to Coach on the couch.

“Hey, Coach.”

He turns his head and opens his eyes, then closes them again. “Hey, Phoebs.”

She loves her new dress, white cotton with a sweetheart neckline and wooden buttons down the front. She didn’t want to wear Knee Spanx tonight. She didn’t want to think about her knee. But smoothing the dress, Phoebe sees her scar. It used to be pink, but as her skin tanned, it’s become white, brighter. Now she wishes she’d picked a different dress. A maxi.

“Nice party, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Phoebe blows a few wisps of her hair out of her face. “Wow, you know, I just can’t wait to be out on the field tomorrow. Playing in an actual game. Which I haven’t done since the championship.”

“I’m well aware of the last time you played field hockey.”

“Right. Of course. But I’ve just got this feeling like, once the whistle blows tomorrow, I know it’s all going to click.”

Slightly irritated, he sits up. “What’s going to click?”

Phoebe doesn’t even want to say it. But she knows it needs to be said. “Obviously I still need to work on my timing. But I’m going to get there. I’m not worried. Oh, and today’s tryout was definitely the hardest test on my knee yet, and I’m passing with flying colors. I don’t have a bit of soreness. Just so you know. Or, um, anyone else that might ask.”

“You mean like scouts. Phoebe, you know I don’t like to talk about that stuff with my players.” He scratches his neck and then adds, “Only in the most extreme circumstances.”

“It’s just that I’m really still hoping for a scholarship. Hopefully D1. Obviously not Truman—”

“Truman is off the table. If we had won the championship, it might be a different story.” His tone is cool. Matter-of-fact.

“Right. But maybe Wilcox could be a possibility? So Mel and I can be in the same division.…” She swallows. “I’d even be willing to consider a lesser option, like Trident.”

Before Phoebe had gotten injured, Trident was her safety school. It wasn’t D1 but also wouldn’t be far from Mel and Truman. They wouldn’t play each other, but they could still watch each other play.

Coach’s lip curls. “Trident? You’re kidding me, right? Come on, Phoebe. You’re way too good of a player to slum it on Trident. Forget them.”

It’s not exactly a compliment, but that Coach believes she’s “too good” for anything makes Phoebe’s heart swell. However, there’s something Phoebe needs to tell him. Something she’d been hoping not to mention.

“I think they’ve forgotten me, actually.” Phoebe bites her bottom lip. “I reached out to Trident’s scout on Wednesday. A guy named Jon Dockey.” Phoebe looks to see if Coach recognizes the name, but instead his face darkens just like a storm cloud, the kind that sends you scrambling for cover. “I, um, knew Trident was looking at me last season, so I figured it would be a good idea to catch him up on my progress.”

Glaring at her, Coach growls, “You did what?”

“I’m sorry.” She knew he’d be angry. But he’s furious.

A tendon in Coach’s neck tightens, straining against his skin. “Did he write back?”

If she were wearing her Knee Spanx, Phoebe would slide it off her leg and roll it down over her face. “No.”

“Have you written to any other schools?”

Phoebe shakes her head. “Only Trident, because it was my safety. And I thought hearing they were still interested would give me a little confidence boost. I didn’t think for a second they might not want me.”

Phoebe hates how hard she’s fishing for some kind of reassurance that everything can still work out for her. Mel will talk Phoebe up until she’s blue in the face. But Coach is the one person on this team who knows firsthand exactly the position she’s in right now.

Coach is a former all-star collegiate player, a D1 starter. While playing at Truman, he also earned a spot on the Junior National Field Hockey Team. After graduation, Coach moved up to the Men’s National Team and spent two years playing all over the world.

Within that span of time, he’d had a total of eight ACL surgeries, four on each of his knees.

Coach was in the middle of Olympic tryouts when his career officially ended. Both his ACLs completely shredded. Even with the best doctors, there was nothing left for them to repair.

And he’s the only one she can trust to tell her the hard truth.

“This is exactly why I don’t want my players contacting any scouts on their own. Even with your knee injury, Trident is still way below you. They should be begging you to come play there. I don’t know what you said to this Jon person, exactly, but it’s clear how you came across. Desperate.”

“I’m so sorry. Really.”

Coach runs his hands through his hair, pulling on his curls, releasing the tension inside him. “All it takes is one email from me to get you back on the scouting radar. An email I will send when and if I feel that you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Coach. Seriously.”

“But let me make one thing perfectly clear, Phoebe,” Coach says, his voice low and intense. “You and I will not have another conversation about scouts until I say there’s something to talk about. And you and I will never have another conversation about you going to Trident again. If you can’t follow my rules, you won’t play on my team. Do you understand me?”

“Absolutely. One hundred percent.”

Coach glances around for someone he seems ticked off isn’t already there, poised for action. Mel, surely.

“Do you need something, Coach? I can gather the girls in the backyard for your speech.”

“Fine. Go ahead.”

Though he’s still clearly pissed at her, Phoebe’s relieved. It’s the best she could have hoped for. Coach is offering her a simple solution to a complicated problem. She has to prove herself on the field. If she can do that, and she will, he’ll take care of her.

Coach doesn’t want to hear about your cramps, he doesn’t want to know if you’re breaking out, if you bombed a test, if your mom’s being ridiculous, if you’ve been asked to homecoming, if you’ve had your heart broken.

He only wants you to perform.

For this, he’s made Phoebe into a stronger girl.

Wait. No.

He has made her stronger, no caveat.