CHAPTER 9

The next morning, I stumble into the training camp cafeteria wondering if returning to the team is the biggest mistake of my life. My eyes are burning, and my legs feel weak and quivery. Then I realize it’s just the hot sauce I forgot to wash out of my eyebrows and the bites from the angry pink poodle the night before.

Nova blows Coach’s whistle as I walk through the door.

I look around the room where the whole team except for Coach is gathered. The tables and chairs are all gone, and the walls are covered with whiteboards.

“Um, where’s the food?” I ask.

“Plan first, eat later,” Nova says, tapping her palm with a dry-erase marker.

I’m not sure I like that idea. I always think better on a full stomach. I also sleep better on a full stomach, watch TV better on a full stomach, and toss water balloons off the roof of my house at the annoying kids across the street better on a full stomach.

I sniff the air. “If we aren’t eating until after we plan, why does it smell like enchiladas in here?”

Cricket Bob lets out an enormous enchilada-smelling belch that fills the entire room with the aroma of a dozen Taco Bell restaurants. “Sorry.”

Nova strolls to one of the whiteboards like a small but extremely athletic general. “As you all know, our current record is zero wins, two losses.”

Briny raises all four of their tentacles. “Shouldn’t Coach be here for this discussion?”

RU-MD buzzes around overhead, beeping and booping.

Personally, I can’t blame him.

“Two losses and no wins isn’t good,” Nova continues, writing 0–2 on the board. “But if we win the rest of our games, we can still make the playoffs.”

“Glad you asked,” Nova says to Moustapha.

I’m glad he asked too. Because even though the talk of chains and togetherness and being ourselves the night before made me feel like I wanted to put flowers in my hair and sing about saving Bengal tigers and giving hope a chance, I can’t really see how it changes the fact that we’re still a pretty crappy football team.

Underneath the 0–2 on the whiteboard, Nova writes, Wyatt’s plan to change the way we play football so that we can win the rest of our games, make it to the playoffs, win the championship, and save Earth.

“Wait,” I say, raising my hand. “Maybe it’s the hot sauce in my eyes, but that looks like it says Wyatt’s plan. And I definitely do not have a plan.”

“You do,” Nova says. “You just don’t know it yet.”

I raise my hand again. “In that case, could we give it a cool nickname instead? The other one’s kind of hard to remember. What about—”

Prince Poodoo raises all four of his hands. “I vote for Wyatt’s name. I feel like it would inspire me to play harder and faster.”

“The name doesn’t matter!” Nova throws the marker across the room, where it bounces off a whiteboard and into Cricket Bob’s mouth.

He chews it up and lets out another of his enchilada burps. “Not bad.”

Nova shakes her head. “Last night when Wyatt said he wasn’t a football player, it got me thinking. He may not have played football before, but he’s been around the sport his whole life. Wyatt, what’s the difference between a winning team and a losing team?”

“Easy,” I say. “Winning teams have my dad on them. Losing teams don’t. Great teams have great players.”

Nitro grins and swooshes his hair perfectly.

“Yeah,” Moustapha says. “But even teams with great players lose. And sometimes teams with players that don’t seem great at first win.”

That’s true. My dad didn’t always have the best players around him. “I guess you have to figure out what your players are good at and design an offense and defense to fit those talents.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Nova says, writing Talents on the board.

She points at Quake. “What makes you such a good rugby player?”

Quake gets the dreamy look in his eyes that I get when I open the wrapper of a really fresh candy bar. “When I run down the field, I imagine saving kittens and puppies.”

That was unexpected, but sort of adorable.

“Prince Poodoo,” Nova says. “What did you do before you came to Earth?”

“I juggled woobax,” Prince Poodoo says, pretending to toss things with his four hands. “They’re like a mix between Earth sheep and pineapples—only they have sharp teeth, so you have to handle them carefully.”

Cool, and slightly disturbing.

Andromeda flaps her wings. “I was the best acrobatic flier at my school. But on my planet, girls are supposed to stay at home and make baskets. That’s why I left.”

“Go, girl!” Astrid shouts, pumping her fist.

Nova laughs and turns to Chuck. “What’s your greatest talent?”

The giant snail blinks his one eye as his face turns bright red. “I knock things over and sing K-pop. I’m also great at making slime.”

“No kidding. You leave trails of it everywhere you go,” Ajay says.

Nova glares at him. “All right, track star,” she says with an evil glint in her eyes. “What are you good at?”

Ajay doesn’t even hesitate before answering. “High-jumping and playing a mean country music air guitar. The twangier, the better.” He strums his hands in the air. “My girl done left me, and my dog ate my sho-oo-ooes.”

This is kind of fun, like when you first go to summer camp and the counselors help you make friends by playing those get-to-know-you games. Until one of the kids gets bored and throws a french fry at another kid, starting a massive food fight that ends with sloppy joe sauce covering everyone. (Yeah, the kid who threw the fry was me.)

“Where are you going with this?” I ask.

Nova raises an eyebrow. “You said we weren’t a chain because we don’t have anything in common. But we all have things we love outside of sports. Maybe learning about each other’s interests could make us a better team.”

Okay. I think I get it. I turn to Quake, who is getting his arm iced by RU-MD. “What would you do if the other team was secretly eating puppies before every game?”

“Yeah, that’s good,” I say, turning to Prince Poodoo next. “Juggling those fanged pineapple things must mean you have really quick hands.”

Nova grins. “And Andromeda’s acrobatics could help her get open when the other receivers are covered, and Chuck would be awesome at tackling running backs.”

“I could jump over linemen to block kicks,” Ajay says.

Nitro rolls his eyes. “Or use your so-called singing to make them cover their ears in pain.”

Ajay makes a gagging sound. “While you distract them with your constant posing.”

Nova holds up the ball. “Wyatt, you and Coach know more about football than the rest of us combined. Let’s come up with new plays that take advantage of who we are and what we are each good at.”

“Okay,” I say, feeling the best I have since the day I got drafted. “I’ll get Coach out of bed. The rest of you put on your pads and meet on the training field in thirty minutes.”