SATURDAY, AUGUST 27

2:23 A.M.

LUCI

Luci clicks off her phone. She only has a little battery left. Honestly, she wouldn’t mind if it died. Did Coach seriously not realize that every time he texts her, Luci must find some way to peel herself off from her group unnoticed to answer him?

She’d spent the last mile of the car ride from Oak Knolls to the party with her phone pressed into her stomach, trying to deaden his urgent buzzes so the girls sitting on either side of her in Mel’s back seat wouldn’t notice. The longer Luci waited to respond, the more frequently he’d text.

As soon as they pulled up to Gordy’s party, Luci started looking for a potential hiding spot. She noticed a small space between the garage and the bushes of the neighboring house, closed off by two large trash cans—one for garbage, one for recycling. Luci hung back as her teammates entered the party. Then, when the coast was clear, she squeezed between the trash cans and shimmied sideways along the skinny corridor. The thorns of the bushes clawed at her bare legs, but she wanted to make sure she was far enough back that if someone came to throw something out, they wouldn’t see her.

While her eyes adjust back to darkness, Luci hears a sound. Footsteps. And a laugh. She watches a boy lead a girl away from the party and into the darkness.

Luci did what Coach asked. She got the night started. Can’t he text Mel directly from now on?

Hopefully she’s not going to get her team in trouble for having told Coach they’re at a party. That part of the conversation was a little weird, Coach telling her about Mel’s boyfriend. And when he made the joke about Grace’s hair. It wasn’t mean. More like the way Luci’s older guy cousins teased her. There’s a closeness in those kinds of relationships, a sense of trust, that makes it okay.

His methods are a little strange. Or are they? The other girls have played under Coach for years. They know him way better, and they don’t seem to be fazed by it. In fact, the opposite is true.

Luci remembers one moment during tryouts. She reached her stick out to stop a perfect pass lobbed to her by Kearson, but the ball was quickly stripped from her by Grace. Coach shouted, “Quit reaching and get your feet around the fucking ball, Luci!”

Luci chased it down the field, apologizing to Kearson—who pretended not to hear her—and also to every other girl in earshot. Every time Luci screwed up, she would sheepishly do this. Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, spewing out of her. And the other girls would ignore her. Or so she thought.

Coach blew his whistle with all the air in his lungs, stopping play, and grabbed Luci by the arm, halting her as if it were a leash.

Luci’s heart just about stopped. A teacher had never laid hands on her before, not even accidentally. She wanted to melt into the turf. Maybe it would be better if Coach cut her right then and there, a mercy kill. In fact, she was pretty sure he was about to do just that.

Coach ripped off his sunglasses and, gleaming white teeth bared, he growled, “Luci, do you think I give a shit if you’re sorry?” Reflexively, her mouth opened and closed like a fish’s. She nearly said sorry again, though thank God she had the wherewithal to swallow it. Still, Coach must have seen it bubbling up inside her, because he brought a finger close to her nose for a final warning. “The only thing I give a shit about is you getting your feet around the fucking ball! So get your feet around the fucking ball!”

She nodded.

“And next time I hear you say ‘sorry,’ I’m sending you back to play with the freshmen. Period.”

Luci answered, “Yes, Coach,” trying to mimic the unemotional way the other girls on the team answered him. But she was humiliated. On shaky legs, she jogged onto the field, and the girls circled up for a face-off. No one said anything to her, but they did all look her in the eye when they each tapped their stick blades on the ground, a signal that they were ready to resume play.

This time Luci got the cue. What else the stick tap meant. Just keep playing. Their way of silently supporting her. Telling her it was okay. No big deal.

Luci took a deep breath and tapped her stick back. Ready.

Whistle.

Surprisingly, the urge to cry had vanished. In fact, Coach’s directive seemed to free something in Luci that was already unleashed in her teammates. Yes, she still got shouted at for being in the wrong spot, for taking a shot when she should have passed, but it stopped stinging.

Luci also found it strangely liberating that none of the girls ever apologized to one another. They just worked harder. They grinned and bore it, the same way the women in Luci’s family did.

And honestly, Luci had already spent years overapologizing for stuff she shouldn’t have. For her mother not having the time to bake brownies for a stupid PTA bake sale. For why Luci was academically so far behind the West Essex kids in her grade, save for her Spanish class, obviously. For having a father who wrote checks but never birthday cards. In an instant, Coach’s directive helped her regain focus, helped her hurdle the sand trap of inadequacy and land someplace greener, more fertile.

Ready to go.

So Luci slides her phone into her hoodie pocket, reassured that she is doing the right thing, that it makes sense. That what Coach has asked of her fits right in with all the other nontraditional coaching methods he used on the team. After making sure the coast is clear, Luci wriggles back through the trash cans and onto the driveway.

She walks across the front lawn intending to finally go into the party. But then she sees Mel in the middle of the street a few houses down, all focus and control, completely oblivious to the rest of the world around her, batting a ball back and forth with a stick so fast, it becomes a blur of color.

There had been a fender bender in the middle of a scrimmage on the fourth day of tryouts. Someone in the high school parking lot—a newly licensed driver, no doubt—backed hard into another car, and the sickening explosion of metal on metal stopped the girls in their tracks, including Luci, the ball on her stick during a halfway decent run up the midfield.

Then, two more collisions, a chain reaction that began with Mel thrusting her body between Luci and the ball and ending with Luci flat on her back. Luci was slow to get up. She rolled to her side and pushed up onto her knees, pausing there to get her bearings. It wasn’t a hard hit. Luci just hadn’t seen it coming.

Down the field, Mel fired off a shot into the back of the net. Only then did she realize there was no goalie. She spun around and saw the other girls jogging off the field, calling out to make sure no one had been hurt as a plume of steam rose over the parking lot. Mel’s jaw fell slack, clueless as to what happened.

Luci approaches gingerly. “Hey, Mel.”

Mel glances up from the ball, but only briefly. “Hey, Luci. Why aren’t you inside?”

Luci shrugs. “I don’t really know anyone. Well, besides the girls.” She takes a seat on the curb.

Mel laughs to herself. “Honestly? Sometimes I feel the same way.”

“Wait. Isn’t this your boyfriend’s party?”

Mel stops abruptly, the ball centered on her stick, blade angled to take aim at Luci. Luci freezes as Mel pulls back and fires off a shot. Luci winces reflexively but it’s not a rocket. Instead, the ball chips off Mel’s stick blade in a soft high arc, the way you might toss something to a friend across the kitchen. Luci reaches up and catches it barehanded.

Mel walks over and sits down on the curb next to Luci. “Did Phoebe tell you that?”

“No. I overheard one of the girls say it … though maybe I heard wrong?”

Mel slides out her ponytail holder and gently pulls her fingers through her hair. “Gordy’s not my boyfriend. We hooked up, like, for a few weeks this summer. Nothing serious. And now it’s totally and completely over. You know what I mean?”

“I don’t have any firsthand experience in that department, but yeah. I get it.”

“Just so you know, I don’t have that much experience either. That’s a nice thing about being on this team. Wildcats field hockey inoculates you from relationship drama. You’re too busy to get caught up in it.” Mel leans back, her hands behind her, and looks up at the sky. “You’ll see how the other girls in school are always in the hallways with their boyfriends, breaking up and making up over and over again.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know why anyone bothers until college.”

“You seem like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Is that how I seem?” Mel smirks. “I guess that’s the way I looked at each of my old varsity captains.” She sighs. “Anyway, don’t forget, you’re the one who came up with this whole idea tonight. I owe you big-time.”

Luci thinks back to what Coach said. That Mel hadn’t given her any credit. Maybe that was true. But it’s not now. “I’m sorry if I stepped on your toes.”

Mel sits up and turns her body so she’s facing Luci. “Luci, I’m honestly grateful. The Wildcats have been doing this special Psych-Up night before any of us got to high school. But it’s basically the same every year. Yes, traditions are important and I’ve always believed that there’s something really special about tonight being ours. But why wouldn’t we want to try something new, especially after the way last season ended? Why wouldn’t we shake things up?”

“I’m glad you think it’s helping.”

“I know it is. Watching Ali come out holding that bulldog was … just awesome.” She pauses. “You wouldn’t be able to tell, but she’s been different since we lost the championship. And it was nice to see the old Ali back.” Mel grins. “I wish we could post our picture and tag Darlene Maguire, the way she did with their stupid video tonight, but, you know, we’d probably be suspended.”

“Expelled.” Luci laughs. “Well, it’s not for them. It’s for us, right?”

“And for Coach,” Mel says.

Mel looks over at Luci with such tenderness, it’s hard for Luci not to look away. She puts her hand on Luci’s knee. “This is going to be a big year for you, Luci. And I’m here if you need anything. Okay?”

A tingling giddiness comes over her. “Coach said the same thing to me today,” she confesses. “But I’m still having trouble believing it. It’s a lot of pressure, and I don’t want to let anyone down, especially not him, you know?” Though Luci expects Mel to understand, she stares blankly at her for a few seconds. “So, um, really. Thanks for saying that.”

Another moment or two of silence.

“Hey, Luci, can you go in and round up the girls? I’d text but I’ve got everyone’s phone. We need to get going and figure out the last two stanzas if we’re going to get any sleep tonight.”

“Sure. Absolutely.”

Luci heads into the party house and circles through the room tapping her teammates on their shoulders. She stops briefly at a cooler and reaches around beers and lemonade Smirnoffs, hoping for a can of soda. She could use some caffeine.

Phoebe and Ali are deep in a discussion, each of them perched on the arm of a recliner, the Oak Knolls bulldog snoring asleep between them on the seat.

“What’s that on his nose?” Luci says, crouching down.

Phoebe squints. “Dorito dust.”

Ali wipes it off. “Hey, Luci? Settle something for us about the Wildcat fight song.”

“Okay.”

Ali says, “So you know the line ‘We are the Wildcats’ …”

And then Phoebe interjects, “Do you think the ‘We’ means, like, ‘we’? As in ‘us’ collectively?”

Ali holds her arm out like a seat belt across Phoebe. “Or! Do you think it means ‘WE,’ as in the initials for West Essex?”

“I don’t know if I’m the right person to ask. I mean, what do I know?”

Phoebe claps her hands. “That’s exactly why we’re asking you! Because you haven’t been indoctrinated yet. So what’s your feeling?”

“Yeah, what’s your vibe!”

“I guess it could go either way? Anyway, Mel wants everyone outside.”

“Is that where she is?” Phoebe looks over one shoulder, then the other. “I thought she was talking to Gordy.”

“Wait,” Ali says. “Do you mean ‘talking’ ”—air quotes—“or actually talking?”

Phoebe puts her arm around Luci and teases, “I guess it could go either way.”

The girls get up, and Phoebe pats the bulldog lightly on the rump. He snorts and lifts his head, gazes dreamily at her. She snaps her fingers, coaxing him off the recliner, and heads for the door.

“Gordy! We’re taking off!”

Phoebe hurries ahead to say goodbye to a guy moving through the room with a trash bag, cleaning up. Luci thinks he’s cute. Hair buzzed short like a little kid in summer, bristly like the fur on the bulldog. Coach had called Gordy dorky. Probably because of his thick black eyeglasses. But Luci thinks they make Gordy look thoughtful. Smart.

As Luci passes, she overhears a snippet of his and Phoebe’s conversation.

Phoebe bites her finger, thinking. “Look. She’s just stressed. It’s been … a night. After tomorrow’s scrimmage, she’ll—”

“She told me not to come.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“I think Coach was even texting her as we were talking. She was trying to play it off.”

“Well, hold on. He’s just checking in on us tonight. It’s not that weird.”

“It is weird. It is.”

Luci feels a hand on her back, gently nudging her along. “Don’t worry,” Ali says, leaning down to whisper in Luci’s ear. “She’ll catch up.”