“Mags,” said Robert, high-fiving me.

No surprise there, since the Bro Code states that a bro must be a ride-or-die dodgeball fanatic. I embraced that rule to the fullest. Robert was able to choose Eliza before Josh could, and she waited next to me.

“How come you were late?” she asked. She wore an old cotton tank top that said, I need my space, with a picture of the NASA logo. Cute.

“Selena Gomez forgot to roll over and wake me up.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Truly.”

She watched Josh line up his team. He gave her a tiny wave. The gym’s stale air, suddenly, felt overwhelmingly stuffy.

“My dad went extra hard on my workout this morning,” I admitted. “Didn’t feel great after.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Absolutely not. “Nah.”

“Nick—” Eliza brushed my elbow. Thankfully, that’s when Ms. Johnson blew her whistle and it was time to play. I followed Robert to the back of the court and ignored the goosebumps sprouting under my baggy T-shirt.

Honestly . . . yeah, I was that guy in dodgeball. Every time I picked up the ball and nailed someone square in the chest, a kind of weight lifted off my body, until all my stress and negative thoughts had transformed into endorphins and empowerment, like I could do something. Dodgeball can really cheer a bro up, am I right?

Don’t hate us ’cause you ain’t us.

My team won two games in a row. It wasn’t until the third game that Josh personally targeted me, whipping fast ones right at the moneymaker. A true compliment. While I ducked to keep my nose from being broken, a sophomore on Josh’s team arced a big, fat rubber ball right into my knee, in what should have been the biggest upset of the week, except they followed it up with a string of outs for my team. Robert got out, and then a few other kids, and then Eliza, until finally the only person still in was this five-foot freshman named Stephen Ross.

He was up against the entire other team.

“Here we go, Steve!” I shouted. I’d never really talked to Stephen before, and admittedly, I did not know much about him besides the fact I’d umpired his baseball team once.

I took my time on the bench as an opportunity to lie on the dirty floor and lift my legs. A smooth strain stretched my hamstrings. Ever since freshman year, my dad got me up way before any teenager should reasonably be conscious to run extra soccer drills before school. Still acclimating to being back in “school mode,” the sessions left me extra slow-moving in the mornings and my muscles super stiff. I could practically feel the tiny tears in my calves begging me to rest, wanting to properly build themselves up again. Yeah . . . no way was that happening. You’d think my dad would prioritize stretching, since he’s had his share of soccer career–ending injuries, but he didn’t want to stand around and wait for me to stretch out my adorable butt.