My routine was to drink one of those ten-ounce cartons of chocolate milk from the school cafeteria. I did that before every practice too. It helped me transition out of the school day. I knew that as soon as the carton swished into the trash can by the locker room door, it was time to play.

I washed down the chocolate milk with a mouthful of water and tried to focus. If I closed my eyes and exhaled, I almost forgot about Austin. Think about soccer, think about soccer, I thought. Think about beating the crap out of Littleton. Think about playing striker. Think about shooting the ball. Think about that “swish.” Hear the cheering. See Dad’s face as he nods, and you jog back to the half-line. Feel the sweaty high fives. Think about soccer, Nick.

Coach Dad thundered into the locker room for our pep talk. All my emotions had settled—the calm before a storm. I’d even replaced the cinnamon scent of Eliza’s shampoo, stuck in my mind for hours, with the dank smell of wet grass and dirt.

I was ready.

And we were going to win.

“Gentlemen,” Coach Dad began. A few guys on the cross-country team, who still lingered in the locker room, even turned to listen.

“Last year we beat Littleton 2–1,” he continued. “We would have tied them if it hadn’t been for O’Connor’s last-minute penalty shot.” A smattering of claps came. “This year, I want to score, and I want to score early.”

That’s what she said. I wanted to catch Austin’s eye. That day, I couldn’t risk it.

“Maguire,” my dad boomed. “Today you’re playing defense. Right side,” he listed off some of the other changes in our formation. I didn’t catch them. Defense? Is that a joke? I’d never been put on defense in a soccer game—not once in my thirteen years of playing. During practices, sure. Never for real. Scoring goals is what I did. Carter, Austin, and I were always the three starting forwards. Every. Single. Game.

“Sorry,” I interrupted, “did you say I’m playing defense?”

“You’re goddamn right I did.” My dad didn’t elaborate on the fact that he’d changed my position half an hour before the game. Unbelievable. My jaw clenched. Carter’s forehead crinkled. Everyone was thinking it, but no one said anything: if I played defense instead of offense, we were going to lose.

Ten minutes later, we warmed up on the soccer field. Carter and Austin practiced their shooting techniques, and I was tempted to join them. Instead, I stood by the bench with Kevin Light and Paul Jones, two of the other defenders, and pretended I didn’t care that I had to play beside them.

The school had built a sparkling bleacher section for the parents to sit on while they watched the game, but hardly anyone used it. Instead, the spectators had gathered near the sidelines and around the field’s perimeter. Apparently, none of them thought the ball would ever go out of bounds.