All this to say, it would have been a difficult decision for Ali, had it been hers to make.
Ali hurries up to meet her parents in the driveway, the strap of her heavy gear bag tipping her body visibly to the left. She kisses and hugs them, combining her hello and goodbye.
“Please take lots of pictures, okay? Like, double what you think is enough,” Ali tells them. She moves her gift for John-John from the trunk into the back seat. She doesn’t want it to be crushed. She wrapped the gift in an adorable paper—one with illustrated animals in silly party hats—bought from the specialty stationery store in town. And Ali tied the ribbon four times before she was satisfied with the loops on the bow. “And take a video of when John-John opens my present. Oh, and another one of the doljabi stuff too! I want to see what John-John picks up.”
“He’ll pick up the book, like me,” her father says.
“First and last time you did,” her mother teases.
Her parents speak to each other. Not to Ali. Still, she’s quick to chime in, “I picked the ball, remember?”
Her mother deadpans, “As if we could forget.”
Ali knows they are still angry she didn’t press the issue with Coach. After all, this was a onetime, one-game miss for a family obligation.
“My team needs me,” she tried explaining. That she hadn’t actually asked Coach would only make it harder for her parents to understand, so she didn’t mention it.
It did feel good to be back playing with the girls again, especially after skipping out on Kissawa this summer. Despite how things ended last season, the Wildcats are looking strong. Grace did great against the freshman Luci, shutting Luci down from getting off a shot most times, though Luci got better each day. Mel was unstoppable, especially now that Phoebe was back chipping her perfect passes from midfield, which allowed Mel to really use her speed, sprinting ahead with full confidence that the ball would land where it needed to. Mel’s shots on goal flew like fiery orange comets. Ali caught them hot in her goalie gloves, slapped them back into the atmosphere with her stick. She held her own. More than held her own.
She was damn near perfect.
“Call me when you get there,” Ali says.
Her father kisses her on the top of her head. “Good luck tomorrow.”
Her mother squeezes her. “We’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too.” Ali feels something catch in her throat.
It really does suck not to be going.
But on the upside, her parents will miss tomorrow’s scrimmage, which is a huge relief. Ali didn’t need that worry on top of everything else.
After the drive away, Ali takes the stone path into the backyard. She kneels on the warm patio stones, unzips her bag, and removes her goalie pads one at a time, laying each out to bake in the afternoon sun.
First out are the pads that strap to Ali’s legs, thick U-shaped foam blocks that cup the tops of her feet up to her mid-thighs. Next are the pads circling each of her arms, wrist to elbow. Next is Ali’s chest pad, which she slips over her head like a sandwich board before putting on her varsity jersey. Her helmet and the plastic piece that hooks under her chin, protecting her neck, come out next.
Last are her goalie gloves, far and away the nastiest pieces of gear, but they are Ali’s prized possessions, passed down to her by the previous Wildcat goalie, Livvy Mills, after her last game. The foam inside is turning to dust, so cleaning them must be done with care.
She stands up, and from that angle, the assembled pads are like a black exoskeleton, the discarded shell of a teen-sized locust. Her cocoon.
With it all strapped on, the shape of her body completely changes, taking on the bulky squared-off look of a Lego person. No hint that her breasts are full C cups, that her thick black hair gleams and hangs to the middle of her back. The scar on her hand where her grandmother’s dog bit her is hidden, as is the splotchy birthmark on her right thigh. You can’t tell that Ali’s posture is impeccable, that her limbs are long and lean, benefits of having studied ballet through grade school.
This is the reason why she hates watching game film. How awkward she looks lumbering out from the goal when Coach calls them in for a time-out. It’s hard to even take a drink of water. She has to set down her stick, flick off her gloves, unhook the neck piece, lift her helmet up.
That said, it is necessary protection. Protection that makes her brave enough to stick out an arm, lift a leg, take a shot off her chest. The field hockey balls fly hard and fast, hit your skin like bombs. Ali’s teammates are far more exposed in their pleated kilts, bloomers, knee socks, and polos. Sure, they look way cuter, but she’s seen their skin swell, bruise, split on impact. She’s seen girls lose teeth, crack bones.
Really, the only bit of Ali that’s still visible is behind the cage of her helmet—her eyes, the bridge of her nose, her cheeks. But that’s all you need in competition. Some small, vulnerable spot to exploit. Just ask Achilles.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 26
2:25 P.M.
MEL
Melanie Gingrich pulls up to the West Essex Starbucks and counts the cars idling in the drive-through lane. Six, which makes her white Mini Cooper number seven, annoyingly the norm for this location. For whatever reason, it’s always busy.
But the parking lot itself is surprisingly empty. Mel scrunches up her nose. The decals plastered to the store windows make it hard to see inside, but she thinks she spies a few empty tables.
She reaches over and squeezes the shoulder of her very best friend, Phoebe Holt, slouched low in shotgun, refreshing her email on her phone.
“Phoebs, let’s ditch drive-through and grab a table inside instead.”
Phoebe’s blue eyes light up but she pauses before unbuckling her seat belt. “You sure you don’t need to get home?”
Since Coach dismissed them from his classroom, Mel’s been dashing around town, slaying the last of her to-do list, with Phoebe ready to assist just like on the field. There are still a few loose ends to tie up, but if she runs out of time she can always pin her hair up instead of blowing it out with a round brush, the way she’d been planning to wear it tonight. It feels ungrateful not to accept this serendipitous gift bestowed upon them by the Starbucks gods, a chance to properly toast the long-awaited return of Mel and Phoebe, the Wildcats’ dynamic duo.
She zips out of the drive-through line and into a parking spot, though Mel doesn’t turn off the car right away. Instead, she announces, “I wanna hear the rest of this song,” and ticks the already loud volume a few notches louder. She hasn’t listened to it in forever and somehow forgot how much she loves it. Mel reclines her seat and stretches out.
“Last track,” Phoebe informs her, lowering the back of her seat to match the pitch of Mel’s, and begins to sing along.
Mel closes her eyes and sings too, totally not caring that her voice never stays in key. With the sunshine streaming in her open sunroof, all Mel sees and feels is warmth.
This mix was a surprise gift from Phoebe. Their personal greatest-hits soundtrack, Wildcats Season 1. Phoebe stealthily connected her phone to the car’s Bluetooth while Mel drove them out of the high school parking lot. When Phoebe pressed play on the first track, Mel legit gasped, and then the two best friends busted out the dance they used to do on the varsity team bus to burn off their nervous energy. Despite being restrained by seat belts, not a shoulder shimmy or hand gesture popped off-beat.