Chapter 3
The game’s supposed to be easy. Some nowhere private school with pastel uniforms and no stamina. Coach calls it a “confidence-building match,” which is code for try not to get suspended, Coyle.
Mac starts off restrained. For her. Only one near-trip, one passive-aggressive elbow, and a minor shoving match by halftime. But by third quarter, something snaps.
It’s the opposing striker. She says something snide—probably nothing major, just the kind of crap girls say when they think they’re untouchable.
But Mac hears it wrong. Feels it too right. Her stick hits the ground before the ref even notices she’s moved. She doesn’t throw a punch, but she might as well have.
Whistle.
Card.
Two minutes in the box.
She storms off, ripping her mouthguard out with her teeth. The plastic almost snaps.
The team’s silent. Coach is red. But it’s KJ who walks up to her during the timeout, jaw clenched.
“You done?” she hisses.
Mac sits on the bench, practically vibrating. “She called me trash.”
“So prove her wrong,” KJ says, voice low and deadly. “Not right.”
Mac glares. “Easy for you to say. You’ve never been trash a day in your life.”
KJ doesn’t blink. “You think I’ve never been called names?”
Mac laughs bitterly. “Not ones that follow you home.”
KJ leans down, just enough so no one can hear but her. Her voice is calm. Scary calm.
“You’re not special because you’re angry, Mac. Everyone’s angry. You just set yours on fire and call it a personality.”
Mac looks up. Wants to yell. Wants to hit something. Wants—
Wants her to stay.
Instead, she mutters, “You’re a bitch.”
KJ shrugs. “Takes one to know one.”
And then she jogs back onto the field like nothing happened.
Mac watches her go. Watches the line of her shoulders, the way her ponytail swings like a blade. She can feel her heart punching her ribs. And it’s not from adrenaline.
⸻
They win 6–1.
No one cheers louder than Coach.
Mac doesn’t go to the team dinner after. She skips out, cuts behind the bleachers, finds an old vending machine in the maintenance hallway. She kicks it until a packet of M&Ms drops.
She doesn’t expect KJ to show up ten minutes later, hair still wet from the locker room.
“You owe me an assist,” KJ says. No hello. No smile.
“I owe you jack.”
KJ leans against the machine. “You gonna quit?”
“Why would I quit?”
“Because I yelled at you.”
“You always yell at me.”
“That’s because you make it impossible not to.”
Mac kicks the base of the vending machine. “Why do you even care?”
“I don’t,” KJ says immediately. Too fast. “I just need you to stop screwing up my plays.”
Mac turns. Looks her right in the eye.
“Then stop looking at me like you want me to be something I’m not.”
KJ doesn’t answer. Not really.
She just holds out a hand.
Mac stares at it. Then, slowly, places the melted M&Ms in her palm.
Truce, maybe. Or just sugar.