“Depends on who’s asking.” Carlos sat on a bench a few yards away, tying his cleats. He looked a little older than everyone else, maybe midthirties. His long hair was pulled back, and he wore a closely trimmed goatee. I walked toward him, and he stood to meet me. “Sorry. We don’t let Matias out of his cage very often. When we do, he forgets how to be polite.”

I stuck out my hand. “Sorry for barging in on your game. I’m Lane.”

“Carlos.” He smiled. “What can I do for you?”

I motioned to Jamie and the rest of his team across the field. “How hard are those guys to beat?”

Carlos folded his arms across his chest and grunted. “They’ve had a bit of a winning streak lately, but it isn’t impossible.”

“How frequently do you play?”

“Most Saturdays.”

“When was the last time you beat them?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why are you asking so many questions?”

I weighed my next words carefully. “Because I really want them to lose today. And I want to help make it happen.”

A few other players moved closer.

“You, huh?” Carlos asked. “Forgive my doubts, but you’re just one person.”

“One person the other team isn’t expecting to be any good. Jamie just shot me down like I’m still playing youth league. But I promise I’m qualified.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “How qualified?”

“UC Berkeley. Three-time conference champions, Division I National Champions my senior year.”

“Jamie—the tall one. He played in college too,” Carlos said.

My confidence wavered. I had an impressive soccer pedigree, and I knew it. But ultimately, I had no idea what I was up against. I’d been riding on determination buffered with a little bit of bravado and a hope for some good luck. It didn’t take much effort to imagine a smirk on Jamie’s face if my plan backfired and I helped the opposing team to nothing but defeat. Still, it was too late to back down.

“Just let me play. If we don’t win . . .” I hesitated. “I’ll buy your entire team dinner tonight.”

Carlos laughed and shook his head but then seemed to consider. “Dinner for the whole team? You’re not worried we’ll throw the game just to get a free meal?”

I narrowed my eyes, and a few of the players chuckled. “You wouldn’t.”

He rubbed his chin. “You play midfield?”

I nodded. “Center.”

He ran his hand across his forehead. “Fine. But if you screw up, you’re moving to the outside, and you’ll never touch the ball.”

Good grief. Jamie was right. These guys were serious about their sport. “I won’t screw up.” Did he think I’d pretended my way through four years of collegiate soccer?