My dad, L-W’s mid-seventies grandpa coach, and the referee huddled on the other sideline. The ref held up his hands as if he were being arrested, and L-W’s coach went berserk. His face puffed bright red, and he basically wheezed as he stammer-screamed at the referee.

“Never in m-my forty years of-of coaching—”

We missed the rest of it because my dad was heading back over. “You’re in luck.” He said. “The referee didn’t see it.”

What?! How could he not have seen it? He was looking right at us!

The referee was busy staving off legal threats from L-W’s coach, and a funny feeling struck me. Maybe, just maybe, that referee felt guilty about the time Ben had punched Carter in the face and he’d let it slide.

“He didn’t see it,” my dad said warned, “but the scouts sure did. I’m going to see if I can undo any of your idiot damage with them, and you’d better pray it works. If I ever see anything like that from you girls again, you will be off this team faster than you can say ‘retribution.’”

The ref blew his whistle. Austin and two sophomores somehow stole the ball from Ben, only for Austin to stumble over the ball and lose possession.

The confused crowd began to cheer again, accepting that they would have no idea what happened. Nervous energy weakened my knees as I dreaded having to explain it later.

“Ben Johnson is a goddamn tool.” Carter spat on the grass.

“What a loser,” I said.

“Thanks, Mags. Nice to know someone else cares about my sister as much as I do.”

“No worries. I’ve known her as long as I’ve known you.”

Carter nodded towards the scouts. “You know they were coming today?”

“Nope. No one ever tells me anything.”

Carter leaned onto his arms, trying to stay stretched for if we ever got put back in the game. “That’s probably why your dad put you on defense, you know.”

“What?”

“He knew he’d put you back on offense for the second half. Then the scouts would get to see you be a team player, and we’d suddenly not suck.”

“We did not suck,” I said. “You scored, bro.”

“Still. You know I’m right.”

Goosebumps sprouted on my arms as the guilt set in. The entire time I’d been on defense, I had only cared about making myself look good in front of the scouts. I hadn’t been a team player at all—not like I needed to be.

Especially not to Carter.

Coach Dad put us back in for the nail-biting end of the game—apparently the scouts wanted to see more. I scored another goal with an assist from Carter and Austin to win the game 3–2. The scouts even shook my hand afterwards, saying they would be in touch.

“Atta boy, Nicky,” my dad said as the scouts packed up. “That was a hell of a game. Best I’ve ever seen you play.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Proud of you.” He patted my back, then went off to be congratulated by everyone’s parents.