of her feet up to her mid-thighs. Next are the pads circling each of her arms, wrist to elbow. Next is Ali’s chest pad, which she slips over her head like a sandwich board before putting on her varsity jersey. Her helmet and the plastic piece that hooks under her chin, protecting her neck, come out next.
Last are her goalie gloves, far and away the nastiest pieces of gear, but they are Ali’s prized possessions, passed down to her by the previous Wildcat goalie, Livvy Mills, after her last game. The foam inside is turning to dust, so cleaning them must be done with care.
She stands up, and from that angle, the assembled pads are like a black exoskeleton, the discarded shell of a teen-sized locust. Her cocoon.
With it all strapped on, the shape of her body completely changes, taking on the bulky squared-off look of a Lego person. No hint that her breasts are full C cups, that her thick black hair gleams and hangs to the middle of her back. The scar on her hand where her grandmother’s dog bit her is hidden, as is the splotchy birthmark on her right thigh. You can’t tell that Ali’s posture is impeccable, that her limbs are long and lean, benefits of having studied ballet through grade school.
This is the reason why she hates watching game film. How awkward she looks lumbering out from the goal when Coach calls them in for a time-out. It’s hard to even take a drink of water. She has to set down her stick, flick off her gloves, unhook the neck piece, lift her helmet up.
That said, it is necessary protection. Protection that makes her brave enough to stick out an arm, lift a leg, take a shot off her chest. The field hockey balls fly hard and fast, hit your skin like bombs. Ali’s teammates are far more exposed in their pleated kilts, bloomers, knee socks, and polos. Sure, they look way cuter, but she’s seen their skin swell, bruise, split on impact. She’s seen girls lose teeth, crack bones.
Really, the only bit of Ali that’s still visible is behind the cage of her helmet—her eyes, the bridge of her nose, her cheeks. But that’s all you need in competition. Some small, vulnerable spot to exploit. Just ask Achilles.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 26
2:25 P.M.
MEL
Melanie Gingrich pulls up to the West Essex Starbucks and counts the cars idling in the drive-through lane. Six, which makes her white Mini Cooper number seven, annoyingly the norm for this location. For whatever reason, it’s always busy.
But the parking lot itself is surprisingly empty. Mel scrunches up her nose. The decals plastered to the store windows make it hard to see inside, but she thinks she spies a few empty tables.
She reaches over and squeezes the shoulder of her very best friend, Phoebe Holt, slouched low in shotgun, refreshing her email on her phone.
“Phoebs, let’s ditch drive-through and grab a table inside instead.”
Phoebe’s blue eyes light up but she pauses before unbuckling her seat belt. “You sure you don’t need to get home?”
Since Coach dismissed them from his classroom, Mel’s been dashing around town, slaying the last of her to-do list, with Phoebe ready to assist just like on the field. There are still a few loose ends to tie up, but if she runs out of time she can always pin her hair up instead of blowing it out with a round brush, the way she’d been planning to wear it tonight. It feels ungrateful not to accept this serendipitous gift bestowed upon them by the Starbucks gods, a chance to properly toast the long-awaited return of Mel and Phoebe, the Wildcats’ dynamic duo.
She zips out of the drive-through line and into a parking spot, though Mel doesn’t turn off the car right away. Instead, she announces, “I wanna hear the rest of this song,” and ticks the already loud volume a few notches louder. She hasn’t listened to it in forever and somehow forgot how much she loves it. Mel reclines her seat and stretches out.
“Last track,” Phoebe informs her, lowering the back of her seat to match the pitch of Mel’s, and begins to sing along.
Mel closes her eyes and sings too, totally not caring that her voice never stays in key. With the sunshine streaming in her open sunroof, all Mel sees and feels is warmth.
This mix was a surprise gift from Phoebe. Their personal greatest-hits soundtrack, Wildcats Season 1. Phoebe stealthily connected her phone to the