I hoisted my soccer bag over my shoulder and traipsed over the field, the rain-wet grass swishing against my cleats. I shivered. My socks were already damp, and the thick gray clouds overhead looked as though they were ready to dump another load of rain. The wind blew in cold gusts. I could tell this was going to be a wonderful practice. There are definitely times when I wish I’d taken up a nice, warm indoor sport—like Ping-Pong, for instance.
The coach had his back to me as I marched grimly up to the sidelines. He was talking to someone. I paid no attention as I dumped my bag on the grass and fished a practice ball out of the mesh bag nearby. I was about to go out on the field to warm up, when Coach turned around.
“Hi, Isabella,” he said. Then I realized who was with him. I wished the earth would swallow me whole.
“Hi, Drew,” I said weakly. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to help my dad out with practice,” he said.
His dad? I thought. Then I realized—Drew Collins, Dan Collins—I just never connected the two.
“You guys know each other?” asked Coach.
“We’ve run into each other at school.” Drew grinned. “Right, Izzy?” That grin made me feel a whole lot better.
“Well, once anyway,” I said.
The coach wasn’t listening. “What’s going on over there?” He pointed across the field to the wooded area of the park. After the vandalized nets had been cleared away, we were allowed to practice on the field again, but now a number of city workers were posting small yellow signs around the copse of trees. Some areas were being blocked off with yellow tape.
Julia, Nicola and a bunch of others hurried across the grass from the parking lot.
“Sorry we’re late, Coach,” Julia puffed. She dropped her soccer gear and her overstuffed backpack on the ground. “My mom had to stop for gas.”
Coach was still watching the city workers. “It’s all right, girls. Get a ball. Let’s start warming up.”
Julia glanced at me in surprise. Coach is usually very strict about us being on time for practice, but it was obvious he was distracted by the beehive of activity going on at the far side of the park. He didn’t even look surprised when, a few minutes later, one of the workers approached us on the field.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you the coach of this team?” he said.
“Yes,” Coach answered warily.
“I’ll have to ask you and your team to leave.”
I thought Coach Collins was about to explode. His face turned a mottled purple and the veins bulged in his temples. I could see him weighing his words. I held my breath.
“My team was instructed to leave this field last week, when our nets were vandalized. I was told that it was a safety procedure. Why are we being asked to leave now?” Coach’s voice was controlled.
“The city has received a complaint about possible chemical contamination at this site. It’s important that no one use this recreational area until that contamination is confirmed.”
“What’s involved in that?” asked Coach Collins.
“Soil samples, different types of testing,” the worker said.
“So how long are we looking at?” Coach frowned.
“Don’t know. Indefinitely.” The worker gestured toward the woods. “There’s quite a lot of area.”
Coach Collins threw his hands up. “This is unbelievable! My team has nowhere to practice. We have a regional tournament coming up!”
“Sorry, sir. That’s not my problem.”
“Look, we’ve practiced on this field for three years now,” Coach argued. “There’s never been a problem before. Why now?”
“We’re not certain,” the worker said. “But it is important that you and the kids leave the area immediately and find somewhere else to practice until this park is proven to be safe.” With that, he turned and strode back to his colleagues, leaving Coach staring after him.
“Come on, girls,” Coach said wearily. “I guess we have to go. At this rate we’ll be practicing for the championship in my basement!”