Chapter Six
Watching JV girls’ lacrosse is normally a painful experience. The players typically drop more passes than they catch, and most shots on the goal are only blocked because the shooters use the goalie as a target. But lacrosse is a religion in our area, much like football is in the south. This was the only reason that the stadium bleachers weren’t completely empty at 5:00 p.m. on Friday evening.
As varsity captain, I felt that I should make an appearance, but neither Devon nor Elizabeth felt compelled to join me. Since prom was fast approaching, my friends had decided to use the free time to test out a spray tan salon in the next town over. At last count, they’d already tried three other places without much luck. After going to Fun Without the Sun, a spray tan salon in Westwood, Elizabeth resembled an oompa loompa and Devon was streaked.
So I sat alone on the bench with my warm-ups over my uniform, trying to drum up some enthusiasm from the second and third stringers since the crowd in the stands was barely cheering.
With mere seconds left on the clock, one of the defensive players for Mt. St. Mary’s fouled Anna Beth in the arc, and the ref awarded her an eight-meter shot. Coach Peters called a time-out before she let Anna Beth take the penalty. She met my eyes as the girls huddled around her, and nodded in Anna Beth’s direction. I pulled Anna Beth away from her teammates.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, wincing when I noticed the goose egg forming on her forehead from the stick she’d taken to the head.
“Good,” she said earnestly, her speech slurred around the mouth guard protecting her upper teeth.
“Good.” I smiled, encouraging her. “The goalie is left-handed, so you have the advantage of shooting for her right,” I instructed.
Anna Beth nodded, her brown ponytail bobbing behind her. “The girl that whacked you is really fast. You need to get your shot off quick before she can get her stick in there,” I continued, reiterating details I was sure she knew. Anna Beth listened patiently, drinking in all my advice like it was gospel. “You’ve got this.”
The fog came thick and fast this time. In the blink of an eye, I was standing in a cloud, nothing but white in every direction. I stiffened. No, not again, I thought, half expecting to see Ninjas or something equally bizarre storming the field. Instead, Anna Beth threw her arms around me in a suffocating bear hug. “We did it!” she squealed in my ear, spitting her red mouth guard onto the Astroturf next to my foot. I returned her embrace. Pride swelled in my chest, as though I had a part in the victory she’d just claimed.
“That shot was unbelievable,” I whispered. “How did you know to pump fake?”
As fast as it had come, the fog was gone, and once again I was standing on the sidelines in the Westwood High Stadium. The sun was sinking below the horizon, casting the field in shadows. For the past four years, every time I entered this stadium my pulse quickened, the corners of my mouth involuntarily rose to form a smile, and the taste of victory awoke my taste buds. But now, standing in a place that had always filled me with joy, I was suddenly uneasy. The vision was nothing special, nothing serious like the one about the Bronco. But the fact that the visions were happening at all was enough to throw me off balance.
“Eel? You okay?” Anna Beth asked, bringing me back to reality. The younger girl’s eyes were slightly unfocused, but there was no mistaking the concern they held.
I shook my head. “Good luck?” I said, my sentiments coming out more like a question than a statement.
Anna Beth smiled wearily and then started trotting back onto the field as the ref blew her whistle.
“Anna Beth, wait!” I shouted after her retreating form.
She paused mid-stride and craned her neck over her left shoulder to look at me. I sprinted to cover the distance between us.
“Forget what I said,” I urged her. “Cradle three times, pump fake, and then aim stick side,” I ordered.
She looked doubtful, but I knew she’d score if she followed my instructions. “Trust me,” I said, lowering my head to look directly into her eyes, which was not easy since hers were darting erratically from side to side. She nodded dazedly.
The ref blew her whistle a second time, giving Anna Beth an angry glare. Anna Beth ran toward the opposing goal to take her penalty shot before the ref penalized her for delaying the game. Just as quickly, I retreated to my end of the metal bench.
“What did you say to her?” Coach Peters asked, sounding more interested than irritated.
“Just reminded her to keep an eye on eighteen,” I lied. Eighteen was the girl Anna Beth had to thank for the concussion she was clearly suffering from.
On the field, the ref blew her whistle a third time. Anna Beth wasted no time in charging the goal. She cradled her stick across her chest three times and drew it back farther over her right shoulder on the fourth pass, like she was going to release the ball tucked in the mesh pocket.
“SHOT!” a girl on the opposing bench screeched.
The goalie deftly crossed her own stick over her chest as she moved to her weak side, anticipating where Anna Beth’s shot would’ve gone had she taken it, but the ball was still nestled in the pocket of her stick. Anna Beth cradled one last time, drew her stick back again, and fired her ammunition for real. The ball sailed cleanly past the goalie and found a home in the back of the net.
The sound of the ref’s whistle was drowned out by the screams erupting from the girls sitting next to me. Anna Beth tore across the field, her arms wide, and nearly collided with me when she reached the bench. She engulfed me in a suffocating bear hug.
“We did it!” she squealed in my ear, spitting her red mouth guard onto the Astroturf. I returned her embrace, just like I had in my vision. Only now, fear made my chest constrict, and I gripped Anna Beth tighter to make sure I was living in the here and now.
“That shot was unbelievable,” I whispered, because I knew I should. The shot was amazing, but if I hadn’t known I was supposed to say those words, my mind wouldn’t have been able to formulate the thought.
“How did you know I should pump fake?” This time she asked the question instead of me, or at least a version of the same question I’d asked her in my vision.
“Just a feeling.” I smiled, releasing her and shooing her toward the open arms of her teammates.
How had I known what was going to happen before it did? Where had the vision come from? Was it like the feeling of impending doom that people experience, only kicked up a notch?
I know that it’s not unheard of for people to have a feeling when something bad is going to happen. After 9/ll, people who were supposed to be on the planes that hit the towers claimed that something had told them not to take the flight. Many episodes of that Unsolved Mysteries show were based on a similar phenomenon.
Knowing that Anna Beth would score if she faked the shot and then aimed for the goalie’s stronger side was likely a byproduct of the years of training, I told myself. You’ve been playing lacrosse since you were six. Besides, the goalie wasn’t exactly in the running for player of the year or anything, so using a pump fake was a surefire way to score a goal.
“Well whatever you said to her worked,” Coach Peters said, startling me out of my anxious mental rambling.
“Huh?”
“Whatever you told Anna Beth to do, it obviously worked. That was an amazing shot. You’ll make a great coach one day, Andrews; you’re great at reading the players,” she praised me before disappearing to shake hands with the coach for Mt. St. Mary’s.
Her words hit home. I was great at reading opposing players. That was part of what made me such a lethal opponent, according to every coach that I’d ever had. Even my mother frequently told me I was too observant for my own good. There was nothing weird going on.
My own teammates were trickling onto the field now, prompting me to assume my role as captain. Elizabeth and Devon were laughing as they made their way around the rubber track to join me on the bench.
“Looks like they won,” Devon observed, nodding to the JV girls who were still a huddle of screaming excitement.
“Yeah, good game,” I said absently, freeing my stick from the bag Elizabeth handed me.
“You feel okay?” Devon asked, her eyes darting across every inch of my face.
“’Course. Why?” I retorted sharply.
“Well, for starters, you’re jumpy as hell, Eel. And then there’s the fact your pupils are so dilated you look like you’re on drugs,” she said, matching the tone I’d used.
“Sorry. Nerves, I guess,” I apologized, truly sorry that I’d practically bitten her head off.
Devon’s expression softened. “They aren’t even in our conference, Eel. The game is a glorified exhibition. It’s totally not a big deal if we lose.”
“You know that this is more than just another game for me,” I said pointedly. “This is personal.”
“Jamieson?” Devon guessed.
I nodded. Jamieson Wentworth, my former best friend, played for Mt. St. Mary’s. I’d thought about Jamieson a lot over the past week, ever since the text from Kaydon.
“Andrews!” Coach Peters screamed my name across the field. “Let’s get this party started. I shouldn’t have to tell you that your job is to be leading warm-up drills right now and not having social hour with Holloway and Bowers.”
“On it, Coach,” I yelled back. Then I exchanged an eye roll with Devon and Elizabeth before taking up my post.
The game wasn’t exactly a slaughter, but we were leading them five to one by the end of the first half, which was a decent spread. Instead of dwelling on the visions, I funneled all of my nervous energy into the game. I ran harder and faster than normal, as if I could outrun whatever was happening to me. Midway through the second half, Coach Peters decided to make some changes to the lineup.
“Holloway, you’re on fire. I want you setting up shop in front of that goal, first home,” she declared.
First home was the offensive position closest to the goal. Devon looked grateful for the reprieve; she was sucking wind from having to run the length of the field so many times.
“Bowers, I’m moving you to second home. Everybody else, get the ball to one of those two.” Twenty heads bobbed in unison. “Andrews, take center,” she ordered me.
She continued to bark out positions, but I’d stopped paying attention. I never played center; the position was both offensive and defensive, and shooting was not my strong suit.
The ref blew the whistle to resume play.
“Um, Coach? Are you sure you want me at center?” I asked hesitantly, knowing that questioning her authority might land me on suicide duty until the end of the season.
“That’s what I said, wasn’t it, Andrews?” The question was rhetorical.
“Um, right, you did But why?”
Her patience was wearing thin. “You’re one step ahead of everyone else on that field and I need you where you can direct this game. I want to finish strong, win big,” she said, exasperated. “Now go.”
She shoved me towards the circle where the other team’s center was already waiting to take the draw. I jogged to take up my position opposite her. I’d never taken the draw in a game. I frequently helped Devon practice, though, so I knew the technique. Only problem was ― I sucked at it.
I mimicked my opponent’s stance: right foot forward, right knee bent, right forearm skimming the top of my thigh. Gripping the wooden handle of my stick so hard that my knuckles turned white, I pressed the pocket against my opponent’s, wedging the hard, white ball in the middle. I closed my eyes and waited for the sound of the ref’s whistle.
As soon as the shrill sound assaulted my ears, I shoved hard against the other girl’s stick. The joint force propelled the ball high in the air and straight into the pocket of one of my teammate’s sticks. I tore down the field, my speed unmatched by the girl marking me. As I neared the twelve-meter arc, I planted one foot and pivoted, stick high in the air - an unspoken call for the ball. I never saw the ball land in the mesh pocket, but felt the weight when it settled into its home. Instinctively, I turned, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that Devon would be standing behind the goal. I didn’t bother looking to make sure she was; I released the ball mid-turn.
“SHOT!” the goalie screamed, her voice coming out garbled around her mouth guard.
The defense collapsed on the goal, but they were too quick on the draw because I hadn’t taken a shot. Just as I’d known she would be, Devon stood behind the goal and to the left. She cradled the ball three times, giving me enough time to rush forward. Since the goalie had assumed I was shooting instead of passing, she read the play wrong and left one side of the net wide open.
Devon passed the ball back to me. The pass wasn’t on my right like it should’ve been since I was right-handed, but instead sailed to my left. Like I’d known that Devon would be behind the goal, and that Anna Beth would make her shot, and that the Bronco would hit us if Devon ran the stop sign, I knew Devon would aim for my left side. My stick was waiting for her pass. I eased the stick back as the ball landed in my pocket, and in the same motion I flung the ball into the empty net.
The ref’s whistle sounded. “GOAL!” she screamed.
“Ridiculous shot!” Devon shouted, knocking me to the ground in her enthusiasm. I laughed even as both our sticks dug painfully into my ribcage. When she helped me to my feet a minute later, my gaze immediately scanned the crowd for my mother. She had promised she’d be there, and I desperately hoped she hadn’t missed my rare goal. Disappointment threatened to dampen my elation when I didn’t immediately spot her black hair in the stands.
What I saw instead made my head spin, and excitement replaced the adrenaline pumping in my veins. My heart felt like it might burst when his gaze met mine. Standing on the top row of bleachers wearing a blue hoodie, hands shoved into his jeans pockets, was Kaydon. The way my body responded to him came as more of a shock than when he had touched me. Even with his hair dripping water down his cheeks and his tee shirt clinging to him, I’d been unable to tear my eyes away from him at the lake. But now, that feeling of being physically pulled towards him was so intense I could barely breathe.
Time stood still. My teammates ceased moving around me. The cheers from the home bench and the bleachers no longer reached my ears. My peripheral vision grew hazy; only Kaydon stood in sharp focus. The urge to run from the field, vault the fence that separated the bleachers from the track, and throw my arms around his neck overwhelmed me. Then my father’s warning sounded in my mind: Trust your instincts. The only problem was that my instincts were divided. His connection to Jamieson Wentworth aside, something about Kaydon bothered me. Scared me, even. Yet, that fact wasn’t enough to dampen my fascination with him.
“Eel?” Devon snapped her fingers before my eyes.
“Hmmm?” I responded, distracted.
“You okay?” Devon thrust her face in front of mine, breaking the invisible thread tethering my gaze to Kaydon.
The stands weren’t full, so it was easy for Devon to locate the source of my agitation. “Who is that?” she asked, squinting to see better. “Is that the kid from the lake?”
“Yeah, Kaydon,” I said absently. A nagging sensation was tugging on my memory. There was something familiar about all of this: Kaydon in his hoodie, the bleachers, me standing on the field.
“Kaydon? I thought you didn’t know his name.”
Oops. I wasn’t sure why, but I hadn’t told Devon about Kaydon’s phone call or the text messages we’d exchanged. The way her eyes scrunched and the skin around her mouth went taut made my insides squirm guiltily. Devon and I shared everything, and this omission was big for me.
“I’ll explain later,” I mumbled, and started towards where our teammates were huddling around Coach Peters. I was lost in thought, my mind back at Caswell Lake with Kaydon. The now all-too-familiar fog settled around me, but not in time for me to understand what was about to happen. She hit me hard on the shoulder and I fell to the ground, landing on my butt.
“Pay attention to where you are going, Captain,” Jamieson Wentworth sneered, glaring down at me.