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WHY THE HELL AM I HERE, in this field, that too with a lacrosse stick in my hand?
"Because you want to make the first line, dude. This is your high school dream," Stiles said beside me, searching god-knows-what, in his P.E. kit.
It looks like I said it out loud.
But I'm not Scott. I don't want to make the first line.
"Stiles, now that I think about it, maybe I should not play...," I said, almost hesitantly.
"What? Why? Just yesterday, you were going on about how you don't want to sit in the sidelines," He asked, confusedly, "What changed? Is this about last night's incident? Are you still in pain?"
What should I say?
"Yeah," I said, "Also, I just have this feeling that Lacrosse is not for me."
Stiles opened his mouth to say something but didn't get a chance when Coach shouted for me, saying, "McCall, you are in the goal."
"But I never played," I sputtered out as soon as I heard the dreadful statement, catching the helmet and goal stick he threw at me, without getting a hit to my face.
"Now you are," Coach Finstoack, sassed back, "Try not to take anything to the face."
I gulped and looked at Stiles. He just showed his thumbs-up, saying, "Try to catch as many as you can."
Great! He is throwing me to the wolves, talk about irony.
I mean, what could possibly go wrong. The worst already happened by getting stuck in this fictional town.
"Who is she?" I heard Allison's voice when I stood before the Lax goal, trying to ease my hands and handle the stick properly.
"That's Scott," Lydia said.
"Scott? Are you friends with her?" Allison questioned.
"No, I have never talked to her. Since she is the only girl on the team, that too with a weird name, people know her. Why?" Lydia answered. I then tuned out their conversation when I heard the ear-splitting whistle.
A guy threw the ball at me, and intuitively, I stepped aside before it can hit me.
"McCall, you are supposed to catch the ball, not run from it," Coach shouted, frustratedly.
