The next day, we had a soccer game in gym class. Mr. Bennett is our gym teacher. Everyone calls him Coach B.

Coach B is young and tall and very hot. The girls in school all have crushes on him.

We gathered around him as he started to choose up sides. But Artie interrupted. “I can’t play,” Artie whined, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have a runny nose and a stiff neck. Think I’d better sit this one out.”

Good, I thought. He and his sister are both total klutzes.

Artie may be the worst soccer player in history. He’s afraid to kick the ball. Afraid he might sprain his toes.

“Everyone plays,” Coach B told him.

“But my neck —” Artie said.

“Get some exercise,” Coach B said. “It’ll loosen you up. Your neck will feel better.”

Grumbling and rubbing his neck, Artie trotted across the grass to join his team. I saw that one of his sneakers was untied.

I was on the red team. Jackson was on the blue.

It was a sunny, hot day. The grass on the soccer field shimmered under the bright sunlight. We all played hard and had fun. It felt good to run during the middle of the day.

With about ten minutes left in gym class, the game was tied 2 to 2. I moved the ball toward the goal.

I could read the defender’s mind. I knew she was going to zig left — so I zagged right. She spun around, startled, as I sped past her.

Was that cheating? I don’t know.

I shouldn’t have thought about it. I made a mistake. I passed the ball in Artie’s direction.

He stumbled over the ball — fell over it — and hit the ground with a loud “Oof!”

The ball squirted out right in front of a blue team player. He moved it down the field — and kicked a goal.

Now we were losing 2 to 3.

Only a few minutes left in class. I saw Coach B checking his watch.

Our last chance to score — but Artie had the ball. He dribbled it between his feet for a few steps. Then he pulled back his leg and gave it a hard kick.

It was a powerful kick — in the wrong direction.

“Look out!” I shouted.

Too late. The ball crashed into Jackson’s stomach.

He opened his mouth in a sick groan. His face turned purple, and his eyes nearly goggled out of his head.

Jackson grabbed his stomach and dropped to his knees, gasping and choking.

“Oops. Sorry,” Artie called.

Coach B ran over to check Jackson out. But Jackson climbed to his feet and waved the teacher away. His face was still red, but he was breathing normally again.

“Uh-oh,” I murmured. I could read my brother’s thoughts. And they were all anger … anger … ANGER. He was desperate to pay Artie back.

The game had stopped while everyone watched Jackson. The ball lay on the grass at the near sideline.

I saw Jackson scowl at Artie. And then he lowered his eyes to the soccer ball and stared hard at it.

“No!” I shouted. “Don’t do it, Jackson!”

I went running toward him. Too late.

I couldn’t stop him. He sent the ball rocketing toward Artie’s head!