SATURDAY, AUGUST 27

3:08 A.M.

MEL

The girls quickly collected their things, returned the sticks to the equipment cabinet, and hustled out of the gym and back to the athletic director’s office. But Mel and Phoebe are still in the gym together.

Using a field hockey stick for balance, Phoebe wobbles on her good leg while testing how much weight she can bear on her re-injured one. Her teeth are clenched, and she sucks air through them in painful gasps each time she sets her tiptoes briefly on the floor, wincing, but her lack of success—of even a glimmer of improvement—doesn’t prevent her from trying again and again and again, hoping for a different result.

Mel—helpless and heartbroken—stands watching.

“Phoebe …”

“I’m fine.”

“Please, Phoebe. I—”

“Mel!” Phoebe pauses, momentarily shocked by her own volume. She pulls her ponytail tight. It’s started to slip out. When she speaks again, her voice is softer but no less urgent. “Just … give me a second. Please.”

Mel folds her arms tight across her chest.

A good friend would do no such thing.

A good friend would say, “No, Phoebe, you’re clearly not fine.”

A good friend would say, “I’m calling your mom.”

A good friend would say, “I’m driving you straight to the ER.”

Which is why Mel’s just as furious with herself as she is with Phoebe right now. Mel’s not a bad friend, but that’s what this whole mess has turned her into. That’s who Phoebe keeps pressuring her to be.

Mel barely slept the night before Phoebe’s ACL surgery and was wide awake at 5:00 a.m., right around the time Phoebe and her parents would have been en route. Even though the girls had texted plenty the previous evening, Mel couldn’t help but send one last bit of encouragement Phoebe’s way.

MEL: Good Luck!

MEL: You’re the strongest and toughest girl I know!

MEL: You’ve got this!

PHOEBS: I can’t believe you’re awake.

MEL: I was too nervous to sleep.

PHOEBS: Lol meanwhile my mom slept through her alarm

MEL:

MEL: Make sure she texts me the second you’re out of surgery.

PHOEBS: K.

MEL: And I’m coming straight over after my club game.

PHOEBS: Thanks for being such a good friend.

PHOEBS: See you later!

PHOEBS: Or, if not, I’ll see you on the other side!

MEL: OMG I HATE YOU!

PHOEBS:

Phoebe talked about her surgery like it was no big deal. A couple of snips here, a few stitches there, and her knee would be good as new. She didn’t even have to go to an actual hospital for it, just a fancy outpatient surgery center where they mostly performed plastic surgery. Phoebe kept joking about a potential paperwork mix-up where she’d wake up with a brand-new set of double Ds.

Though Mel never let on, she knew Phoebe was full of it. Mel had googled the real story of what the surgery would entail. First off, your ACL doesn’t “tear” so much as “explode.” It can never be sewn back together because the ligament completely liquefies. The operation is actually a very involved procedure that lasts nearly three hours. Phoebe’s surgeon would construct an entirely new ACL by cutting away a strip of the tendon that currently connected her kneecap to her shin. He would then thread that piece into place via holes he would drill into her bones, and later, those holes would be plugged up with screws. Mel found a video of an ACL surgery online. She closed her laptop as soon as the scalpel pressed into flesh for the first incision.

Not only was Mel alarmed by what Phoebe was about to endure, but also she was dumbfounded that Coach had undergone ACL repairs four times for each of his knees, a grand total of eight operations, before being forced to retire. She’d asked about each one, but the details were vague and hazy. A torn meniscus his sophomore year; a cadaver ACL after getting flown home from England during an international showcase. It expanded Mel’s notion of his loss, rendered his emotional pain into something physical, and carved out an even deeper place for him inside her heart.

And knowing that, how could Mel not forgive him for shutting her out? For suddenly regarding her as a thing that took up space on his field, like a plastic cone? Coach never wanted to coach high school girls field hockey. And he certainly never wanted to teach high school. He took this job only because there was nothing else out there at the time. He never wanted to care about any of this. The championship loss had wounded him. And all his scar tissue made it hard to heal.

Anyway.

Gruesome as it was, Phoebe was raring to go. Though she was diagnosed with a torn ACL the day after the championship game, she’d been forced to wait an entire agonizing four weeks to have the operation. Her surgeon felt this time was critical to allow the swelling to go down. Unfortunately, the delay only increased the time before Phoebe could play again. And patience was never her virtue.

Once the operation date was set for January 22, Phoebe bought a wall calendar and began plotting her comeback. Certain events she marked with a Sharpie … every spring club game, plus the weekend tournaments, summer leagues, the week at Kissawa. With those set, Phoebe plotted out her physical therapy goals in pencil, erasing and moving imagined milestones.

“If there are no complications, I should be cleared to start running in four months. That puts me out of spring club for sure. But fingers crossed I’m good to go for summer leagues. And there’s no way I’m missing Kissawa.”

The whole thing seemed to Mel a cruel exercise. From what she had read, Phoebe was going to be completely out of commission for at least six months, minimum. And it could be a whole year until she had fully regained her strength and range of motion. But of course, Mel said nothing. Just like she said nothing when Phoebe had decided to play in the championship game, when her ACL was only a sprain. Her job as Phoebe’s best friend and teammate was to support her. She wasn’t a doctor. And she’d always been impressed by how hard Phoebe worked at everything she did. If there were an exception to the rule, Phoebe would be it.

It was just before study hall that Mel got the text from Mrs. Holt saying Phoebe was out of surgery and the procedure had been a success. Mel sent a text to all her teammates and then decided to stop by Coach’s classroom. He’d want to know, of course. And, also, Mel was looking for any excuse to talk to him.

Mel felt Coach’s absence like a breakup. She often got the urge to text him. Just something funny she heard. Sometimes she would write these texts in the Notes app on her phone. But she would never send them. She knew, somehow, that no good would come of it. Instead, she respected his space, tried to give him room to cool off. But really, she was stupidly eager to barehand what was surely still searing hot.

Knowing she’d have the opportunity, she dressed up that morning. Disregarding the below freezing temps, Mel wore a corduroy miniskirt with bare legs, a cropped Fair Isle sweater, cable-knit knee highs, and riding boots.

He wasn’t in his classroom. Or the cafeteria. She was on her way down to the gym when she bumped into him walking out of the teachers’ lounge. He seemed surprised to see her.

“Hey, Mel.”

“Phoebe’s out of surgery. Everything looks good.”

“I heard. Her mother just texted me.”

Oh. Well, of course. “A bunch of us are planning to go over tonight. A little personal Psych-Up.”

Another teacher pushed out, accidentally hitting Mel square in the butt with the door. Mel was so embarrassed she didn’t register who it was. But thinking about it now, she remembers.

Miss Candurra.

After Miss Candurra passed, Coach cleared his throat. “I have some news. I landed a gig with the Junior Men’s National Team. I’m going to be their strength-and-conditioning coach. It’s a temporary position for the summer, but they are looking to hire someone on full-time.”

Her last-ditch hope, of course, was that good news from Truman would eventually come for her and help smooth things over between them. Then Coach would get hired at Trident, and she’d graduate high school, and they could reconnect and start over.

But in a little more than four weeks, he’d landed an amazing opportunity. He’d be traveling the world this summer. Coach had shifted his sights to bigger and better things.

She lowered her head and her throat got tight. “That’s great.”

Perhaps he sensed Mel was about to cry, because he quickly said, “You should probably get back to class. You don’t have a hall pass and I don’t want to get in trouble for not writing you up.”

The girls ended up at Phoebe’s house that evening. They brought flowers, balloons, pizza. It was the first time the Wildcats had gotten together as a team after the loss. Mel swallowed the news Coach had told her. They’d all hear about his new job eventually. She didn’t want to bring anyone down. And she wasn’t even sure she could get it out without bursting into tears.

The team reunion was short-lived.

Phoebe was obviously in a lot of pain, and for it to show on her face meant it had to be excruciating. Phoebe stayed very quiet. Didn’t make jokes. Didn’t initiate conversation. Mel could tell Phoebe was scared. The girls stayed for maybe twenty minutes.

Phoebe missed the next two weeks of school. Mel brought her homework every day after spring club practice. She could tell Phoebe was going stir-crazy. She was also rapidly losing weight.

“All my muscle is wasting away here on this couch. And my pain pills make me nauseous. I can’t keep anything down.”

“Can you switch to Advil or something?”

“I tried. But unless I take the strong stuff, the pain is so bad that I can’t sleep.”

“Have you talked to Coach? Maybe he could give you some advice.”

“I haven’t heard from him. And I don’t want to. Not when I’m in this bad of shape.” She leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t even like you seeing me this way.”

Back in school, on crutches, Phoebe was always irritable. Then she got put into a big walking brace, which was so ugly, but allowed her to finally put weight on her knee. Once she began physical therapy, Mel saw a shift in Phoebe’s emotions. Her depression lifted. She was back to being fiercely determined.

On Presidents’ Day, Mel came over and found Phoebe doing exercises in her room. She was red-faced, pushing hard. Her body trembled with exertion.

“Wait. I thought you already had a PT appointment today.”

“I did. I’m doubling up.”

“Phoebe, is that really a good idea?”

“I already have my parents breathing down my neck. I don’t need it from you, too.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

About a week later, in early March, Mel was in third-period English when she looked up and saw Phoebe beckoning her out to the hallway. Something was wrong. Mel could see it in Phoebe’s face. Mel raised her hand and didn’t wait to be called on, interrupting Mrs. Sandoz, who was reading aloud a passage from Little Women.

When Mel stepped into the hallway, Phoebe was nowhere to be seen. Mel whispered, “Phoebs!” and walked quickly on her tiptoes.

She found her in the stairwell, draped over the banister, all weight lifted off her leg. She was still in her big walking knee brace. “Fuck!”

“What’s going on?” Mel put her hand gently on Phoebe’s arm. Her skin was warm to the touch.

Phoebe glanced up at her, pale and glassy-eyed. “Do you have any Advil?”

“Advil? You look like you need an ambulance.”

“I’m fine. I think I’ve just been working my knee a little too hard.”

Mel gave her a look. “Phoebe. Let me see it.”

Reluctantly, Phoebe lifted her dress and unhooked the walking boot. Her leg was vibrating. The skin was angry red and swollen around her knee, and her incisions oozed a milky liquid.

Mel put her hand to Phoebe’s forehead. She was so hot it scared Mel. “I’m taking you to the nurse.”

Phoebe’s eyes looked a little unfocused. Like she might suddenly faint. “Don’t tell Coach, okay?”

Mel positioned herself up underneath Phoebe’s armpit and helped her hobble. “It’s going to be okay.”

The nurse sat Phoebe in a chair and crouched on the floor in front of her like a shoe salesman. She stuck a thermometer in Phoebe’s mouth. “It’s 102,” she said soberly. “Phoebe, what’s the best number to reach your parents?”

Mel ran straight to Coach’s classroom. They were in the middle of taking a test; everyone had their heads down. She walked quickly up to his desk and said, “Something’s wrong with Phoebe.”

Coach didn’t say anything. He just walked right out of his class. Mel followed as he hurried to the nurse’s office, his gait awkward and stiff from his own knee injuries.

As soon as Phoebe saw him, she started to sob.

Mel hung back by the nurse’s office door to give them space. He sat next to her on a cot, letting Phoebe lean against him and cry. And when Mrs. Holt pulled up a few minutes later, Coach carried Phoebe out to the car in his arms.

Mel loved him in that moment. Knew for sure she loved him. For weeks, as an act of self-preservation, she had tried to convince herself she didn’t. But accepting she did allowed her to release whatever muscles she’d relied on to hold the pieces of her heart together. And his treatment of Phoebe was proof that he cared about them despite how hard he tried not to. Which gave her hope.

Phoebe had developed a joint infection. It wasn’t clear if exercising too hard had caused it but it did not help. She was admitted into the hospital, had drains put in her knee and another surgery to clear out the infected tissue, then spent three days on a course of IV antibiotics. She didn’t allow visitors. Not even Mel. It set her progress back a month.

That was the real stress point in their friendship, Mel sees now. As soon as Phoebe was able—or, honestly, even before—she returned to her crazy rehab schedule. Mel asked her a few times about her knee, but Phoebe never gave her a straight answer. More than that, Phoebe made it clear it was a conversation she didn’t want to have.

Is it any wonder that Phoebe is stuck in her own feedback loop all over again? Mel listens to her talking to herself with a sinking feeling.

“I really don’t think it’s my ACL,” Phoebe says. “There wasn’t a pop like last time.” Hop, wince, hop, wince. “It doesn’t even hurt that bad.” Hop, wince, hop.

Mel pulls out her phone, intending to check the time, but she finds several texts from Gordy waiting for her.

GORDY: I don’t want to fight with you, Mel.

GORDY: If you honestly don’t want me at your scrimmage, I won’t go.

She writes out, I think it’s for the best that you don’t, then deletes it.

Writes, I’ll call you after my game, then deletes it.

Writes, Please leave me alone, then deletes it.

Suspiciously, Phoebe asks, “Who are you texting? Coach? Don’t say anything—”

“It’s Gordy.” Mel returns her phone to her pocket, annoyed. “We need to go. Can you walk?”

“If I had my Knee Spanx, I’d be fine.”

Mel rolls her eyes. “Coach has a first aid kit in his classroom. I bet there’s an Ace bandage in there. And maybe one of those instant ice packs too.”

Mel offers Phoebe her arm, but Phoebe opts to use the field hockey stick instead. Silently, they head toward Coach’s classroom.

Mel doesn’t bother turning on the lights. She drops Phoebe off at one of the desks in the front row and then opens Coach’s supply closet, using her phone as a light to see what’s inside. Everything is neat and tidy.

“God, he really is anal, isn’t he?” Phoebe calls out across the classroom. Trying to make a joke to cut the tension.

But Mel doesn’t laugh. There’s nothing even remotely funny about this. They’ve come so far tonight, worked their asses off to make things right with Coach and with each other. For nothing. He’s going to completely lose his mind when he finds out what’s happened. And Mel knows she’ll be the one who’ll take the brunt of it. She’ll be the one held responsible. She’s team captain, after all. What if Mel struggles without Phoebe in the same way she did last season? How could her team, and Coach, ever look at her the same way again?

She finds the Ace bandage and the ice bag. When she turns around, her stomach drops. Phoebe has hopped her way around Coach’s desk and is now sitting in his chair. She opens up his laptop. The glow of the screen in the dark makes a halo around her head.

“Phoebe! What are you doing?”

“Nothing … ,” she says, completely focused on the screen. A couple of clicks brings the sound of emails arriving to his mailbox.

“Are you crazy?” Mel hurries to put the things away in the supply closet without disturbing anything. “Turn that off right now!”

“I want to see if any of the scouts have written to Coach about me.”

“Are you completely insane?” Mel pushes the laptop screen down. “What does it matter anyway? You can barely stand, Phoebe!”

“Relax. I was only going to take a quick peek.” Phoebe says it so casually, like none of this is a big deal. Like the biggest problem they’re dealing with right now is Mel overreacting.

“If Coach finds out you went into his email, he’ll kick you off the team. You know that, right?” It’s outrageous that she even needs to say this. Mel begins straightening Coach’s desk, putting papers in a pile. “And he’ll kick me off too, because I was in here with you!” She finds a pencil on the floor. “Where was this?”

Phoebe shrugs. “I don’t know. And I doubt a misplaced pencil is going to give us away.”

Mel crouches down to make sure nothing else has been disturbed. “Forgive me if I override your judgment on this, Phoebe. You haven’t had the best record of making good decisions.” She feels anger building up inside her. “Just wrap your knee so we can get out of here.”

Phoebe snatches up the Ace bandage and begins doing exactly that. She’s gotten good at it. Slow, dutiful, pulling tight, making sure the bandage lies flat.

“Why are you being such a bitch to me, Mel?”

“I’m not being a bitch. But I can’t do this anymore, Phoebe.”

She wrinkles up her nose. “Do what?”

“I can’t pretend like this situation”—Mel lassoes the room with her pointer finger—“isn’t happening in order to protect your ego. I need to put our team first.”

“Because I haven’t?”

“No. You definitely, definitely haven’t.”

Phoebe laughs incredulously. “Um, okay. Whatever, Mel.”

“See? That’s what I mean. Not only did you ruin tonight, you’ve also basically guaranteed that we’re going to lose tomorrow.” Mel feels her eyes getting hot. “I was so excited to play with you. We had our plan. We were going to do it together. But now that’s over because of your stupid decision to play without your brace! I mean, how reckless can you be?”

“Who said I’m not playing tomorrow?”

“You think Coach is going to put you in?” Mel actually laughs. “Kearson’s playing. And you know what? She’s going to totally fail because she’s so afraid of you! She was practically in tears at the Psych-Up dinner asking me to pass along an apology to you.”

“I’m playing tomorrow.” Phoebe’s voice chokes with emotion. “I’m fine.”

“Great idea, Phoebs, double down on your bad decision. It worked out so well for us last season.”

“It only worked out for you, Mel.” Phoebe slumps back in Coach’s chair. “And I was okay with that.”

Mel doesn’t understand. And actually, she doesn’t care to. Phoebe is clearly delusional. “Do you think I owe you some kind of thank you? I don’t think what you did was noble. You made a bad decision—several bad decisions, actually—and all of us have to pay the consequences.” Mel feels herself begin to shake with anger. “I’ve worked so hard tonight to try to keep this team together. And the girls have stepped up in a big way. Except for you.”

Phoebe’s chin starts to quiver. She lets go of her bandaging, and the whole tight coil unravels, goes slack, useless.

“I would do anything for this team!” Phoebe’s voice would probably be louder if it weren’t so shaky. “And for my best friend. That’s why I’m in this situation, Mel. Except unlike you, I never needed any credit. I don’t need the validation you do.”

“That’s funny coming from someone breaking into Coach’s laptop for scout emails!”

“Quit acting like you’re upset for our team. The only person you’re thinking about right now is Coach. He’s the one you don’t want to disappoint. He’s the only person you play for.”

Mel sets her jaw. “Coach came back this season and he didn’t have to. Sorry I don’t want to let him down! Sorry I don’t want him to regret it!”

Phoebe pauses and Mel can see something running through her head. Regrets. Mel knows she must have them. But Phoebe still has to accept responsibility. No one made her play. She’s accountable for her own choices.

“Why don’t you ask Coach what a horrible, selfish teammate I am? Text him right now.” Her lip curling, Phoebe adds, “I know how much you two chat.”

Mel stiffens. It looks like Phoebe is gathering her courage or something, which freaks Mel out, so Mel keeps talking. “Look. I don’t want to fight with you.” As soon as Mel says this, her eyes well up. Because it’s true. She wishes she could take back everything she’s said. But she can’t. It’s out there.

Phoebe quickly finishes bandaging her knee and then gets up and slowly approaches. “Have you two talked about me? Has Coach said anything to you about how I’ve been playing this week?”

Mel goes cold, fight-or-flight kicking in. “Are you serious? He knows you’re my best friend!”

Phoebe begins to cry. “Are we, Mel? Are we still best friends? Because it doesn’t feel like it. It’s like we barely know each other anymore.”

“Of course we are!” Mel starts backing up. “Seriously, Phoebe. Coach hasn’t texted me once this entire week.”

“Then give me your phone.”

Phoebe grabs for it. It’s almost playful at first, but Mel holds on tight and twists away. It should be over. But Phoebe is relentless. And Mel is lying.

She and Coach have texted about Phoebe. Plenty. Their last exchange before tonight had been about her. Never anything bad. Never ever ever.

But what’s on her phone is dangerous to Coach. Mel can’t let Phoebe see how much they are in contact. Mel pushes Phoebe off her and Phoebe yelps in pain.

“Phoebe—”

“Forget it. Let’s just go.” Phoebe wipes her eyes. “Can you bring my stick back to the gym?”

“Yeah. Okay. Sure.” Mel picks up the loaner field hockey stick Phoebe’s been using as a crutch. “You sure you don’t want to hang on to it?”

“If I lean on you, I can probably manage without it.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

Mel’s entire body is shaking as she walks briskly to the gym, her phone still gripped in her hand. She realizes she never sent Coach the picture she took in the gym. She quickly puts it in a text, along with the second verse of the Wildcat fight song.

Don’t mess with the Wildcats, we won’t accept defeat,

For we are the Wildcats, and we just can’t be beat!

He texts back immediately.

COACH: It’s after three in the fucking morning.

COACH: We have a team meeting at nine sharp.

COACH: And an enormously important scrimmage tomorrow.

MEL: I know, I know. We’re almost finished. Just one more stanza left.

COACH: Do you think any of this is going to matter tomorrow?

COACH: When Oak Knolls shows up fully rested?

COACH: Do you think this is going to give us an edge?

MEL: I thought this is what you wanted …

COACH: Don’t even think about turning this around on me, Mel.

COACH: This “plan” is yours.

COACH: Own it.

COACH: I’m going to bed. Don’t text me again.

Mel rubs her arms and looks around the empty gym. Weren’t they just having the time of their lives ten minutes ago? Maybe everything is irreversibly screwed up. Maybe it is all her fault.

The shame begins to drain her, her sense of self spiraling down like a bath with the plug pulled out. Underneath Mel’s confidence has always been the unnerving worry that, without Coach there pushing her and shaping her and guiding her, she would never shine the way she has. After the championship loss, it became something far more haunting: that Coach had her pegged all wrong. Mel’s not the player he thought she was. Not even close.

Even if Coach is pissed at her tomorrow, at least Mel can say she didn’t give up. It is for him but it’s also for them.

After putting the loaner stick away, Mel glances around and makes sure the gym looks just as it did before they snuck in. Then she doubles back to Coach’s classroom. Though she swore she left it open, the door is closed.

Mel peers in the window.

Phoebe is gone.

And so is Coach’s laptop.

Mel sprints down the hall, calling for Phoebe. She sticks her head out of the athletic director’s office window and looks at the girls. “Did Phoebe come out this way?”

Ali shakes her head. “No. Isn’t she with you?”

Mel takes a deep breath. Tries to think clearly. Tries not to panic. “She must have walked out a different way.” Mel sweeps her leg over the sill, crouches on the ledge, and pulls the window closed. “Let’s spread out and see if we can find her.”

One of the girls says, “Hey, Mel, is that your car?”

Mel hops down to the ground. Indeed it is. Headlights click on, the engine purring already. She steps forward, expecting Phoebe to pull around to where the team is.

Instead, Phoebe guns Mel’s Mini Cooper straight out of the parking lot so fast the front end scrapes the little speed bump, a million sparks brightening the night for a brief, scary moment.