Free Beyond Lucky by Sarah Aronson Page A

him. He has no reason to show up at our select soccer game.
    The ref shouts, “Let’s have a fair game.” He puts the ball on the ground, blows a whistle, and my first game begins.
    After two midfield changes of possession, Greenview takes control first.
    Right away, it is clear that Coach was right—nineteen is the core of the team. He finds a lane and sends a perfect pass past midfield, but it’s just like Coach said—their wing is slow, slow, slow—and Eddie has him covered, no sweat. The sluggish wing tries to chip one back out of trouble, but he can’t escape our Mr. Biggs. His kick goes off the side of his foot, lame. Eddie charges left, dribbles around him, and with absolute precision, places the ball in front of Soup, who is running toward midfield.
    â€œNice work,” I yell to Eddie. “Way to cover.”
    Soup immediately gets the ball to Mac, who does not hesitate at all. He weaves past their first line of defenders, straight toward the goal, practically unchallenged. For some reason, they’re giving Mac a lot of breathing room.
    I jump up and down and shuffle side to side. It doesn’t matter that the ball is far away. I have to stay strong. Loose. It’s never too early to check in with the D. I say to my defense, “Don’t get pushed too far. Keep your eye on nineteen. If you need to kick it back to me, that’s cool. As much as you can, stay between me and the ball.”
    It’s just a precaution. Without making a single pass, Mac sets up to shoot. Their keeper dives far right—a bad move. Mac MacDonald is the king of the wide-open net.
    â€œGoal!”
    â€œValley!”
    â€œKiller time!” That’s what Coach calls the first five minutes of the game. It is the best time to drop one in the onion bag.
    I love playing with Mac MacDonald.
    When the game resumes, he picks up where he left off. He steals the ball and dribbles downfield with Soup to back him up. Coach goes crazy. “Give and go. Give and go,” he shouts at least seven times until Mac gets trapped and passes the ball to Soup, who dribbles fast and forward, until the biggest defender steps in front of him.
    Bang! Soup goes down hard, flat on his face. When he gets up, he’s got his hands to his nose, and Parker runs onto the field with a white box.
    He’s bleeding.
    Stopping play means an automatic time-out. A chance to chug some water and confer with Eddie. Soup packs his bloody nose. Coach screams “Cheap shot” at the refs.
    He turns to the bench. “Parker, you’re in.” When she runs into position, her friends go wild.
    Girls are so strange. They wave their arms and do gymnastics on the sidelines. They are all wearing shorts under skirts, which from here, look a lot like underwear. Mac says, “Greenview is going to be all over her. I just hope she can handle the pressure.”
    She can’t. A midfielder challenges Parker one-on-one, and he trips her up. She screams foul, but it’s a legal steal and she knows it. Later, she’s in position, and again she is mugged. It is totally her fault. She should not be trying a left-footed crossover—which is a pretty fancy move—in that much traffic. She doesn’t drag the ball far enough. Nineteen takes the ball away from her—no problem—and she hits the ground hard. He leaves her in the dust and charges up the field. Directly at me.
    He is a very fast dribbler.
    He has no problem with his crossover.
    Obama, Bush, Clinton, Bush, Reagan . I yell “Look left,” and “Close down the lane,” as he gets off an early shot. The ball hits my chest and bounces at my feet. A little soft. I grab it. Easy save. No problem.
    It’s a little disappointing.
    Not the save—but for all the hype, I was expecting something more. Three more shots—three more stops. A few people chant my name, but I wish they’d stop acting like I’m doing