Kicked Read Free Page A

by his helmet.
    Maybe he was right. Maybe I could do this. Just like kicking a soccer ball. I’d kicked thousands upon thousands of times. This time wasn’t any different, really. A different sort of ball, but the same principle. I just had to get under it more. Totally doable. You got this.
    I relaxed my shoulders and lined up the shot, gauging the distance I’d need to get the ball through the uprights. I started my forward momentum, leaning forward the way Coach Carver had shown me. The defensive players surged forward as the center hiked the ball.
    Trent caught it and set it on the ground, holding it upright for me to kick. I took my long steps, planted my left foot, and let my right leg fly. My foot made contact with a thud.
    The ball sailed upward, but the angle was all wrong. I watched in horror as it bounced off one of my own players’ helmets, flew straight up, then came down into the arms of a hulking defender. The line of red surged toward me, the big linebacker plowing ahead with the ball tucked close to his body.
    Trent scrambled from the ground and dove for him, but another linebacker moved forward to take the hit. They fell in a tangle as my teammates ran after Big Red. The other defenders blocked my players until I was the only one left between Big Red and a touchdown. He lumbered past me, his feet thundering on the turf. I turned and sprinted after him.
    With a leap, I jumped onto his back and wrapped my arms around his neck, trying to bring him down. He kept running as if I weren’t even there. The crowd roared as he carried me across the fifty, never breaking his pace as I tried to strip the ball from his grip. He threw an elbow back and nailed me in the ribs. I grunted from the sharp pain, but didn’t let go.
    “Fuck. Off.” Big Red panted and kept hulking toward the end zone.
    By the time we were at the twenty-five, another defender tried to shove me off. I held on and pawed at the brute’s arm, but he’d tucked the ball perfectly.
    He carried me across the goal line. My heart deflated like a Patriots football as the announcer’s voice boomed, the game clock ticked to zero, and we lost.
    The linebacker spiked the ball as I still clung to him. Then he bent over and flipped me to the ground. I landed hard on my back, and all the air left my lungs. I lay there as a sea of players in red rushed the field. It was like The Shining , all that red crashing down while all I could do was watch in horror and try to breathe.
    Fuck my life.
    Big Red’s teammates congratulated him on his run for glory and completely ignored me as I tried to catch my breath. I wanted to sink into the grass and disappear. No such luck. A white jersey appeared above me, the number nine written in the signature Billingsley blue.
    Trent knelt next to me and yanked his helmet off. “You okay?”
    “I’m fine.” I just want to die is all .
    The celebrating players formed a cocoon of noise and bodies around us. The Eagles fight song mingled with the yells and the din of the crowd.
    Trent took my hand and pulled me into a sitting position. Then he undid my chin strap and lifted my helmet off.
    “You don’t hurt anywhere, right?” He placed his hands on my cheeks and stared into my right eye, then my left.
    “No. I’m not hurt. Just embarrassed. I lost the game.” I tilted my head back. I refused to cry. I hadn’t cried on the field since the peewee soccer days.
    “We’re a team, Cordy. We lost the game. Not you.” He stood and pulled me to my feet. “It’s okay.”
    “Way to go, short stuff.” Big Red clapped me on the back. “Carrying your sorry ass to the end zone will get me on the highlight reel for sure.”
    Think of a comeback. Think of a comeback. I blanked and stared, only adding to my humiliation.
    “Don’t touch her.” Trent threw an arm around my shoulder and walked me through the mass of players. Our sideline was glum, many of the guys already heading to the locker room or staring at me and