Page 68 of Broken Secrets
The morning dragsthrough first and second periods with the usual mix of calculus problems and English literature analysis. By the time third period study hall arrives, I’m restless and ready to move. Instead of sitting in the library pretending to focus on homework, I grab my soccer gear and head to the field.
The afternoon sun beats down on the empty practice field as I set up cones for free kick practice. Most of the team uses study hall for actual studying, but Coach Martinez has given me permission to work on individual skills as long as I keep my grades up. With league championships behind us and the season officially over, this is my time to perfect techniques for next year’s tryouts.
Derek appears at the edge of the field, goalkeeper gloves already on his hands. “Thought you might want some target practice.”
“Don’t you have AP History third period?”
“Free period. Mr. Thompson is out sick, and they just threw us all into study hall.” He jogs toward the goal, stretching his arms above his head. “Besides, watching you miss shots is one of my favorite pastimes.”
“I don’t miss shots.”
“We’ll see about that.”
I line up the first ball, focusing on my approach angle. Derek settles into position between the posts, bouncing slightly on his toes the way he does before every save attempt. There’s something comfortable about this routine, just the two of us on an empty field, working on our skills without the pressure of a game situation.
“Your form looks different today,” Derek calls from the goal, adjusting his gloves. “More relaxed.”
He’s right. For the first time in months, I’m not thinking about heart conditions or family secrets while I play. My chest feels clear, my breathing steady, my heart beating at its normal rhythm instead of the anxious racing that’s become too familiar. The Jeremy and Emma situation has settled into something manageable; they’re spending the day touring the city together, giving me space to focus on normal teenage things like soccer and schoolwork.
“It’s nice to just play without worrying about collapsing,” I admit, taking my first shot.
The ball curves beautifully toward the upper right corner, but Derek reads it perfectly, diving to make the save with fingertips that just graze the ball enough to push it wide.
“Still got it,” he says, rolling to his feet with that satisfied grin goalkeepers get when they make a good stop.
“Lucky guess.”
“Skill, not luck. I’ve been watching you take corner kicks for two years. I know your tells.”
I collect the ball and set up again, this time from a slightly different angle. “What tells?”
“You always look at your target spot twice before you shoot. And you tap your left foot when you’re going for power versus placement.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do. Watch.” He points to my left foot, which is, embarrassingly, tapping against the grass. “You’re going for the lower left corner this time.”
I deliberately aim for the upper right instead, but Derek is already moving before I even make contact with the ball. He catches it cleanly, hugging it against his chest with obvious satisfaction.
“Show off,” I mutter.
“Observant boyfriend. There’s a difference.”
The word ‘boyfriend’ still gives me a little thrill, even after weeks of dating. There’s something official about it, something that makes our relationship feel real in a way that casual hanging out never did.
We continue the drill for another twenty minutes, Derek making increasingly spectacular saves while providing running commentary on my technique. By the time the bell rings for fourth period, I’ve managed to beat him exactly twice out of fifteen shots.
“Not bad for someone who ‘never misses,’” Derek says as we gather up the equipment.
“You’re just getting better at reading my non-existent tells.”
“Or you’re getting predictable in your old age.”
I throw a practice cone at him, which he catches easily. “We’re the same age.”
“I’m three months older, which makes me wiser and more experienced.”
“It makes you more likely to forget where you put your car keys.”
