Split by Swati Avasthi Page A

the back of the line, waiting for the beast to sit down and cut off my oxygen.
    “Last to first,” Eric screams from the front of the line. A collective groan floats up and then is peppered with complaints. “Ah, Eric. Come on, man.”
    “Why do you want to start us off with that?”
    I have no idea what they’re talking about, so I keep quiet, checking my steps.
    “Last to first,” he shouts again. “Marshall. Move it.”
    I step out of line a little to see around Tom the Giant so I can learn the drill from Marshall, whoever he is.
    “Marshall, damn it.” No one reacts. “MARSHALL!”
    Oh, right. That’s me . “What?” I say finally.
    “Last to first. Go.” Eric veers off the front of the line and waits for me to catch up. “Too good for drills?”
    Tom says, “Eric, lay off, man. He doesn’t know the drill. Follow me, Jace.”
    He peels off the line and sprints, his long legs chewing up the field. I swing my arms faster, and my legs automatically keep pace. (A trick Christian taught me way back when.) I don’t even notice that I’m getting out of breath or tired until we get to the front of the line and Tom veers in at the lead. He stretches his hand out and motions me to pass him. I want air. I inhale fast, exhale faster. I push harder against the ground and overtake him. In the lead, I get to watch the mountains commanding the earth, obliterating the horizon. But that lasts only about half a second before the whole team passes me, one by one, and I’m in the back again.
    I get it now. Last to first.
    Once more around the field, but when we’re huddled up, I see Eric cheating out to the side so that Caitlyn can see him. He stretches his arms up and peeks around them. I look over at the girls. When Heather pulls out a box of Virginia Slims, Caitlyn’s mouth turns down. Heather slides a cigarette out. Caitlyn slaps Heather’s hand, and the white rod falls on the grass. Caitlyn’s voice rises, and I can make out what they’re saying: “God, Heather. You know I’m, like, trying to quit.”
    “Oh, yeah, I forgot,” Heather says, and I see her sneak a smile as she replaces the lighter in her purse.
    “Hey, Marshall,” says Eric. “Soccer now. Perverted gawking later. Try to keep up.”
    The team laughs, and I go hot. His eyes flick back to Caitlyn. This has nothing to do with soccer and everything to do with Caitlyn’s attention. I remember how I thought they were dating when I first saw them in the convertible.
    “Whatever you say, O Captain, my Captain.”
    “You’ve got some mouth, you know? Want me to fix it for you?” He steps toward me.
    Okay, so I get that you don’t disagree with coaches. Other players are a different story.
    I laugh long and loud, sure to draw Caitlyn’s eye. I check. Both she and Heather have gone still, in eyewitness mode.
    “Don’t make an ass of yourself. Not when she’s watching,” I say.
    Tom grabs my arm. “Hey man, leave it alone, okay? You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    We both ignore him, staring at each other, and Eric says, “Somebody’s gotta put you in your place.”
    I set my teeth against each other and grind them together. I yank my arm free. My place, if he must know, is on top of him, pinning him under my knees, wailing on him.
    Tom grabs my arm again. I shake him off, turn, place both hands on Tom’s chest, and shove. He doesn’t move his feet for balance; he just begins to go down. His eyes widen and before I know it, I’ve reached out for his jersey and caught it.
    God, what is wrong with me, going after bystanders?
    Tom pushes my hand off. “You’re on your own,” he says.
    “Sorry,” I start to say, but Eric pushes my back, and I whirl to face him.
    I stare at Eric. He’s probably a good twenty pounds heavier than I am, but a little shorter. I’ve got the reach and, let’s face it, the experience. His eyes scan me, sizing me up.
    “Eric!” a high-pitched voice calls out.
    Caitlyn is walking onto the field.