The Swap by Megan Shull

stare. When Sassy catches my eye, though, she doesn’t smile at me the way she does at school or at the pool all summer. No. She glares.
    â€œAhem,” she says, looking back over her shoulder directly at me. “Why do people think it’s okay to wear their soccer gear over their gym clothes?”
    Aspen glances back too, scowling with her nose scrunched up. “I know, right? So pathetic!”
    Sassy turns to Aspen. “So super awk, when you say something and people think you’re talking about them.”
    â€œI know, right? If you were talking to someone ”—Aspen smirks—“you would have said it to her .”
    Sassy starts laughing hysterically. “I was totally just thinking that! We literally thought the exact same thing at the exact same time!”
    â€œTwins!” they both squeal.
    Sassy may be hot, but it’s amazing how someone can go from a ten to a two just by opening her mouth. What a clown. I just look at her and shake my head. I mean, if I were in the locker room and one of the guys lipped off to me like that? I’d just throw tape at his head and shut him up. “Easy, buddy,” I’d say, and laugh. “That all you got?” That would get the boys going. But I’m not in our locker room and I don’t know what the protocol is if you have boobs, so I just keep my head down and fidget with Freckles’s pink-striped socks.
    Girl Sammie moves closer. “Sorry, Ellie,” she says. “It’s so not even funny how two-faced people can be.”
    I shrug. “Girl’s a clown,” I say under my breath.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOh, I mean . . .” I stall and try and think hard of something to say besides what I want to say, which is “I could seriously care less about Sassy Gaines. Girl’s a joke, plain and simple.”
    Don’t worry! I don’t say that.
    I pop up to my feet and start juggling the ball. I haven’t played soccer since I was nine. The Captain does not believe in an off-season. It’s number four on his list of life maxims: “Success demands singleness of purpose.” We play hockey year-round. One hundred games. Even if I wanted to play soccer, I can’t. Off-ice training, lifting, working on my shot in The Cage, watching game film. Hockey is a twenty-four-hour, three-hundred-and-sixty-five-day job. The work never stops. My brothers and I train seven days a week. You’ve always got to be putting in the time. You can always get a lot stronger, tougher, faster.
    I kick the ball around for a little bit before I hear the whistle calling us in for a huddle. I don’t know why she bothers using her whistle, though. The coach has one of those voices that demands everyone’s attention.
    â€œListen up, ladies,” she hollers. She looks more like a small gymnast than a soccer star. She’s wearing a black warm-up, zipped all the way up, and a visor with a dark ponytail spilling out the back. And she’s smiling.
    She waits a few seconds, bringing the shuffling and whispers to a hush. I glance around me and try not to be freaked out by the fact that I’m standing with twenty girls. Twenty-one, including me. My ears tingle and my hands feel sweaty. It’s so crazy how much can change in such little time.
    â€œToday and Sunday morning are the two last tryouts before cuts.” The coach looks at me. “I’m only keeping ten for indoor. It’s going to come down to who is working the hardest—who wants it most! Do you want it?”
    â€œYeaaaah!” they shriek at the top of their lungs.
    Holy jeez, I have to do everything I can to not cover my ears.
    Everyone throws their hands in on top of the coach’s. “Thunderbirds on three,” she says.
    I look around as if someone is actually going to be understanding my predicament . . . you know, that I’m not Freckles! I’m Jack .
    Monday needs to hurry up