“Damn, that kid is good,” someone had said behind me when Carter was still tackling the cones.

“Wow,” another had said after his goal, “we gotta get that guy.”

At first, I thought it would be nice to go after Carter, and I could watch his technique and tell him about it later. Now, I had to go after Carter.

The coach blew his whistle. “Dude, you’re up,” said the guy behind me.

I took a deep breath, balancing my toe on the ball. Three, two, one . . . I counted. Go. I exploded from the line, trying to tear through the cones as easily as Carter had. Go, go, go, I pushed myself to run even faster. At the end of the cones, the Clarkebridge coach held his hand up and to his left.

Shoot for the upper left. I lined up my shot and it sailed safely into the net—on the center of the right side. Oops. The guys on the team didn’t know where I was supposed to shoot, however, and cheered for me as I jogged to the back of the line.

“I dunno, I think that guy was faster,” someone said.

“The blond guy had a nicer shot.”

“They’re both incredible,” said someone else.

At Cassidy High practices, I was always the absolute man. It was my group of guys, and I truly belonged there. Playing with Clarkebridge’s team was different. A new thrill. Like the impossibilities I’d always dreamed of were actually in reach. When I lined up my next shots at the goal, hearing the encouraging cheers from the hyperathletic strangers around me, I felt like I was taking a dare from my future, challenging me to decide if this was what I wanted.

It was the thrill of getting to see what my life would be like if I wanted the guys around me to be my new guys. At least, if I was up to the work it would take to succeed on the team here. And if I was up to the good-byes.

We finished the shooting drill and jogged to the sideline for water. Next would be a scrimmage with the team. Carter came up beside me, sweat in his hair and darkening his pinny.

“Pretty cool, right?” he said. “Picture this with a few thousand people.”

Imaginary cheering came from the stadium as we took it in. Carter nudged me. “I hear we’re doing way better than those other high school guys.”

The two recruits trying out with us sat on the grass, pouring water over their heads. Their cheeks puffed red from the exhilaration.

“I have a good feeling about this,” I said, “Just gotta nail the scrimmage.”

“That’s what we do best,” said Carter. He swigged his water bottle, and as the light caught him at that exact angle, his blond hair shone like a trophy.

I couldn’t wait to tell my dad about this.

The next day, Carter and I anxiously waited for our interviews, rocking full suits. Carter was up first, which meant I had extra time to psych myself out and feel extra uncomfortable in the Buckingham Palace–style admissions building. Why does basically every school make their admissions building all plush and stuffy when it’s nothing like the rest of the school? Maybe to make the one percent feel more at home. Mostly it was hard to breathe.