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He stiffens at my question. He swallows once and his gaze falters for an instant. Not a good sign. I shake my head, silently praying he…lies.
Lie, if you have to. Just lie.
“Yes, of course, I was,” he replies thickly. “You’re so stubborn. I didn’t have the energy to fight you but you should’ve never tried out. You may be good for agirl, but you’re sure as hell not good enough for this team.”
“Damn,” a random whisper hovers in the air thick with tension.
A tremor rumbles through me, followed closely by a blade of red-hot pain that slashes my heart into strips. It’s left dangling like flailed meat hanging from a hook on the killing floor of a slaughterhouse. I have trouble getting in a full breath of air around the steel band constricting my chest.
“Go home,” he continues. “Get outta here.”
Coach points his finger at me. “Hey, I know who you are. You’re Dan and Marina’s girl. I’m going to call your mother, young lady. I don’t know what kind of joke this is, but I know your mother. She’s not going to like this one bit.”
“Yeah, Coach,” Marku adds, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring across the locker room at me. “She did this on purpose. Mocking you. Mocking the team. Mocking the sport.” He spreads one hand and waves it across the locker room. “Mocking every single boy here.”
Those words hang in the thick tension of the room and the mood switches instantly. At the suggestion that I was doing this as a prank, as a joke, the boys’ faces transform from laughter to anger.
All of a sudden, something moist and dirty hits my face.
Some kid’s dirty boxer briefs.
I strangle out a scream but another comes at me, and then another.
A ball whizzes past me.
The boys start pelting me with everything they’ve got. Dirty underwear, dirty socks, soccer balls, whatever they can get their hands on.
Coach’s voice rises above the growing din, his face red with fury. He shakes his finger at me accusingly. “I’m going to tell your mother. You’ll never play soccer again. Not with the girls here. Not anywhere. Hell, not any sport.”
Now the dam breaks. Tears pour down my cheeks. Snot drips from my nostrils, staining my jersey.
“Look at the crybaby,” someone cackles. A chorus of scathing laughter explodes amongst the flying objects.
One soccer ball hits me against the side of the head. My vision goes woozy. I grab my temple, my blurry vision seeking Marku. He stands to the side, leaning against a locker, and turns his back.
He wanted this. He did this on purpose.
Another ball hits me in the stomach hard and I bowl over, winded. From my crouched position, I see the boys inching closer and closer. I take a step back.
Marku doesn’t turn to make sure I’m okay, doesn’t make a move to stop them. More balls come at me. It’s like a feeding frenzy and I’m the bait. Through my haze and pain, I realize he’s not going to protect me.
I’ve got to get out of here.
I twist around, hunker down with my hands over my head as balls and cleats pelt my back. Sharp pain radiates from the impact of the blows. I’m going to be covered in bruises and I’m pissed and scared at the same time, but the most important thing is to escape.
Crouching down, I aim for the glass partition. I scramble around it and pause for a moment when something hard hits the glass. It shatters above me, shards of glass rain down on me, knifing me with piercing little cuts. The din increases as the boys heckle and screech, circling me like sharks in bloody water. I see the shadows of boys rushing me.
Petrified, I let out a scream and propel myself off the floor.
I throw the door open and escape, jeering hoots, cackles, and shrieks following me out.
Hugging the wall, I drag my foot behind me as I hobble down the hall as fast I can. I cast a look over my shoulder and see a posse of boys burst out of the locker room, their faces twisted in anger. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. I slam the double doors open and sprint down the stairs, but trip down the last couple of steps.
I fall forward, fear and panic gripping me. The linoleum floor rushes toward me. I crash forward, falling flat on my face. Pain explodes in my nose. Blood spurts out, hot and wet, like my tears. There’s a ruckus at the top of the stairs. Objects fly down on me, pelting my back, already throbbing with pain. I cover my head and curl into a fetal position. Blood gushes onto the front of my lucky Marta jersey, pooling underneath me as I stiffen with fear, terrified of what they’ll do next.
Feet hit the stairs behind me. Fingers snatch at my jersey. I feel the collar cutting into my throat. There’s a loud rip. I scramble forward, struggling to get on my feet. But before I can, another boy hits me square in the back. I’m propelled forward and slam my forehead into the wall. Pain explodes at the point of impact. My vision goes fuzzy. Sounds are muffled.
Hands drag me up and back toward the stairs. My breath stalls. Through the fog of pain and the rushing sound in my ears, I hear Coach’s booming voice. He calls them off.
