The Beast (4 page)

And she doesn't seem to mind one bit. Every time she makes a diving save, she laughs and asks Dayton, “Is that the best you got?” Every time Dayton scores on her she says, “Guess not.”

She's treating this whole thing like it's a big joke, which is really obnoxious—but kind of sweet too.
How
, I begin to wonder,
could I have ever been intimidated by her?

Becca is caught leaning the wrong way and—as Dayton's shot finds the back of the net—I tell myself that she's no threat to me at all.

Looking at me as Dayton blasts another shot her way, she asks, “Any tips for me before tomorrow's game?” Before I can reply, Becca spots the airborne ball and leaps straight up into the air. She jabs at the ball with an outstretched arm and knocks it harmlessly over the net.

What an amazing play, and it happened just as I was going to suggest a few drills that could help her footwork. If she really wants to improve, we could set up cones so she could shuffle through them—one at center-front of the goalie box and two at the corners of the goal. She could charge to the cone in front and retreat to one of the cones in the corners. I could remind her to stay in an athletic crouch, which would keep her from crossing her feet.

But I don't help her do any of these things.

“Sorry,” I tell her instead, “I can't think of anything right now.”

“Okay,” she says, “let me know if you do.”

“You got it,” I say.

What I'm really thinking is:
No way, goalie girl. If you want to improve, you're going to have to do it on your own
.

Because if Becca is not a threat to me right now, why would I help her become one?

O
nce the game starts, I can't help but feel sorry for Becca. Within the first ten minutes of the first half of the game, she's given up two goals. Coach is furious.

“Don't
lean
, Miller! Get your body in front of the ball! To your right, Miller! No, not that far!”

He doesn't stop yelling for the rest of the game. He yells at her before, during, and after an Ironwood player takes a shot on goal: “She should never have gotten that shot off!” Moments later, he shouts at her when the ball crosses midfield: “On your toes!” He even yells, “Pay attention, Miller!” when the ball's on the other end of the field.

Becca isn't the only one Coach Berg's yelling at. But she's definitely getting it worse than anyone else. Watching her take his verbal abuse, I realize that for the first time since the concussion, I'm glad I'm not in her shoes. Yesterday, Becca was all smiles. Today, she might start sobbing on the field like Erin Hamley.

It's tough to watch Becca fumble, but not as tough as watching the soccer ball. Every time it changes its course, I feel sick to my stomach. Closing my eyes is the only thing that makes the dizziness go away, but I'm afraid to keep them shut for very long in case Coach notices. If he knew about the wooziness waves, he might think I'm not getting any better.

With a couple minutes left in the game, an Ironwood player makes a right-foot flick and goes all Abby Wambach with it. Midair and parallel to the ground, Ironwood's forward makes an amazing header into the left corner of the net. Despite the goal, we manage to beat Ironwood 4–3. Still, Coach uses his postgame speech as another opportunity to tell Becca that she has a lot to learn—“You hear me, Miller?
A lot
to learn.”

“I hear you,” she tells him. She sounds as though she's on the brink of tears. Coach tells her that she better be ready to go for the game on Monday and storms out of the room.

Becca may be vying for my position, but nobody deserves to get singled out for an entire game. I feel bad enough for her that I cross the room and put my hand on her shoulder. “Look,” I say, “don't worry about all that screaming Coach does—okay? Seriously, he said the same stuff to me last year. The trick is not letting him get to you.”

“Sounds like a difficult trick,” she says. “But thanks.”

“You'll get better at it, I promise.”

“I hope so.”

I pat her on the shoulder one more time and leave the locker room.

She catches up to me a few minutes later as I'm heading to my car. By now, it's dark outside. The headlights of other cars sweep across my vision and cause another wave of wooziness. I stagger back a little but manage to stay upright.

“The lights are still on,” Becca says, pointing to the field. “Any chance you'd be willing to do some drills with me or something?”

“I wish I could, Becca, but—”

“I'll do it.”

Rick is leaning against my car, biceps bursting under his spandex sleeves.

“Really?” Becca asks. “You'd do that?”

“If you're looking for goalie guidance,” he says, “I'm your man.” He does a few hip thrusts. “Get it?” he says. He points to himself with his thumbs. “I'm a
guy
, and this”—hip thrusts again—“is my
dance
.
Guidance
.”

Becca giggles just like I giggled when Rick made the same lame joke to me last season.

L
ast year, when I made varsity as a sophomore, I was nothing like the beast that I am now. People who knew me at that time would have described me as shy and quiet. But shy and quiet is a bad combination if you want to play goal for Coach Berg. I'd been a goalie since elementary school, but Coach treated me like I'd never put on a jersey before. He spent the first part of the year hollering at me just like he hollered at Becca. Like her, I just stood there and took it…until one day I didn't. I yelled back at him and told him to step off. To my surprise, he pretty much did. Not just that day but for the rest of the season.

All my life, I'd been like a wimpy, earthbound caterpillar hoping that I would someday become a beautiful butterfly. But at some point last season, I got sick of waiting and decided to become a beast instead.

To most people the transformation must have seemed sudden. Where had the quiet caterpillar gone? About the only one who wasn't surprised was Rick Morris. By then, he had been training me to play goalie every night for more than a month. We would meet on the field after practices and games, and he'd help me with my fundamentals—and my confidence. He told me to be assertive, to go with my instincts, and to control the game not only with my skill but also with my voice. When I became a beast, I was becoming what he wanted me to be all along.

Still, it wasn't until the beast in me emerged that Rick started to like me. I mean, really like me. Even then, he took until fall to stop saying we were “hanging out” and start saying we were dating. It was probably a good thing he waited so long. I needed time to wrap my head around the notion that he might actually like me
that way
. Sometimes, I still have trouble believing it. But his attraction to me obviously has something to do with my bad, beasty self. He's never happier to see me than after my voice becomes hoarse from yelling at my teammates.

For some reason that I've never understood, he's never seemed to mind that I didn't turn into a butterfly. Then again, he didn't have a goalkeeping butterfly to compare me to…until now.

From where I'm parked now, I can't see the soccer field, but I might as well be able to. In my profoundly injured brain, I'm watching the two of them playing soccer under the lights. I can see Rick telling Becca to “trust your gut,” an expression only guys with six-pack abs ever dare to use. I can see her giggling and getting better and giggling some more. The fact that she's doing this while wearing my yellow goalie's jersey just makes it that much worse.

It took Rick months to fall for a beast like me—how long will it take him to fall for a butterfly like Becca? I can't let that happen. Come to think of it, I bet butterflies are a good source of protein for beasts.

9:46 PM

To: Ruth

From: Alyssa

want 2 get rid of becca miller. will u help me
?

9:48 PM

To: Alyssa

From: Ruth

rip bm

T
he next morning, I find myself lying on the backseat of Ruth's car again. I still can't sit upright in a moving vehicle without the wooziness crashing down on me.

“We're here,” Ruth announces when we get to the athletic parking lot.

“Remind me again why we're doing this?” I ask.

“You said you wanted to get rid of Becca, didn't you?”

“And this is going to do that?”

“It's worth a shot,” Ruth says. She's watching me in the rearview mirror again.

“Why do we have to meet here?”

“Do you know of any other place that has inground sprinklers?”

“Couldn't we just douse her with a hose?” I imagine spraying Becca until she's flat on her back like I am now.

“The trick is to get her to quit on her own,” Ruth says. “If Coach knows you tried to force her off the team, he'll probably kick you off instead.”

Ruth's voice is impressively calm. From her mouth, the plan sounds totally logical. She's even tapping her fingers together like she's some evil genius.

“What time is it?” I ask.

Ruth's eyes leave the rearview mirror as she checks her watch. “Quarter to ten,” she says, opening her door. “She'll be here any minute.” After helping me out of the car, she asks, “You sure you have a ride home?”

“My mom's restaurant is just a few blocks from here,” I say. “She can give me a lift during one of her breaks.”

Ruth wishes me good luck and gets back in the car. As she drives away, I head for the soccer field and go over the plan in my head. About an hour ago, I called Becca and volunteered to help her with her goalkeeping. When she accepted my offer, I told her to meet me at the field at ten o'clock. The key to the plan is Becca's punctuality. If she's more than a few minutes late, the sprinklers will already be running and Becca will remain dry and happy.

As for me, I have to pretend that I'm late. I'll “arrive” a few minutes after Becca is soaked and sobbing. I will tell her how sorry I am. “I had
no
idea that the sprinklers went off at 10:05 on Saturdays.” This is partially true. I didn't know they went off at ten o' five until about twenty minutes ago when Ruth told me they did.