Okay, I did totally kick him, but he deserved it. Trevyon has been throwing jabs and pushing me all match. That’s not what put me over the edge though.
He deserved a spike to the nuts for what he said.
If only I hadn’t already drawn a yellow card, I’d still be in the game.
That first yellow was a bullshit call. It wasn’t a handball at all.
Okay, maybe a little, but the refs never call something that barely grazes the outside of the arm as it goes by. Leave it to the lady ref. That’s really why I got in her face. She shouldn’t have called it.
Now, here I am, sitting in the locker room, thumb up my ass, with nothing to do. I won’t get to start the next game either. It sucks enough that there’s a month break before the next match due to the Global Games, and now it’ll be even longer for me.
I want to punch something—or someone—but I don’t want to end up with a broken hand. Again.
I make a colossal mistake by pulling out my phone.
Dad: Way to go. How many reds this season?
If there’s one thing I can’t do, it’s ignore a text from my dad.
Me: 4
His reply is immediate.
Dad: I don’t know why they keep you on the team.
Thanks, Dad.
I mean, I ask myself that all the time. It wouldn’t shock me at all to get called into Coach Janssen’s office as soon as we get back to Boston.
I don’t expect to get called over at halftime. In the past when I’ve been set off, staff simply ignored me.
Yeah, it’s totally better that way.
“Do I even need to ask?” Coach Janssen tents his fingers under his chin.
“It wasn’t a handball in the first place.”
“Technically, it was. I watched the replay.”
I cock my head. “Oh, come on. You know that shouldn’t have been called.”
Coach raises an eyebrow slightly. “That’s up for debate. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“He was up my ass all half. Shoving, throwing elbows. He stepped on me at least once. So I gave it back.” I don’t bother mentioning the comments muttered under Trevyon Wallis-Smalls’s breath throughout the opening minutes of the game. Bringing that up and letting Coach know I reacted to it is not going to help my cause. Nobody cares about my sob story, so I’m not going to mention it.
“That’s not what I’m talking about either.”
I shrug, clueless. Sure, I threw my shirt when I got off the field and stomped off like a petulant child, but what else did he expect me to do? It’s bullshit. And it’s not like I’m the only one who does something like that.
“I’m talking about Andi Nichols.”
That name means nothing to me. “Who’s Andy Nichols?” All I can think of is the kid fromToy Story, but that would be weird for Coach to bring up now. “I don’t know him.”
“No, but you knowher. She’s the head ref for the game.”
Oh.
“She made a bad call, and I let her know.”
