Playing With the Boys by Liz Tigelaar Page A

colander in the sink. She loved the feeling of the steam hitting her face. It was like getting a facial—not that she’d ever actually had one before.
     
     
    “We’ll eat after you call the coach back,” he responded firmly.
     
     
    Lucy gave him a funny look. “Call back? Why? I’m gonna see him tomorrow. . . .”
     
     
    Her dad folded his arms across his chest. “No, you’re not . . . because you’re not playing.”
     
     
    Lucy sighed. Not this again. What was with all this forbidding and arguing? Her dad had never been like this back home. First Ryan’s party, now this . . .
     
     
    “Don’t tell me,” Lucy replied, exasperated. She ripped open the packet of cheese powder and dumped it over the noodles. “I can’t play football until I’m sixteen, too?”
     
     
    “You can’t play football period ,” he snapped.
     
     
    “But why?” Lucy cried. This morning, she hadn’t even wanted to play football, but now, after going through the tryouts and making the cut, she had something to prove—to the coach, to the other players, to Benji, to her dad . . . to herself. “Why can’t I play? I made the team, fair and square!”
     
     
    “Because I am your father, and I said so!”
     
     
    “Dad, come on,” she begged. “Remember how we used to play in the backyard at home?” When she was seven, her dad had given her a Nerf football for Christmas, and for three days straight they’d practiced different running patterns and passes. Of course, she’d quickly lost interest when a Barbie Dream House had shown up from Grandma. Hello, Ken and Barbie. Goodbye, Nerf.
     
     
    “I’ll drop you off early tomorrow,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re going to tell Coach . . . Coach whoever . . . that you’re not playing.”
     
     
    “But Dad—” Lucy protested.
     
     
    “But nothing. I don’t want you playing. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
     
     
    Lucy couldn’t believe it. “Who died and made you boss?” she spat, then realized what she’d said. They both knew who’d died.
     
     
    “Go to your room,” her dad said sternly.
     
     
    “Dad . . . wait . . . I’m sorry—”
     
     
    “GO!” he ordered.
     
     
    Lucy tearfully thrust the bowl of macaroni and cheese at him. “Fine.”
     
     
    As she slammed her bedroom door and collapsed on her bed, she thought back to being in the hospital with her mom. She thought back to sitting by her mom’s bedside, talking to her, telling her about some stupid thing she and Annie had done in school, or how she’d done on some test that didn’t matter—not really—or what disgusting meal her dad had attempted to cook for dinner. And then she’d told her she couldn’t leave her, that she had to wake up, that she couldn’t be in this world without her. . . .
     
     
    And then her dad had come in and told her that he’d made a decision.
     
     
    Now, today, Lucy was certain of one thing. There would be no more letting her dad make the decisions. He’d controlled her fate for long enough. She was sick of it! She’d made this team, and no matter what anyone said, she was playing football.
     
     
    Period.
     

 
    eight
     
     
    The smell of stale sweat hit Lucy like a ton of bricks as she pushed the weight room doors open. It was six-thirty in the morning, and the players who didn’t have eighth period free to lift had to do their weight workouts twice a week before school. Lucy was definitely not a morning person, and the idea of getting up before the sun rose was not exactly her cup of tea. Of course, she didn’t drink tea, she drank coffee . . . so whatever. It wasn’t really her cup of anything.
     
     
    At least getting a ride hadn’t been a problem, since her dad had already offered to drop her off early so she could tell Coach Offredi that she was quitting the team. Which, for the record, she wasn’t. Although her dad didn’t know it.
     
     
    As soon as she’d hopped out of her dad’s car, she’d run into the