CHAPTER 6

I’ve never seen the inside of a locker room after losing a big football game because, before today, I’d never lost a football game. Which is only because, before today, I’d never played a football game. Because, as I might have pointed out once or twice, or a gazillion times, to anyone who will listen—and way more people who won’t listen—I AM NOT A FOOTBALL PLAYER.

I have been in locker rooms after my dad’s games—but those were always after his team won. I remember watching those enormous dudes giving each other high fives and fist bumps and thinking how cool it would be to have everyone congratulating you on another amazing win.

Here, there are no fist bumps or congratulations. Nitro has a frozen skreegle pressed to one eye. Nova is icing her right arm as the RU-MD droid sprays something on it. And I’m pretty sure that seeing your coach curled into a ball in the corner sobbing while his bionic eye sparks and sizzles is not—strictly speaking—a good sign.

I have a bandage wrapped around my right knee, scrapes and cuts covering my entire body, and my left ankle is as swollen as our wiener dog, Ethel, right before she gave birth to ten puppies. The only good news is that maybe now everyone will realize that drafting me really was a mistake. I’ll miss Nova and Quake, but the team—and Earth—will be better off without me.

As I’m planning my goodbye speech, Astrid comes pounding into the locker room like a runaway eighteen-wheeler. “Reporters are on the way!”

Spotting a bunch of cameras and microphones, I hide in my locker.

My genius plan worked at school when I wanted to get out of going to PE, but this time it fails epically. I’m quickly surrounded by a four-eyed alien I recognize from Galactic Sports TV, a woman who looks like she eats kids for breakfast, and a glass-covered blob that makes flurp-gurp-dee-durp sounds like someone stomping on a burrito.

My helmet immediately starts translating the reporters’ questions.

The last answer doesn’t make any sense, but I’m running out of ways to explain how bad I stunk up the game, and it’s something I’ve heard my dad say hundreds of times.

“No worries,” Quake says as my brain starts turning to mush. “Quake to the rescue.”

He spreads his arms as wide as the blade of a bulldozer, picks the reporters up in a massive bear hug, and chucks them out into the hallway before locking the door.

Nitro glares at me from his eye not covered by the skreegle.

Sunny Morning, the only one in the room who doesn’t look like a kid whose pet turtle just got sucked up by the vacuum cleaner (don’t ask), pats me on the shoulder.

Nova throws her ice pack against the wall and jumps up from her stool. “We lost one game. Big deal! What are you all moping about?”

Ajay scratches his nose. “We didn’t just lose. We got destroyed. I mean, I’ve never lost a race that bad since—” He shrugs. “Well, not ever.”

Nitro combs his hair. “I’ve scored more points in a single soccer match than we did here today. By myself. With a splint on my leg.”

“So?” Nova marches around the room staring at each member of the team, her blue faux-hawk sticking up proudly. “It doesn’t matter if we lost by one point or a hundred.”

“It was sixty-six,” Prince Poodoo says, holding up the fingers on all four of his hands and the eleven toes on each of his feet.

“It’s only one game,” Nova growls, her dark eyes blazing like she’s a warrior princess heading into battle.

She turns to me. “Tell them, Wyatt.”

“Wait, what?” I look around horrified that I might have just said the whole undying love thing out loud.

“Tell them why one loss doesn’t mean anything. And that we’ll come back even stronger next week.”

Considering that up until a second ago, I was planning my trip home, I’m not sure what to say. Gulp!

Fortunately, my helmet comes to the rescue.

“Sure, we, uh, lost the game today. And we can sit around crying about getting beat.”

That actually sounds about right to me, but the helmet continues.

“Or we can yank ourselves up by our cleat straps and prepare to destroy next week’s team even worse than we got destroyed today!”

Honestly, I expect the rest of the team to vote for crying. Instead, Astrid pulls Coach out of the puddle of his own tears and presses him up and down over her head with one hand like a barbell. “I am in favor of destroying our enemies like the polar bear grabbing the baby seal with its—”

Quake gasps, his eyes wide. “Baby seal?”

“Let’s forget about polar bears and seals,” I say, patting Quake on the back. “Your point is it’s just one game, right, Astrid?”

Astrid nods.

Andromeda, who has been hanging from a corner of the ceiling, raises her hand. Although, since she’s upside down, I guess it would technically be lowering it.

“I’m totally in favor of getting up and trying again,” Andromeda says. “But almost none of the plays we ran today worked. What’s going to be different a week from now?”

This is the moment I’ve been expecting since I joined the team. I wish that I didn’t have to do it in front of Nova. But it has to be said. Balancing on my one good ankle, I stand up. “I appreciate you all supporting me. But you have to admit, I played like garbage out there today.”

Nitro snorts. “No duh, dingleberry.”

Nova glares at him, but I hold up my hand. I need to get through this, even if it means the rest of the team will despise me. Maybe Nova will feel bad enough that she’ll hold my hand as I walk back to the launchpad, and there will be this touching moment where we stare into each other’s eyes and—

Nova coughs. “Did you want to say something, Wyatt?”

“Right!” I swallow hard and hold up my dad’s playbook that I haven’t even bothered to look through. “Everybody thinks that because my dad is the GOAT, I must have his mad skills too. But the truth is, the only thing I got from him is this.”

Moustapha takes the binder from my hand. “Let me see that.”

I try to take the playbook back, but Nitro squeezes between Nova and me. He removes the skreegle from his eye and nods. “Maybe your reading can pay off this time, Einstein.”

I want to tell them that it won’t matter. That just because we have my dad’s plays doesn’t mean I can run them. But Coach, who is still being held above Astrid’s head, wipes away his tears looking like I just pulled a baby seal from the jaws of a hungry polar bear.

“Brilliant plan, Benson.”