Soccer Duel (3 page)
“He's scouting for this fall's junior varsity squad. And I told him to watch out for you; said you were center striker material.”
Bryce felt his heart hammering. He grinned from ear to ear, proud as he could be. “Thanks!” he said to Jake.
“De nada,” Jake said. “Don't mention it. You've got the goods. I didn't lie to the man.”
“Cool,” was all Bryce could say. He could see himself now, a freshman starting for the junior varsity team at center striker!
“Like I told you,” Jake added as he opened the door to Conroy's. “It's your big chance to impress him — so don't depress him, all right?”
“I hear you,” Bryce said. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“Just be good. I talked the talk. Now you gotta walk the walk.”
Jake disappeared inside. Bryce took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. Coach Harrelson was coming to see him play! And Jake had already built him up way high — maybe too high, Bryce realized. It would have been better to surprise the coach, coming out of nowhere, with no expectations — the way that kid Renny had done it today.
Now Coach Harrelson would already be expecting Bryce to play like a star. Bryce felt a coil of fear creep up his spine. He couldn't win! If he played great, the coach would have already been expecting it. And if he didn't play well? If he didn't score a single goal against the lowly Black Jacks?
Bryce didn't even want to think about it. He trudged off toward home, the ice-cream soda he'd just finished churning in his stomach.
S
o in order to qualify for the championship round, your team simply has to win its last two games, is that it?”
“You have the makings of a great team statistician!” Renny said, clapping Norm on the back. “We really need to know stuff like that, but we don't have time to figure it out.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Norm said. “Be grateful I'm coming along with you today,” The two boys walked side by side toward the field. It was the following Saturday, and Renny had finally talked Norm into watching him play.
“Hey, isn't that Bryce McJerk on the field?” Norm asked, suddenly hanging back. “You told me he wasn't going to be here,”
“I said we're not playing his team,” Renny corrected him. “His game must just be ending.”
But it wasn't. It was only the start of the second half, as they soon found out. Play had been delayed because the ref's car wouldn't start that morning.
“What's the score?” Renny asked John Singleman, who was standing on the sidelines.
“Six-three Yellow Jackets,” John told him. “Bryce has four goals. Oops. Make that five.”
A roar had gone up from one side of the field, where the Yellow Jackets and their fans were whooping it up. Bryce pumped his fists into the air and ran down the field, then went into a triumphant slide, shimmying to a stop.
“That kid is a one-man team,” said a man standing next to Renny. The man wrote some notes on a pad he was carrying. He frowned and shook his head. Renny thought the man looked familiar.
“Hey.” He nudged Norm. “Who's that guy?”
“That guy?” Norm looked past Renny. ‘That's Coach Harrelson.”
“The high school coach?” Renny breathed, turning to sneak another peek before the coach looked up from his pad.
“He's checking out players for next year's junior varsity squad, I heard,” John Singleman said. “You play like you did last week and he's gonna notice.”
Renny gave an embarrassed laugh. “I probably won't even play much. You're first-string now; I'm just subbing for you.”
“Nuh-uh,” John said, shaking his head. “Didn't you hear? Coach is going with you first half. He's gonna ride the hot hand.”
“Huh?” Renny couldn't believe his ears.
“You're starting, man!” John told him. “I'm moving over to left wing to make room for you. Hey, I hear you were awesome last week!”
Renny still couldn't believe he was starting. If only his mom or his dad were here!
He looked again at Coach Harrelson. “He said Bryce McCormack was a one-man team,” he said to John Singleman.
“Well, he is,” John acknowledged. “That kid is good. Trouble is, he knows it. Get what I mean?”
“I
get what you mean,” Norm broke in.
Renny was too preoccupied to react to Norm's comment. He was starting at center striker today! He looked out onto the field, watching Bryce move with the ball, bowling over defenders with his combination of aggressiveness and size.
“I could never be as good as him,” Renny murmured under his breath. “Plus he's got that killer shot.” As if to punctuate Renny's thought, Bryce put a monster shot past the goalie's left shoulder for his sixth goal of the game.
Renny knew that his own strengths were his speed, his moves, and his ability to think ahead and be in the right place. Those were all good things, but could they substitute for size, aggressiveness, and a killer shot?
Renny looked at Coach Harrelson, who was writing in his book again, shaking his head and frowning.
“He can't believe how good Bryce is,” Renny whispered, awestruck. “Who could believe it? And Bryce is having the game of his life besides:”
Renny sighed, wishing he were bigger, meaner, more of a banger, more like Bryce. It would have been nice to be the one Coach Harrelson wrote about in his little scouting book.
B
ryce stood on the sidelines at the end of the game. He should have been celebrating, but instead he was feeling confused and a little hurt. He'd scored six goals — six goals! And Coach Harrelson had barely even congratulated him: “Nice job, son,” he'd told Bryce. “You're gonna be a good one.”
What did he mean, “gonna be”? Bryce wondered. What was he right now — chopped liver? Six goals!
The second game had started with barely a minute's break, because the whole day had been thrown behind schedule. Bryce noticed that Coach Harrelson had stayed to watch it.
Bryce saw a soccer ball lying there and felt the urge to smash it a hundred yards down the field, but he restrained himself. Coach Harrelson had probably just gone easy on the compliments. He probably hadn't wanted Bryce to get a swelled head. Okay, he could handle that.
Bryce glanced at Coach Harrelson. The JV coach was staring at someone on the field. Bryce followed his gaze downfield, where Renny was dribbling the ball into the Red Scorpions' zone.
Renny was covered by three men. Bryce smiled humorlessly. The Scorpions must have heard about Renny's last game. “Try and score now, shrimp,” Bryce muttered softly.
At the last minute, though, Renny deked right, drawing the defenders off balance, then passed a perfect thread-the-needle to his open left-winger, John Singleman. Singleman shot home the goal.
Bryce grimaced.
“Now that's unselfish play. Hey, McMaster who is that kid at center striker?”
Bryce's gaze snapped back to Coach Harrelson.
“Renny Harding,” the Blue Hornets' coach replied. “New in town this year. He's subbing for Isaac Mendez.”
‘The kid with the ankle? Too bad about that. I wanted to get a look at him. But this kid's pretty good! I like the way he found the open man.”
Bryce could practically feel the steam coming out of his ears. That stupid kid Renny again! Stealing all the attention away from where it rightfully belonged. How many goals had Renny scored this season, anyway? Nowhere near his own total, that was for sure.
As if he'd read Bryce's mind, Renny scored his first goal of the game moments later. It came off a give-and-go play, in which Renny passed off to John Singleman, then immediately rushed forward. The winger quickly kicked the ball back into Renny's path, and Renny faked the goalie out before guiding the ball home.
“What a. lucky shot!” Bryce growled, his voice drowned out by the roar from the Hornets' sideline. “He barely got anything on it!”
“Yes,” said a voice next to him. “But it still counts. Sometimes brute force isn't the best way to get what you want.”
Bryce turned to see who had spoken, and saw Norm Harvey staring up at him with a huge grin. Bryce wanted to say something nasty to him, but Coach Harrelson was standing right there. Shut up, Bryce mouthed silently.
“What? Can't hear you,” Norm said innocently.
“… and he's not a hot dog like that other kid in the first game,” Bryce heard Coach Harrelson say.
The words hit Bryce like a punch in the gut. Stung in every fiber of his being, he stormed off, promising himself that he would get even with Renny Harding, and his geeky friend Norm, too — if it was the last thing he ever did.
Bryce stared at page 256 of his math textbook. He stared and stared. He hadn't done a problem for several minutes. He just sat there, thinking about that same horrible moment over and over again. Hearing Coach Harrelson's voice as he said, “Not a hot dog like that other kid,” meaning him, Bryce. His high school soccer career had ended right there. All his dreams right up in smoke. All because of that stupid Renny Harding!
Since he was three years old, Bryce had impressed everyone with his athletic skills. He was good at everything he tried, but at soccer he was in a class by himself. It had always been that way — till now.
It hadn't occurred to Bryce that someday he might not be the best anymore, that all the attention he'd always gotten might end up going to someone else. Now it was Renny Harding who would be the new high school soccer sensation. Bryce would be nothing. A substitute. A lowly second-string scrub.
His eyes came back into focus at the sound of his mother's voice. “Bryce?” she called from upstairs. “It's nine-thirty. How ‘bout getting up to bed, huh?”
“Soon,” Bryce heard himself say. He forced himself to concentrate on his homework until he'd finished it. Then he went up to bed and lay there in the dark, picturing that same moment, over and over and over again.
There had to be a way out of this nightmare. A way to make sure he would still be the best…
At lunch period the next day, Bryce sat down next to Turk Walters. “Hey, Turk,” he said. “I've been looking all over for you.”
“I'm not too hard to find,” Turk said.
It was the truth, all right. He was at least six foot two, with the build of a wrestler and bright red hair. He played defense for the Orange Crush. Turk wasn't exactly Sir Speedy, but he was big and aggressive, and a scary force on the soccer field — which was exactly why Bryce had sought him out.
“I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“I'm listening.” Turk stuffed half a tuna salad sandwich into his mouth. He started chewing, and the bulge in his cheeks was so big it was hard for Bryce to concentrate.
“Mmphghmfgm?” Turk said, motioning for Bryce to go ahead.
“Um, you know how you guys are playing the Blue Hornets this Sunday?”
“Mphgm.” Turk nodded yes.
“You know that kid Renny Harding who's filling in for Isaac Mendez at center striker?” “Phmphmgh?” Turk said, giving a “What about him?” motion.
“I just wanted to clue you in about him — because I know if you guys beat them, you go to the play-offs instead of them. And you know I want you and me to meet for the trophy, man.”
Turk's eyes bugged excitedly, and he gave a vigorous nod. “Mphgph!” he said.
“Okay, so this kid Renny, I don't know if you've ever seen him. He's a little runty kid, about this high, and kind of skinny. You could whip him in two seconds.”
Turk laughed, losing a crumb or two of his sandwich, and nodded again. He finally swallowed his food and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Or I could just sit on him,” he said, chuckling again and sending a spit shower into the air.
Bryce wiped off his face with a napkin and tried to forget what he was wiping. “The thing is, he's a wimp, you know?” he told Turk. “If you foul him hard a couple of times right at the start, he'll get all shook up. You scare him, he's meat. Got it?”
“Oh, I got it, all right,” Turk said, slapping Bryce five. “I'm gonna send him to intensive care! That kid is toast. Come down on Sunday and watch me whip him.”
Bryce smiled, getting up. “I wouldn't miss it for anything,” he said. “See you there — and see you in the play-offs.”
He left Turk sitting with the rest of his lunch. Good. He'd done what he could. He'd planted the seed. Now it was up to Turk Walters to do an Orange Crush on Renny Harding.
T
wo days after the victory over the Scorpions, Renny still smiled whenever he thought about the game. Only one thing interfered with his good mood — his parents.
When he'd returned home on Saturday after the game, he'd called his mom at work to tell her the good news. He knew she was proud of him, but she'd been on her car phone so she hadn't been able to talk much.
Longing to tell someone else about the game, Renny called his father. When he got the answering machine, he sighed and left a message asking his father to call him back as soon as he could.
His father did call back, but not until dinnertime. His mother answered the phone. She was tired from working, and the tone in her voice was snappish — the very tone his father had complained endlessly about in the months before the divorce.
“He's eating dinner right now,” his mother said. Renny looked up from his empty plate. “Why are you calling?”
Her brow furrowed as she listened. “Oh, he called you, did he?” She cast a sidelong glance at Renny. “Well, of course he'd have to call you, since you never call him first.”
There was a long pause during which her mouth got tighter and tighter. Finally, she said curtly, “You tell him yourself.” She handed the phone to Renny.
“Uh, hi, Dad. Thanks for calling back,” Renny said. “I wanted to tell you about my game today.” His mother picked up his plate and busied herself at the sink. Renny could tell she was steaming mad about something, but he was too eager to tell his dad about the game to take much notice.
He recapped it as best he could. He tried not to make his role come off as too important, but he
had
been the only one to score, so he had to mention that, didn't he?
His father congratulated him enthusiastically, then paused. Renny remembered that there was something his father wanted to tell him. Something bad, he guessed — correctly, as it turned out.