The Beast by Patrick Hueller Page B

patients to check on.”
    Rick and I stand there looking at each other. A part of me wants to point out that he looks out of place in his workout shirt. This is a hospital, not a sports commercial. But most of me just likes the view. And really, a torso like his deserves to be shown to the world as much as possible. Putting a regular shirt on him is like putting clothes on a famous old naked statue. It just looks wrong.
    I’m thinking how fun it is to gaze at him from afar when I realize just how far afar is. He’s still standing all the way across the room, a good fifteen feet away from me, which isn’t like him at all. Usually, he can’t wait to wrap his arms around me after a game.
    â€œA concussion, huh?” he says. “At the game, they just said you got knocked out.”
    â€œI think knocked out and concussion mean the same thing, Rick.”
    â€œReally? Concussion sounds way worse.”
    â€œYou know you can’t catch a concussion, right?” I say.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI’m not contagious.”
    â€œWell, yeah,” he says. “Why would you even say that?”
    â€œOh, no reason.” Of course, there is a reason. Rick’s terrified he’s going to get injured before he officially signs one of his Division I scholarship offers next spring.
    When we first started hanging out last season, he found me sitting in my favorite tree by the soccer field and asked if he could join me. By then, I’d already spent so much time alone in that tree that I’d begun to think of it as mine. But then again, this was the Rick Morris, so I was happy to share with him.
    Except now he won’t go near the tree. Not even to touch it. I think he’s worried the bark will give him a splinter that will get so infected he’ll never play goalie again.
    â€œAnyway,” I tell him, “the doctor says I’ll probably be able to play in a couple of weeks.”
    â€œIn time for the playoffs?”
    I smile. Great minds think alike. Or at least soccer players think alike. “That was the first question I asked the doctor. She thought I’d be back by then, but only if I’m feeling up for it.”
    â€œWhy wouldn’t you? Do you feel sick right now?”
    â€œJust a little headache,” I tell him, which is a lie. My head feels like an itty-bitty person is inside of it, trying to pound his way out with an itty-bitty sledgehammer. Everything still seems too bright. But the doctor told me these were totally normal symptoms. They’ll probably go away in the next couple days—no reason to worry Rick about it. “Really, I’m sure I’ll be fine in a day or two.”
    It’s his turn to smile. He saunters over to the bed. “Good. I like you better on the soccer field than in the hospital.”
    I know he doesn’t mean to be insensitive when he says that. I like myself better on the soccer field too.
    â€œTwo weeks, huh?” he says.
    â€œAssuming Coach doesn’t replace me with another goalie,” I say.

I ’m not really worried about being replaced by another goalie. When I said it at the hospital, I meant it as a joke. After all, our backup goalie, Erin Hamley, isn’t called Meat just because of her last name. It’s not because she’s a little on the hefty side, either. No, she’s called Meat because when she’s in goal, that’s what she is— dead meat .
    Coach Berg put her in several times this season when we had big leads. Every time, she gave up goals so quickly he had to put me back in. It was our opponents who started calling her Meat—not loud enough for fans to hear but loud enough for Erin to hear. One time, Coach didn’t take her out because she let in a goal. He took her out because she suddenly was crying. Between the sobs, she told us what they’d been calling her—which is when we started calling her Meat too. Not to her face