I woke up early the next morning feeling like a train had run through my skull from ear to ear. I'd never been hungover before, and I never wanted to be again. This sucked, and the worst part was the heavy certainty in the pit of my stomach that I was going to get kicked off the team for (albeit accidental) underage drinking.

Practice had been in the morning so far, but today it wasn't until two, and I was grateful for that. It meant we'd be running in the heat of the day, but it also meant that I'd have some time to deal with my headache and the weird muscle-sluggishness I was feeling before heading to my first class late-morning. It also gave me more time to worry about what was going to happen when Wesley inevitably told Coach Garcia about what had happened last night.

That thought made me groan and yank the covers over my head, but then something solid landed on top of me—Sean. "It's time to rise and shine, sweet-cheeks!" he sing-songed, waving a cup of coffee in front of my face. It smelled like optimism, and the Tylenol he put in my hand was even better. "You remember we have class in thirty minutes, don't you? Your academic career begins now!"

I had absolutely forgotten that. Sean had talked me into joining his art history class after I'd brought up that I needed another humanities cred. "Oh, shit." I bolted upright, reaching for the coffee. "That's right."

Sean threw a granola bar at me next and gave me a too-wide grin. "I knew you wouldn't forget."

An hour later we were crammed into a pair of smelly, threadbare, theater-style fold-down seats at the back of the auditorium, and I was trying very hard not to fall asleep. Why had I let myself get talked into art history, again? There was no running or kicking or anything. We were just staring at bowls of fruit way too early in the morning.

"Is this seat taken?" someone whispered, and I looked up to see a girl edging down our row, clutching a bookbag to her chest. She was pretty, I guess, if you were into that sort of thing, and I knew immediately that Sean was, because his eyes went all big and starry and he swept his own bags off the seat she had asked about with a hasty thunk that made the professor glare at us.

"No! Please." He grinned up at the girl. "I'm Sean."

"Angela." Angela wriggled into the seat that Sean had cleared and stuck out her hand. She had a lot of curly auburn hair that stuck around her ears in that messy-on-purpose way I could never quite pull off. "I got totally lost."

I covered a smile. I could relate to that.

Sean took her hand and bowed showily over it, whispering with false chivalry, "A pleasure to meet you."

I rolled my eyes. Angela blinked—startled, but grinning. Then the professor's voice boomed out at us. "Is there a problem back there?"

All three of us froze. The professor's eyes stayed on us just long enough to make his point, and then he went back to talking about bowls of fruit. I slumped deeper into my seat. Was I completely incapable of staying out of trouble?

Eventually, two o'clock rolled around whether I wanted it to or not. Today was our first scrimmage, and I showed up feeling like a lamb to the slaughter. At least my headache had faded. I'd been chugging Gatorade, and physically, I felt almost normal again. I'd been afraid that Coach would start yelling as soon as I showed up, but he didn't. He didn't even look particularly upset. He just gestured for me to join the rest of the team on the field, where we were being divided into two groups.

I'd been looking forward to scrimmaging, and it didn't take me long to get into it. It felt like it had been forever since I'd actually played soccer—not just done drills or studied. I was on one team, and Wesley, being the star striker, was on the opposite team. That made me nervous at first, but this was what I lived for. I was back in my element, and whatever mysterious, petty thing was going on between Wesley and I seemed far-off and irrelevant.

I scored two goals in the first half. Wesley only scored one, but who's counting? I tried not to let my excitement get the better of me. At the sixty-minute mark, the other team had managed to get the ball down to our end of the field. Duncan, trying to rescue us, made a pass that Wesley intercepted. Wesley beelined for our goal and made a shot.

It was a beautiful shot, but I was right there and ready for it. I caught it on a header right outside the box and knocked it off to Juan, who sped back down the field with it towards the other team's goal. A cheer went up from my side, and even Patrick, who was on Wesley's team, shouted, "Nice, Carter!"

Fresh confidence filled me, and I laughed in spite of the nasty glare that Wesley was shooting at me. Look at that, I thought, dogging after Juan and watching as my team scored another goal. I guess I am good at this game.

Suddenly, something slammed into me, and I went down. My head hit the turf hard, and I was splayed out on the ground, watching the puffy white clouds while the rest of the team shouted distantly in concern.

Wesley appeared above me, and I felt a surge of anger. That really hurt. Worse, it was obviously a targeted tackle. If this had been a real game, Wesley would have just earned us a red card. The ball wasn’t even in play yet!

Wesley crouched down close beside me, and I caught my breath. Those ice-water green eyes were magnetic, and his mouth looked like it warranted its own unit in my art history class. "That's what you get for blocking my shot," he hissed.

For a moment, I groaned and closed my eyes, but then I realized: I’d had enough.

"What is?" I fired back. "If this was a real game, you would have just gotten yourself kicked off the field. I should thank you."

After all, what did I have to lose, now? There was obviously no way I could ever make Wesley like me.

Some complicated expression that I couldn't quite read flickered over Wesley's face. It didn't entirely look like anger. It almost looked a little like hurt. He straightened up, his lips pressed into a hard line. Then he said, "I didn't mean to hit you that hard," and he left.

I stared after him, baffled. Was that supposed to be an apology? If it was, it was a pretty shitty one. It doesn't really matter how hard a person hits you—just that they do hit you. Especially in a team setting like this one. But I hadn't been expecting to get even a bad apology.

Wesley didn't look back, and I limped to the sideline to recuperate. My ankle smarted from where he had kicked it. I spent the remaining minutes of the game drinking water and watching as my team fought hard against Wesley's team. Maybe I would get lucky, and he'd gotten whatever it was out of his system. Maybe he'd shamed himself badly enough to start being nice to me. Then Coach blew the whistle, and I realized that my team had won four to two. Hah.

The teams trotted off the field, and Coach Garcia made his way over to me. "You." He pointed at me with his whistle. "My office. Now."

The tone of his voice made Patrick, who was standing nearby, shoot me a worried look. I wondered if he was thinking about what had happened at the party last night. I was definitely thinking about it.

Coach's office adjoined the locker rooms. I'd never been in it, but I'd seen the plaque on the door and fantasized about going in there to talk strategy or receive special insight. The inside was covered in Olympics memorabilia and trophies, and I felt both awed and intimidated.

"Have a seat," Coach said.

I sat.

He slid in behind his desk and steepled his short fingers in front of his chin. "I think you know why you're here."

I did. My heart dropped into my shoes. I blurted out, "It was an accident, Coach, I swear. I didn't realize there was alcohol in the punch. The guy at the table said there wasn't, and I've never had it before. I mean, maybe a sip at Christmas, and one time my dad let me have a beer, but that was horrible, so I didn't know—"

Coach sighed and shook his head, cutting me off. "You know the rules, Carter."

I clamped my lips shut, too scared now to keep talking. "Yes, sir?"

He gave me a sympathetic look. "You break the rules, you face the consequences, amigo."