football.
“Because of the penalty, we move up to Madison’s twenty,” Pickle explained. “You have to move at least ten yards in four tries, then their team gets the ball. If you do ten yards or more—you get four new tries to move again.You’re only on your first down,” Pickle explained. She paused. “Is any of this making sense?”
Lucy shook her head. “Not really.” Luckily, she didn’t have to understand pass plays and yard lines. She needed to know throw-ins and corner kicks.
“Coach!” one of the Beachwood players suddenly yelled from the field. “Matt’s hurt! He’s hurt bad!”
Lucy saw Matt, Beachwood’s kicker, lying in a heap, gripping his knee. Coaches rushed the field. The crowd waited breathlessly. The guys on the bench strained to see. The same trainer that worked with the soccer team knelt down beside Matt, trying to assess the injury. He waved toward the sidelines, and within seconds, a medical team ran onto the field with a stretcher. Matt was carefully loaded on. As he was carried off, the crowd respectfully applauded.
“Matt Alexander,” the announcer’s voice boomed. Again, the crowd cheered. Charlie and Carla returned and took their seats in the stands.
“That sucks,” Carla muttered in front of them as she stuffed the rest of a hot dog into her mouth. “Can you even imagine?”
“Dude, if he tore his ACL,” Charlie said, dipping a corn chip into warm cheddar cheese, “stick a fork in him. He’s done.”
Carla shook her head sympathetically. “Poor guy.”
“Poor Beachwood, too,” Pickle commented. “We don’t have another decent kicker. This is bad.”
“So what does that mean for the game?” Lucy asked.
“It means Madison’s probably going to run out the clock and win.”
There was a glimmer of hope when, with two minutes to go, Beachwood’s defensive tackle picked up a loose ball and managed to run it back to Madison’s twenty-five-yard line. But on the next three plays with three incomplete passes thanks to an aggressive Madison defense, Beachwood needed to go for three points in one last attempt to win the game.
With Matt hurt, the coach had no choice but to put in Benji to go for the field goal. The tension in the stands was palpable. It was the first game of the season. Everyone wanted to win.
Pickle covered her face, unable to even look. “Oh God, here he goes. I can’t watch.”
Benji jogged out with ten other guys and walked off his steps from the holder. He stood, waiting for the snap. The crowd grew silent. Lucy strained to look over Heather and Jamie’s heads. On the call, the ball was snapped back and set up by the holder, as Benji went in for the kick. . . .
Everyone watched as the ball sailed up and up and up ... and, just as the clock ran out, pinged off the outside of the left goalpost, barely missing the goal, but missing it just the same.
On the sidelines, the coach cursed. “Damn it!” He threw his clipboard onto the grass.
On the field, Benji hung his head. In the stands, Lucy’s heart sank. It was over. Beachwood had lost—not only their kicker but the game. The deflated crowd began to disperse. Charlie and Carla headed for the parking lot.
“You guys need a ride?” Charlie asked, then noticed the cheerleaders running for the locker room. “Ugh.” Charlie rolled her eyes. “I’m sure they’re hurrying to slut it up for some stupid party.”
Pickle covered, not wanting to mention that they were hoping to go to the same “stupid party.” “Um, that’s okay. I think, um . . .” She looked at Max for help, but Max was suddenly engrossed in a Pixy Stick.
Lucy jumped in, saving her. “You have to take Carla all the way home. My dad can pick us up.”
“Okay.” Charlie shrugged. “See you tomorrow at practice.” Pickle waited for
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