SATURDAY, AUGUST 27
12:50 A.M.
MEL
Mel watches from the center of the circle as her teammates twist left to right, each girl lighting her sparkler, and then passing the fire onto the next, adding clouds to their electric white snowstorm.
She knows Coach will be happy tomorrow. He will see his Wildcats.
When the sparkler circle is complete, Mel takes a breath and says, “As captain, it is my belief that every girl here tonight has proven herself a worthy teammate. And so, it is now my great honor to present each of you with your varsity jersey. From this moment forward until the final whistle, we are the Wildcats. Team first, always.”
Lead by Phoebe, the girls begin singing the Wildcat fight song.
We are the Wildcats, the navy blue and white,
We are the Wildcats, always ready for a fight!
Don’t mess with the Wildcats, we won’t accept defeat,
For we are the Wildcats, and we will not be beat!
Three cheers for the Wildcats, your honor we’ll defend,
’Cause when you’re a Wildcat, you’re a Wildcat till the end!
Mel shrugs off her varsity jacket and then crouches down before the duffel bag full of varsity jerseys at her feet.
She will slip on her own jersey first. Then she’ll fish out the numbers already claimed by the returning players and hand those out. Last of all, she’ll call forth each new Wildcat to choose a number from the jerseys that are left. Practical, efficient. Though, if it were Phoebe, she’d take them out with flair and reverence, like when Rafiki lifts up baby Simba and presents him to the pride.
Mel pulls back the zipper and bites her lip.
The varsity jerseys are made of heavy-weight polyester. They are white, slightly boxy, with short sleeves. Short sleeves are good for September games, when it’s still hot out, but by mid-October, the girls will layer long-sleeved shirts underneath their jerseys to keep warm. Their jerseys have navy numbers stitched to the back, “West Essex” stitched across the chest.
But what Mel finds in the duffel bag are a tangle of their practice pinnies. The ones Coach hands out for scrimmages. Flimsy mesh tanks in blue and white, damp and slightly musty. Mel doubts they’ve been washed once all week.
Mel is so suddenly dizzy she sets her hands down on the turf to steady herself.
Phoebe is waving her sparkler, singing, smiling. Mel catches her attention with a pained stare.
“Everything okay?” Phoebe says, stepping into the circle and crouching next to her, careful to hold her sparkler off to the side. Mel doesn’t have to answer. Phoebe sees for herself that there are no Wildcat jerseys in the duffel bag. “What the …”
Her teammates slow the fight song down to an eerie tempo. Mel glances up at them, and they immediately pick up the speed again, pretending not to see that something weird is happening.
“Sorry, girls. Just one second,” Mel announces, her voice high and sharp. She quickly zips the bag closed and walks out of the circle.
“Is everything okay, Mel?” Luci bites on the side of her finger, one foot on top of the other.
“Yup!” Mel says, without slowing down, feeling their eyes on her back.
“This is weird,” Phoebe whispers, at her side. “Is Coach saying we haven’t made the team yet? That we could still be cut?” Phoebe gasps and grabs Mel’s arm, pulling her to a stop. “Oh my God, Mel. Remember Becks?”
“Huh?”
“Becks Altiero!”
“Phoebe! I know who you mean!” Phoebe and Mel were sophomores when Becca, aka Becks, Altiero was a senior with long brown hair, blunt cut bangs, and a little gap between her front teeth. Becks was sweet as sugar in real life, but on the field, she was notoriously salty, something the girls attributed to having grown up the only girl sandwiched between four brothers. Not only did Becks have a mouth on her—and the uncanny ability to curse out a ref without him ever hearing—but she loved to showboat. Every time she scored a goal, Becks would bust out a celebratory dance move on her way to retrieve the ball. A twerk, a shimmy, a worm. You never knew what it was going to be. Her victory dances weren’t so much a way to annoy the opposing team (though they did) but an expression of Becks’ joy in playing the game. “What I don’t get is why you’re bringing her up now.”
“Don’t you remember? How Coach benched her for the last half of the season?”
“Vaguely? I thought Becks was having a dry spell.”
“No. It all started at one of our practices. Coach was demoing a defensive ball handling skill, and he picked Becks to stand in on offense. Except Becks wouldn’t let him steal the ball. She kept pulling it away from him and teasing him about it. At first Coach was laughing, but then he got hella pissed.”
“How do I not remember any of this?”
“I have no idea. But at the very next game, Coach benched her. And then the game after that, too. I think Becks even tried to apologize, but Coach pretended like he didn’t know what she was talking about.”
“Maybe Coach didn’t know what she was talking about.” Mel certainly doesn’t. “Anyway, that’s, like, an entirely different situation. None of us are trying to flex on him.”
“Yeah. That’s true.”
“It has to be a mistake.” They’d had a straightforward conversation. Yes, he’d hesitated. Yes, he’d wanted Mel to let him in on their secret Psych-Up traditions. But when it came down to it, Mel had asked Coach to trust her. By giving her the jerseys, it meant that he did.
Mel blinks.
Let’s see how this plays out.
“I should probably text him, though, just to make sure.”
“Mel, don’t! It’s late. We’re supposed to be at your house sleeping. We don’t want to piss him off more. If it was a mistake, we can just get the varsity jerseys from him tomorrow. Even without them, we’ve still had an awesome night. Your Psych-Up was a total success.”
Mel smiles at the compliment but there is an uneasy feeling in her stomach. “Don’t worry.” Phoebe starts to follow her into the parking lot, but Mel holds up her hands. “Stay with the girls, okay?”
“What do you want me to tell them?”
“Have them keep singing until I can figure out what’s going on.”
She shoves her hands into the pockets of her cutoffs and walks quickly toward her car. The parking lot lights collect moths, confetti that never falls to the ground. Behind her, her teammates sing dutifully.
We are the Wildcats, the navy blue and white,
We are the Wildcats, always ready for a fight!
Don’t mess with the Wildcats, we won’t accept defeat,
For we are the Wildcats, and we will not be beat!
Three cheers for the Wildcats, your honor we’ll defend,
’Cause when you’re a Wildcat, you’re a Wildcat till the end!
Mel takes out her phone. She’s not even sure what she should write.
MEL: Hey.
Coach answers almost immediately. Like he’s been waiting to hear from her. His phone expectantly in his hand.
COACH: ?
MEL: I’m sorry to be texting so late.
MEL: But I just realized that the bag you gave me was full of practice pinnies
MEL: Not varsity jerseys
She waits to see if he’ll respond.
MEL: And I’m wondering if that was an accident or …
Mel’s heartbeat fills her ears.
COACH: Seriously?
COACH: 
MEL: I don’t understand.
COACH: Yeah. I know.
COACH: That’s coming through loud and clear.
Mel looks around. The parking lot is empty. The street quiet. She turns to the field and sees that the sparklers have gone out. All that remains are curls of cinder smoke.
She will have to walk over there and tell the girls there are no varsity jerseys. There will be no ceremony. Phoebe was sweet to say this part didn’t matter, that her Psych-Up was still a success. But Mel knows the jersey ceremony is the point. So to have it taken away from her is humiliating.
He’s humiliated her in front of her team.
Why?
Her hands shaking, Mel types faster than she thinks, rapid fire, two thumbs.
MEL: You said you wanted me to help fix our team.
MEL: I told you I had a plan.
MEL: So why didn’t you at least give me a chance?
MEL: Why did you trick me into thinking that you trusted me?
MEL: Why not just tell me to my face?
MEL: Instead of making me look like an idiot in front of all the girls?
Her chest rises and falls. The gush of adrenaline leaves Mel slightly nauseous. She’s never gone off on Coach like that before. She immediately regrets it. But Mel finds validation in watching Coach struggle to respond. She sees him write back, then stop, write back, then stop.
It startles her when her phone rings in her hand.
“After everything I said tonight, in the backyard and privately to you, why would you think for a second you girls deserve your jerseys?” Coach lets out a loud breath. Impatient static. “Honestly, Mel? You proved my point better than I was able to myself. This should show you just how far off the rails the Wildcats have gone.”
Mel slowly sinks to the ground and hugs her knees.
“I’ll take some of the blame for us being in this situation. I let you girls get too complacent, pumped up your egos too much. Potential isn’t the same as destiny. We’re not hungry enough.” She hears him switch his phone from one side of his face to the other. “You’re the perfect example of that.”
“How so?”
“I should have never made you captain after you committed to Truman. After I heard about your boyfriend.”
Mel’s cheeks burn like they’ve been slapped.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
She’s telling the truth. She’s never once lied to Coach.
And she wants so badly to bite back. Inform Coach that, on the first day of tryouts, one of the JV players swore on her mother’s grave that over July 4 weekend Coach drove past her with Miss Candurra riding shotgun. The news didn’t do much for Mel’s appetite, but it served as a lip-smacking feast for her teammates, who knew only famine when it came to insights into Coach’s personal life. The girls planned to verify this possible new relationship via a crowdsourced scrutiny of body language once school starts up, but Mel could know right now if she wanted.
She bites her tongue instead.
“I’m only saying I don’t blame you for having one foot out the door. But if you can’t step up the way I need you to as captain of this team, and be willing to do the tough stuff, then I have to take over. You didn’t really leave me with a choice. My reputation is on the line.”
“So what now?”
“I know I told you girls to be at the field by eleven o’clock tomorrow but I’m changing that to nine. We’ll have a team meeting in my classroom. Between then and now, I want you all to think long and hard how badly you want to be a Wildcat. Based on what you come up with, I’ll know if I still want to be your coach.”
“Okay,” Mel whispers. But the line is already dead.
Mel never knew when Coach would go cold. He did it like an ice bath, plunging her into it, a shock to her system, no time to brace herself. Though it stung, there was always an underlying reason. Some injured part of her that he was trying to heal.
Apparently, this part of her never has.
He must know how badly what he’s done has hurt her. But the one bright spot—because with Coach there’s always a bright spot—is that the door isn’t completely closed. He’s left it open for her. There’s still a chance. And if there’s one thing Mel has learned, you don’t quit when there’s still time left on the clock, especially not if you’re losing. You play hard until the final whistle. Until it’s truly game over.