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PROLOGUE
WILL
Age Ten
“Will! Will, come on!”
I glance over one shoulder at my little brother, Tripp. He’s annoyed with me. Or as annoyed as Tripp can get.
“Five more minutes,” I tell him.
“We’ve been here for hours. All my friends left a long time ago. I’m bored. How are you not bored? You’ve just been kicking that ball the whole time.”
What Tripp doesn’t get—what no one seems to get—is that playing soccer is the only time I’m not bored.
I’m bored in school.
I’m bored at home.
Out here on the field, I feel alive. I feel like I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing.
No one else understands that. Not my mom. Not my dad. Not Tripp. Not Wyatt, my best friend, who lives a couple of blocks away and headed home a while ago because he got sick of playing soccer.
I’ve never gotten sick of playing soccer. Can’t imagine it ever happening.
“Three minutes,” I say.
Tripp sighs, then wanders back toward the playground. He’s ten times more patient than I am. I could stay out here for another hour, and he probably wouldn’t come over again.
It’ll be pitch-black in another hour, though. It’s already late; the August sky a colorful blaze of pink and orange as the sun dips. The other kids who were here when we arrived already headed home for dinner.
The lines covering the stretch of grass I’m standing on are faded. It’s rained a lot lately, and the park in our neighborhood gets forgotten most of the time. The trash bin by the picnic table is almost always overflowing. The netting of the soccer goal is torn and tattered. But the barest tint of white lightening the blades of grass is all I need to pace to the perfect spot. The metal frame is all that’s necessary to adjust my aim.
I take a deep breath, pretending I’m standing on a famous field in front of thousands of people instead of in a run-down park at dusk. Tap my thigh three times, exhale, and then kick. Not only does the ball sail through the goal’s opening, but it also goes right through the foot-long tear in the top left corner of the netting—exactly where I was aiming. I smile before jogging forward to retrieve the soccer ball, then start all over again. Coach Wilson told me my aim is the best he’s ever seen. He thinks I’ll definitely make the all-state team if I try out in September.
Six shots later, I tuck the ball under one arm and head for the playground.
Tripp is sitting on one of the swings, his expression glum as he drags his shabby sandals through the wood chips.
“Come on,” I tell him, heading for the gate that leads to the sidewalk.
We walk in silence along the cracked pavement, which is unlike my little brother. Usually, he’s chattering away at a million miles a minute.
“What’s wrong?” I finally ask.
“Nothing.”
“Tripp, tell me.”
My little brother exhales. “Cooper was saying some stuff about Dad earlier.”
My grip on the soccer ball tightens. I already knew Cooper Mason had been running his mouth. I thought I’d taken care of it before Tripp heard.
“You should have told me.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t want you to get in trouble.”
At that, I scoff. Any trouble I get into, I talk myself out of. “Tell me next time. Promise?”
