Free Beyond Lucky by Sarah Aronson Page B

something extraordinary. Greenview is slow. Their star player is a dud. He hits a couple more bloopers my way. I throw the ball to Eddie, who kicks it to Parker. She can’t get rid of the ball fast enough. She passes the ball to Old, who sends it straight to Mac for another score. I touch the overhead post ten times.
    They should ask Mischelotti—this match has been a cakewalk.
    At the half, we are winning two to zero.
    Coach slaps my back, grabs me, and lifts me off the ground. In the huddle, he acts like I am the greatest thing since Election Day or free cones at Ben & Jerry’s. “Ari Fish, you are hotter than a fire in the hills of Arizona.” It’s a weird analogy, but I don’t care.
    Hands hit my back, my head, my shoulders, my stomach.
    Mac says, “Good job, Ari. Way to hold the lead.”
    I congratulate him too. “I can’t believe how slow they are. I thought they’d be better. It’s like the ball just rolls to my feet.”
    He turns away and stretches his hamstrings.
    Mac never stretches. I ask, “Is something wrong?”
    â€œI don’t know. I think they’re fast. Nineteen has awesome footwork, and with her in the lineup, he can basically shadow me. Weren’t you watching? He made me trip at least three times. And I missed two open shots.” When he’s done publicly complaining, he whispers, “Don’t tell anyone, but my legs feel slow.” He looks really worried.
    â€œI thought you handled them great.” Mac never feels tired. His legs always feel fast. But I know what it’s like not to feel sure of yourself. “I bet that premiere coach was just wishing he could talk you into jumping leagues.”
    Mac squats low and jumps up—three times. It’s another drill he never does. “Yeah. He wishes.”
    Coach comes over and rubs my head, then wipes his hand on his pants, because my hair is a sweat sponge. “You know, if you can play like that every week, it will take a lot of pressure off your buddy right here.” Then he holds up his hand and slaps me five.
    Mac holds up his hand. For his turn.
    Coach usually heaps on the praise, but today he has nothing to say to Mac. He walks away to talk to Parker. He slaps her five. And pats her on the back.
    I know what that feels like. “Hey—did you see who else is here?” When he looks irritated, I can’t believe I almost forgot. “Beer Man.” I scan the sidelines, but he’s gone. “At least, he was here.”
    â€œYou’re seeing things,” Mac says. He gets up and starts walking, head down.
    I jog two steps behind. “No, it was him. I swear! He was wearing the shirt. And the glasses.” When Mac does not react, I know he is really upset. I say, “He was watching you.” Which is not 100 percent a lie.
    Mac stops. He turns around. “Why would he do that?” He scowls.
    â€œBecause you are the best man on the field. Because he knows you are a fan of his, and he is a fan of yours.”
    Mac rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t look quite as morose as he did before. “A lot of people have that shirt.”
    â€œBut who else wears that shirt and aviator sunglasses? Do they all sneak away in the middle of the game, before anyone can talk to them or ask them why they are here?”
    Mac shakes his head. “The only people who come have kids on the team. Or they are friends with Coach. We would know if he had a kid—if he even knew someone on our team. And we know all of Coach’s friends.”
    He has a valid point. “But I know it was him.”
    Mac does not believe in mysteries. “Come on, Ari. Beer Man doesn’t care about soccer. He doesn’t care about me.”
    â€œYou said you’ve seen him a lot. Maybe . . .”
    â€œMaybe I’m just joking around. Ari, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but it isn’t working. I am not playing well—if