r /> My stomach twists into knots. I’m the only person who can go in as a substitution. I’m the only person on the bench.
The coach runs out onto the field as the rest of our team gathers around.
“Please be okay,” I whisper, more to save my own ass than out of concern for that guy. I don’t even know his name. I should know his name, but eventually all the elbows in my face just kind of make them all look the same.
After some minutes, the guy gets taken away on a gurney, and the coach comes back to the bench with a hard look on his face. I already know what he’s going to say, and it’s all I can do just to keep from vomiting at the thought.
“You’re up,” he says.
“But—”
“No buts. You’re the only person left.”
I stand up on shaky legs.
“You know I’m not good enough to play,” I say quietly. “And Heath is a midfielder. I can’t go in for midfield.”
“You’re going in as an attacker. I switched one of them to midfield.”
My head spins. “I’m not good enough.”
His lips purse into a thin line, and he sets a hand on my shoulder. “I didn’t ask, Alex.”
Without any other option, I gather my shit. I tug my helmet down over my head. Legs and arms shaking, hands clutched around my stick, I trot stupidly out to the enemy team’s goal to take up my position as attacker.
Out on midfield, Jasper and Beck stare incredulously at me. I don’t know what to do. I’m rooted to the spot. I’ve practiced in this position before, but I’m not good at this. If the school was big enough for tryouts, I wouldn’t have made it on the team at all.
My mind goes blank as I try to push my way through the next bits of the game. I mostly stay out of the way of the other attackers as they do their work. They get in some goals. I catch a few balls and pass them to my teammates. I huff and puff as I run around in my assigned area, doing what I’ve learned to do at practice, wondering the entire time if I’m doing anything right and if Heath is okay.
Stupid Heath.
I wouldn’t be here right now if he hadn’t chosen today to go on some sort of manic stimulant binge.
And then, despite everything, halfway through the game something suddenly clicks. I don’t play sports. I’m not athletic. But suddenly, out on the cold field with the sun barely trickling down through the clouds, with most of our school watching, I figure it out.
Just for a moment.
Oh, I think. Catch the ball.
And I do. Suddenly, I’m paying attention. Not only do I catch the ball, but I throw it to Beck and he makes a spectacular goal. This time, when he passes by me, he doesn’t elbow me out of the way.
Beck and Jasper, still midfield, haven’t been throwing things to me. I’ve just been the person to hold the ball if the other two attackers are busy. But now they’re throwing me things. I’m catching them. Our team is making goals. The crowd is cheering.
And for the first time, I’m a part of it all … and I’m doing well.
The whistle blows for some sort of break, and the coach tells me I have to go midfield now. I’m dazed and can’t speak, so I just nod. Beck and Jasper shoot me strange looks but don’t say anything as I trot out to midfield. Do they know about Heath? Do they realize where he is, what he’s doing?
The game starts up again, and any thoughts of Heath disappear in the drip of sweat and the mingling of hot breath. Midfielders have the ability to go all over the field, meaning I’m doing a lot more running. But I’m smaller than the other guys. I’m a little more agile.
What’s the score? I don’t know. I have a job to do, and I do it mechanically without thinking of the context. I catch the ball. I throw it to the attackers. I run around. I throw a ball into the goal. The goalie blocks it. Everything just feels like a list of incidents happening to someone else, and I’m watching my own body do the movements from afar.
One of the enemy team’s defenders throws the ball to an enemy midfielder. I’m near him, so I run over and catch it before he can. And then I run toward the goal.
People are shouting, but I’ve seen Heath do this in our practice skirmishes. This is a thing you can do. This isn’t against the rules.
None of our attackers are open for me to pass them the ball. They just shout things at me and point at the goal, so I keep running in its direction and throw the ball at the last second.
The goalie doesn’t block it in time.