Even though he was half Brazilian, Austin didn’t call himself “black” or “brown,” though he did have that tan during the summer. Austin’s mom had been born in the United States after his grandparents moved to Massachusetts from Brazil, and she had given up trying to get Austin and his brothers to celebrate Brazilian traditions. Austin was super into tacos, which he considered close enough. Carter liked to remind us that Americans invented the version of the taco Austin loved so much, and that they were more Mexican anyway, but to be honest none of us really knew. Also, Austin had always resisted learning about Brazil because he didn’t want to be one of the “token diversity” guys at school.

Austin threw his shirt on top of mine. “Too bad there aren’t any girls around.”

“I could call your mom,” came Carter’s voice.

More of the team jogged with Carter, coming to do the workout. The grass squeaked as they ran. Not one of them was complaining.

“There’s no way you’re running by yourself, man,” said Carter. “Although if you ever get another detention, I swear on the lives of every single member of my family I will kill you.”

“I will too,” Jeff Karvotsky, a freshman on the team, called out.

“Piss off, Karvotsky,” Carter said, “I already called dibs.”

I looked between them. “Do you boys want to take this somewhere else?”

“Hell yeah!” Jeff shouted back. “I can take him.”

Carter swatted at him like a pesky fly. Carter was about seven inches taller than Jeff, and he was, without question, the strongest person on our team. Not one of us could take Carter. Not even me.

“All right, boys.” I placed the toe of my cleat on the white, chalk line. “Three hours of misery starts now.”

The others tore off their shirts and lined up. The overwhelming scent of fifteen sweaty teenagers was in the air before we’d even started.

“If you need to stretch,” I said, “stop and stretch. There’s nothing heroic about a pulled hammy.”

“Can we start now?” Jeff Karvotsky called out. “Faster we run, faster we’re done, ya know?”

“Everyone can start except Karvotsky,” said Carter. “Ready? One . . . Two . . . Three . . .”

For the next three hours, I focused on one idea: my dad’s stupid girl comments. I had no idea why today of all days the comments had gotten to me. Was I being hypersensitive? Maybe. Sprinting until I puked would be way easier than figuring it all out. No contest.

We finished the workout and clapped each other on the butts, as bros do. Carter and I led the stretching circle that followed, making sure the guys were thoroughly taking care of themselves, from stretching their heads, to their shoulders, to their knees, to their toes. Knees and toes.

On the way back to the locker room, Carter, Austin, and I each took turns throwing blades of grass at Jeff’s sweaty back. It could have been the endorphins, but I felt more content than I had in a long time, including being with Eliza. Something about soccer stirred that up.