The Season (14 page)

Fourteen

In Which Megan Waxes Patriotic

LIKE MOST ATHLETES I'D HEARD “THE STAR
-SPANGLED Banner” about a million times, and there were times, standing with my hand on my heart, mouthing the words, when my mind wandered. Sometimes it wandered to tactics for the upcoming game, other times to the butterflies the song brought on. But so much had happened in the past three days that today, my mind whipped and snapped this way and that like the big American flag in the north corner of the stadium.

Sunday afternoon Dad had called me to ask if I would invite Hank out to the ranch.

“What for?” I asked.

“Well, we got to talking at the museum and he gave me a different way of looking at this whole thing, so I'd like to drive him around, give him a look, and see what he thinks about it.”

“Wow. You're serious about this.”

“I'm serious about thinking about it. Your mom won't let it go and we're kind of stuck here, and if there was a third way, well—I just don't want to leave stones unturned.”

“Sure, I'll ask him.”

“Thanks, honey. We'll throw in dinner too.”

Dad wanted my help with ranch and family business. I swelled with pride. Even sweeter, I now had a reason to call Hank, which I wanted to do every few hours anyway, but had so far resisted. Our game on Tuesday ended at five, and Hank had already bought a ticket, so I figured we could go after.

“Going to my girlfriend's soccer game and then having dinner with her parents,” Hank said when I asked him. “Not bad for a Tuesday.”

Girlfriend!
Had I hoped? Of course. Had we talked about it? No. And then he just threw the word out so casually—GIRLFRIEND! I was afraid to speak, sure it would just come out a squeak.

“So I'll see you after,” I managed.

“I'll be there. And remember, you promised me a hat trick!” Grrr. I was hoping he forgot!

Now I glanced at the stands where the crowd stood. Normally friends or family at games didn't bug me, but today was different. Up there somewhere were several of the girls from my deportment class, and for the very first time my honest-to-God real “boyfriend.”
Why
had I said I'd score three goals? He must have known I was kidding, right?
That's what I get for trying to flirt
.

The crowd clapped, and the team huddled for a last pep talk.

“Keep your spacing—trust your teammates,” Coach Nash said. We all nodded. “You're prepared, you're ready. Relax and be the best version of yourself today.” Nods again. “Okay—
team
on three.”

Seconds later I stood at the center line, one foot on the ball.
Relax.
The whistle blew and I kicked the ball back to Mariah.

“She was amazing,” Hank gushed to Dad.

Hank rode shotgun and I sat in the back as we bounced and bumped along a dirt road on the Aberdeen in Dad's truck. A cow raised its head as we passed, then went back to grazing.

“I got lucky,” I said.

“Three goals is not luck.”

“A hat trick?” Dad asked, glancing back. I nodded, and then blushed from the jolt of Hank bragging on me to my dad.

“The first one was from, like, thirty yards away,” Hank said.

“It was just outside the eighteen,” I corrected him.

“Well, it was from
way far away
, and she blasted it with her left foot right into the corner of the net.”

“She's always kicked harder with her left,” Dad said. “Even when she was just tiny, when we'd go out and kick the ball around, she preferred that left foot.”

“Well, it was a crazy-good shot,” Hank said.

It was freaking unconscious.
I had received the ball on a run toward the top of the box, and thought I'd slide it right to Mariah but my defender shaded that way. So I flicked it back onto my left foot and caught a glimpse of daylight between the crush of bodies and let it fly. The ball knuckled slightly and then peeled back into the top left corner as if controlled by a homing signal. The keeper never moved.

“Then just before halftime she scored again.”

“That was all Cat.” It really was. Cat had beaten a defender to the end line and then curled a perfect pass back over the keeper and into the goal mouth. It was a simple volley home.

“But you scored it.” Hank looked back at me and smiled.

“Even blind squirrels find nuts,” I said.

“And the third one, that was the best goal I've ever seen!” Hank said emphatically.

“Okay—how many soccer games have you been to?” I asked.

“One,” Hank admitted, and we all laughed.

“They were behind, and pressing, and were just open to that kind of counter off a long ball,” I said mildly, but I knew it was the best goal I had ever scored.

I broke forward as soon as Lindsay stole it, one-touched and settled her looping pass, then chipped it over the keeper all in a split second. Goals like that were instinctive. They resulted from thousands of hours of practice, and afterward you could never quite explain just how you did what you did.

I hadn't actually been trying to score three goals. Once the whistle blew I forgot my rash boast and really didn't think about Hank in the stands the whole game. But it happened just as I'd promised. Coach Nash was seriously impressed—she told me it was a watershed game, that my confidence and composure really showed in all three situations.

“People were chanting her name!” Hank said. “Afterward two girls asked for her autograph.”

“They're from my deportment class!”

“Anybody ask you for your autograph this week?” Hank asked Dad.

“Nope. Sounds like a helluva game, honey. Sorry I missed it,” Dad said. I could tell he was happy I scored the goals, and also that I had a guy who wanted to brag about it.

“I got so excited I bought a foam finger,” Hank said.

“You're sweet.” I smiled at him, and put my hand on the big blue SMU foam finger on the backseat. It was pretty romantic.

Dad stopped the truck and as we got out I grabbed the scatter gun off the rack. Hank took my hand and then noticed the shotgun in my other hand.

“Should I be afraid?” he asked.

“Only of snakes,” I explained, holding it up.

Hank looked down suddenly and noticed Dad and I were both wearing boots.

“Wrong shoes,” he said, nodding at his sneakers.

“I'll protect you.” I smiled at him and squeezed his
hand.

Planted deep in the earth by time and gravity, the barn in front of us was as much a part of the Aberdeen landscape as any tree or hillock. It was a western raised center, wide on the bottom with a narrow second floor. It had shed roofs to either side, big double doors at either end, smaller doors in the haylofts, and a paddock on one side. The red cedar, stripped and refinished dozens of times in the past 140 years, was now pumpkin orange with dark knots.

“My great-great-grandfather built it around 1873,” Dad said. “He built it first, before any house, 'cause back then job one was taking care of the cows—if they died, there was a good chance you died. He lived in here with the cows for a decade or so.” Hank checked to see if he was serious. He was. “Different times,” Dad added wistfully.

Hank took my hand and we walked closer. He reached out to touch the wood—it was as smooth as marble.

“We don't use it much, just some tack in here and some old hay, but I thought we'd start here because from up there”—Dad pointed to the hayloft—“you get the best view. He built here 'cause it's the highest point.”

“It's . . . amazing,” Hank said.

Dad opened the doors, turned on the lights, and we went in. Empty stalls. An old saddle perched on a rail. He walked over to the ladder, which led up to the hayloft. There, nailed to one of the original timbers, was a rattlesnake skin six feet long. Hank stared at it.

“You weren't kidding,” he said.

“That was a special one,” Dad said. “When Megan was eight or so, we came out here for something or other and she startled that fella.”

Hank looked at me—
really?
I nodded.

“What'd you do?” he asked breathlessly.

“Exactly what she was supposed to: nothing,” Dad said proudly. “He was chattering away, coiled up, and she's staring right at him—most girls, hell, grown women and some men even, would have screamed and jumped around and probably got bit. But not her. Just stayed rock still and whispered, ‘Daddy, there's a rattler over here.' I grabbed a shotgun, came up beside her, and blew its head off.”

Hank looked stunned. Dad patted me on the shoulder.

“I skinned him and pinned him, so she'd always remember.”

“He's only told this story a hundred times,” I said sarcastically. “I'm surprised it hasn't turned into a whole nest of rattlers by now.” But I was secretly proud he'd told it, and it had clearly impressed Hank.

Upstairs, Dad threw open the doors on either side, and light flooded in. It really was an amazing view. To the north the horizon lay unbroken by man, and it felt like you were looking straight to Oklahoma. On the other side was a good stretch of the Aberdeen, the main creek, and a number of cows, and it felt like staring into the past.

“Wow,” Hank said. He had his phone out and was taking pictures. “This is special.” Hank looked directly at
Dad. “This has everything you want in a first-class development: great land, lots of water, history, perfect location, far enough out from the city but not too far.” Hank held Dad's gaze. “People would eat this up.”

Dad pointed to El Dorado in the distance. It marred the effect.

“That there's the kind of thing I hate,” he said. “The houses are all built on top of each other—it's like China.”

“That's just density,” Hank said, still snapping away in all directions. “I wouldn't do anything like that here—no way. I'd go with big lots, forty or fifty acres, and where that creek runs I'd forbid any development on either side, let it be a greenbelt.”

“You can do all that?”

“Sure—you can do whatever you want, impose any kind of restrictions because you're in the catbird seat.” He swiped through a couple of pictures. “Besides, it fits. The people that want this want to have space. Let 'em have horses, keep this barn, keep the name the Aberdeen. They'll feel like they're buying a piece of history.”

“How do you deal with the mineral rights?” Dad asked.

“You just exclude them. It's done all the time. If you don't mind, Mr. McKnight—”

“Angus,” Dad said firmly.

“Angus—if you don't mind I'd love to just sketch some ideas, give you an idea of what it could look like.”

“I don't want you doing any work for free,” Dad said.

“I don't mind. I'm just starting out, and I need turns at bat. It's always great to have the first crack at something. And that way, you'd have something to look at.”

“All right, then, I'd appreciate it.”