The Beast by Patrick Hueller

A s Fraser High’s soccer goalie, I’m both babe and beast. Emphasis on beast .
    I patrol the goalie box with my fangs bared. I bark orders at my teammates:
    â€œAddie! Mark number four!”
    â€œOlivia! Watch your left side!”
    â€œFaith! Get back!”
    It’s my boyfriend, Rick Morris, who insists on adding the babe part. Yes, that Rick Morris. All-state soccer stud and all-around eye candy. If you’re wondering what Rick Morris is doing with yours truly, get in line—right behind me. When he calls me a hottie after one of my games, I wonder if my forehead is so shiny with sweat that he’s actually looking at his own reflection. As far as I can tell, the only thing we have in common is that we’re both goalies.
    If it weren’t for soccer, no one would call me a babe or a beast (at least not in a complimentary way). Instead, they’d call me bossy or even the other b word. Some of my teammates might call me that already. But if they do, they make sure it’s said behind my back. Deep down, they know they need me.
    Well, maybe not right now. During the regular season, most of our opponents are pushovers. But in a few weeks, playoffs start and we’ll be up against some real competition. My teammates and our fans know that my barking might be the difference between playing in the state tournament and whatever it is that the losers do during the state tournament.
    â€œAlyssa! Keep your head in the game!”
    It’s Coach Berg’s voice, which is no surprise. He yells almost as much as I do. What is a surprise is that he’s yelling at me . He hasn’t shouted at me like this since last season.
    â€œOn the balls of your feet, Duncan!”
    That’s me again. Alyssa Duncan. And he’s right—a goalie should never let her guard down, and I’ve allowed my mind to wander. Still, we’re up 5–0 in the second half, and the ball’s been on the other end of the field the entire game. Becca Miller, sophomore forward and rising star, scored three of those goals, using a different body part each time: the top of her foot, her head, and even her heel. Some people might consider the top of the foot and the heel to be the same body part—but those people aren’t soccer players. No doubt, she’ll get her picture in the local paper again . Not that I blame the photographer. Becca’s taller than I am, but she doesn’t have an ounce of beast on her body. Unlike me, she’s never had to figure out whether or not being called “big-boned” is a compliment. To say she’s photogenic is an understatement. Any shot of her is a glamour shot.
    â€œDuncan!”
    What’s Coach yammering about now? I realize Greenridge has invaded our half of the field. Their midfielder chips a pass over Marnie’s head to a streaking forward on my left. I must not have been the only one with a brain on vacation because none of my teammates are positioned between this girl and the net.
    The key to playing goalie is making quick decisions, and I do just that. The midfielder is approaching the goalie box with the ball, but she’s not keeping it tight against her foot. I move forward, narrowing her angle to the net. My mind says Now! and I try to pounce on the ball before she has a chance to kick it. I’m a fraction of a second late. She does kick it, and it ricochets off my arm and away from me. I turn and lunge for the ball, but before I can grab it, I see the girl’s knee coming forward. And then instantly everything goes black.

I hear someone say “Alyssa.” Then louder: “Alyssa!” What does he want now?
    â€œDuncan!”
    I open my eyes. Coach Berg’s face is hovering above me. So is Vicki Emmer’s. She’s our athletic trainer. Their faces are so bright I have to squint to see them.
    â€œYeah, Coach?”
    â€œYou okay, Duncan?”
    He’s rubbing his buzzed head, which is what