Free Archenemy by Patrick Hueller Page A

thought about the game I was missing and couldn’t help feeling sorry for myself. I looked at the empty bleachers and imagined all the fans who were probably cheering Fraser High at that very moment. I looked across the empty field and imagined all my Copperheads teammates racing from one end to the other.
    My gaze returned to Belle. She stood perfectly still, one paw raised. Her head was turned up and away from me. A growl came from deep in her throat.
    I turned my own head just in time to see another dog—a beagle—charging toward us. It looked like it was coming straight for me with its tongue flopping out of its mouth. But when it was only a few feet away, Belle started yelping at it, and it changed course. As the beagle veered toward Belle, a piece of paper flew out of its collar and fluttered to the ground.
    Belle yelped in alarm, then flipped around and pounced on the beagle. They continued growling and yelping as they rolled around with their teeth bared. I closed the gap and started yelling, “No! Get away! Bad dog! Get away!”
    By then, I was in front of Belle. I lifted my right leg and got ready to stomp on the beagle. Did I mention I was wearing my cleats? My entire uniform, in fact. If I couldn’t play on the team, at least I could dress like my teammates. One good stomp, I thought, would send this maniac dog running.
    â€œSkittles, come!”
    I didn’t recognize the voice, but the beagle seemed to. She stepped away from Belle and trotted past me. A girl stood in the corner of the field and called for her dog again, “Come on, Skittles! That’s a good girl!”
    She crouched down, and the dog jumped into her arms. Standing up, she headed my way, her beagle squirming and wiggling but unable to get free. The girl wore a spring dress and strappy heels. With each step, one heel or the other sunk into the ground. When the girl was a few feet from me, she crouched again. I thought she was going to set the dog down, but she didn’t. Instead, she picked up the piece of notebook paper on the ground.
    â€œSorry about that,” she said to me.
    â€œSkittles was supposed to deliver this note,”—she unfolded the paper for me to read—“but I guess she found her own friend to play with instead.”
    In big, pink, bubbly letters, the note said, “Wanna play soccer?”
    â€œNot sure I’d call what your dog was doing
playing
,” I said.
    â€œShe’s totally harmless, I swear.”
    I must have made a face like I didn’t believe her because the girl said, “Besides, your dog totally liked it.”
    I looked at her skeptically. “My dog’s always been more of a cuddler than a fighter.”
    â€œAll dogs are fighters,” the girl said. “Look.”
    Sure enough, Belle was sitting below the girl’s arms, growling and standing up on her hind legs to paw at Skittles. The girl lowered Skittles to the ground and Belle pounced. Within a few seconds, the dogs were rolling around again and growling. Now that I wasn’t so freaked, I could tell that it was happy growling.
    â€œI’m Eva,” the girl said. “Just arrived in town, like a second ago.” She was short, with dark hair and plenty of makeup. “My parents are setting up the house. They wanted me to get Skittles out of their hair.” We were standing close enough that I could see some freckles behind the concealer she’d caked on her face. She interrupted my thoughts, “Miss the bus to your game or something?”
    â€œSomething like that,” I said. I didn’t feel like talking about my suspension.
    â€œI know—the bus left as you were strapping on those calves. Is that it?” She gestured toward my legs.
    That’s another thing I don’t think I mentioned: I have huge calf muscles. Seriously. I got them from my dad, who was an Olympic-hopeful ski jumper. For most of my life, I thought my calves were