Free Breakaway by Kat Spears Page A

laps and playing scrimmages, so the time we spent in the weight room was like a vacation from all the running.
    â€œWhere the hell is Mario?” Jordie asked for the tenth time since we had started working out.
    I didn’t answer since (1) I didn’t know, and (2) I was sick of hearing him ask the question. Mario had missed two other practices in the past two weeks and technically Arturo shouldn’t even let him play in the next game, but he was so hot to finally beat St. Andrew’s in soccer that he would probably let Mario play anyway. We smoked St. Andrew’s in just about every other sport, but they had held out against our varsity soccer team, undefeated for four years.
    Jordie was angry because he believed we didn’t stand a chance against St. Andrew’s without Mario playing the sweep. And he was right.
    Mario had been blowing off practice and playing like shit lately and Arturo was so pissed off about it, we were all curious to see what his punishment would be.
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    We were all in the weight room when Mario showed up thirty minutes late for practice. Though it wouldn’t have been obvious to anyone else, I knew immediately that he was high.
    I was sitting on the weight bench, taking a rest between sets when Mario finally rolled in. Just the fact that he purposely avoided looking in my direction was evidence enough that he was on something, even if his eyes hadn’t also been glazed and red rimmed. Arturo was in his office, the room next door to the gym but with a glass wall so he could see us. Arturo was tipped back in his chair, feet on his desk, and glanced up when Mario walked in but didn’t bother to come yell about Mario being late.
    Chick stood at the end of the bench behind me, waiting for me to lie down under the weight bar and start another set. He had offered to spot me, and I said okay just to humor him, but there was no way Chick could lift the amount of weight I had on the bar. I could bench-press more than he could deadlift.
    â€œHey, Mario, where’ve you been?” Chick asked as Jordie and I exchanged a look. Jordie’s expression held a judgment against Mario that I refused to share so I kept my mouth shut.
    â€œI’ve been busy,” Mario said.
    â€œWell, thanks for taking the time out of your busy schedule to show up for practice,” Jordie said, looking for a fight.
    I lay back on the weight bench so I didn’t have to participate in the argument Jordie was inviting. I gripped the collars that held the weight disks in place, my arms wide to take the pressure in my chest instead of my arms. For the next two minutes, while I went through a series of reps—full range and half lifts—my mind was completely focused on not dropping the bar on my neck, and the burn of tired muscle. When I sat up for another rest, Jordie and Mario were still bickering.
    â€œYou know we might have had a shot at regionals this year if you would actually show up for practice,” Jordie said.
    â€œTake it easy, Jordie,” Chick said, but both Mario and Jordie just ignored him, Mario snapping back at Jordie harshly.
    â€œWhy do you care so much about what I do anyway?” Mario said as he settled into the first of the circuit machines.
    â€œI don’t give a shit what you do,” Jordie said. “I care about the fact that we’re going to lose the game against St. Andrew’s if you don’t get your shit together. What’s Arturo supposed to do, put Chick in the sweep?” Jordie asked, his voice so snide that if he had been talking to me, I would have smacked him in the mouth to shut it.
    â€œHey,” I said, interrupting Jordie’s little tirade. Jordie stopped and turned to me as I jerked my head discreetly in Chick’s direction. Maybe Chick wouldn’t really take offense at what Jordie had said. It wasn’t any big secret that Chick couldn’t really play. But it was a wasted effort to point it