1
The Metaphorical Cleats
Whoever said winning isn’t everything must not have won very often.
It’s thanks to my winning goal at States last month that all the guys in the locker room cheer when I round the corner.
My best friend, Meyers, slings an arm over my shoulders and, in a pretty convincing Peter Drury voice, crows: “This is summer break! Zack Martin, rising star of the Citrus Harbor High Hammerheads, has slammed home an impossible goal at States. The captain spot is nearly his, but it all comes down to this summer—one match to make or break.”
It’s thanks to my many other winning goals that Ryan, our graduating captain, has taken me under his wing and gives me an approving nod from the end of the locker room. He thinks I’m a shoo-in to fill his metaphorical cleats next year. In fact, he already nominated me for it. We’ll find out officially on the Fourth of July, after the annual charity match, when the team has a pool party and votes for the new captain—a tradition I am especially looking forward to this year.
It’s also, ironically, thanks to my winning goals that Noel Hawthorne is practically glaring at me as he shoves his shin guards into his duffel bag. He’s the only guy on the team who isn’t ever happy to see me. His dad has put him in elite soccer camps since he was ten, and I think he’s always been salty about not being the best on our team.
I’ve trained and worked hard—keeping my grades slightly above average, serving on homecoming court (a byproduct of being friends with Ryan), and helping with the team fundraisers, while also never missing a practice—and I now have the record number of goals for a Citrus Harbor High student since 1978.
My cheeks go hot when all the guys clap for me like I’m some kind of celebrity—it’s nice and all, but I still feel like it can’t be for me, like maybe there’s somebody behind me everybody is actually excited to see.
Once everyone’s attention is off me and back to their separate conversations, I raise a brow and Meyers grins.
“I really can’t believe we’re going to Ryan’s party.” He knocks into my shoulder as I make my way toward my locker. He looks down at his phone, running one hand through his fiery red hair. “I wonder if they’re going to do, like, foam in the pool. And Hope is going to be there, obviously, and we’ll finally have our second kiss, obviously.”
“I don’t think there will be foam in the pool,” I say.
To my right, Beckett, my other best friend since kindergarten, is neatly folding his jersey.
“This isn’t the ’80s.” Beckett grimaces and flicks a few strands of black hair from his face as he zips his bag and stands up straight. “I don’t know, guys. I’m not sure if I’m in the mood for a party tonight, I’m wiped.”
Meyers rolls his eyes. “Dude. This is the last day of our junior year, and we’ve been invited to Ryan’s party. Us.” He makes a grand gesture with open palms, then pitches his voice lower. “None of the other guys in our grade are going.”
“Zack got invited,” Beckett points out.
“But you guys are welcome to come,” I say, balling up some socks I didn’t even realize I’d shoved into my locker. “Ryan said so.”
“It’s an honor to be popular adjacent,” Beckett deadpans.
“This is the culmination of everything,” Meyers presses. “Zack scoring that goal at States. Him becoming the next captain. Plus, me and Hope will finally get together. Beckett, you got your internship. This is going to be the best summer of our entire lives and it’s starting with the coolest party that we normally would only hear stories about
“I think it’s weird he doesn’t invite the whole team,” Beckett says, eyes shifting around to make sure none of our teammates are listening. His mouth curves into a frown and he fidgets with the wrapper of a granola bar.
Around spring break, his mom’s family visited from South Korea and brought these life-changing chips filled with chocolate. Between Meyers, Beckett, and me—and with much discipline—the supply lasted for a couple months, and it became a mini tradition to eat them before practice. Now that there are none left, he’s been suffering through healthy, fiber-rich protein bars for a couple weeks.
All that extra protein might be the reason he’s bulked up more than Meyers, who side-eyes Beckett’s bar now.
“Wait, dude.” I close my locker and pick my backpack up off the floor, slinging it over one shoulder and turning to Beckett. “You got an internship?”
“Wow, talk about a delayed response time.” Meyers rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, I told you.” Beckett has a mouth full of protein bar and he’s uncapping a stick of deodorant and slipping it under his shirt. “Summer internship with Irving Banks. His firm does, like, ridiculous multimillion-dollar houses. The email came through in final period.”
“Making moves, Beck!” I bump the side of my fist to his.
“Get me one?” Meyers beams.
Beckett’s mouth falls open. “An internship?”
“No, a multimillion-dollar house,” he says.
“Right, of course. Coming right up.”
A few of the graduating senior guys burst in and start showing their affection for the younger teammates: putting the sophomores in headlocks, slinging a pair of briefs across the room, and rapping their fists against the lockers while howling and laughing.
Beckett leans in and keeps his voice low: “They’re an inspiration. I’m so glad graduation means ascension to a more mature existence.”
“You boys talking shit?” Lawrence hums.
Meyers laughs it off. “We just missed you guys.”
“Zack is really going to miss us next year,” Lawrence says. “Don’t worry, 2.0, you guys will just need some extra practices.”
“Don’t tease him, you’re going to make him cry,” Tate snickers.
I roll my eyes, though my chest gets tight, and my skull burns. I play it off like it’s not completely embarrassing—just because I’ve cried a couple times after tough practices and had one minor incident when the seniors hazed us. Anyone could’ve gotten scared and cried. Anybody could have, but of course it was me.
“Guys, shut the fuck up.” As Ryan appears next to Beckett, he’s smiling, but he’s also making a clear point and eyeing Tate and Lawrence, who stop laughing. He arches a brow and then gives me a pointed look. “Zack, I need to talk to you.”
It makes sense why Ryan would be the most popular guy in his grade, and it makes sense why the team calls me 2.0, whether I like it or not. He’s nominated me to take his place next year. Now, I just have to prove I’m worthy by leading the team to victory at the Fourth of July charity match, and getting voted in.
Anyway, on the outside, Ryan and I have our similarities—only he’s taller, has better skin, a whiter smile, brighter blond hair, and more defined muscles. But on the inside, I’m convinced we’re entirely different people. He’s so sure of himself. He’s commanding, and unbothered—everybody loves him, and he knows it.
“What are you guys doing here?” Meyers grins.
Ryan hasn’t been to school in weeks. None of the graduating seniors have, really. He forces a smile. “Cleaning out my locker. Same as you. They just tagged along.”
He’s jokingly referred to himself as the apex predator, and it’s kind of true. If he’s the lion or the great white shark, the other guys are more like zebras or mackerel.
Ryan looks to me expectantly. “Zack?”
“Sure,” I say.
He then gestures for me to follow him a few steps away from everyone else, toward Coach’s office door, and leans in to whisper. “We have a little situation on our hands. Nothing major, but also...not great.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
Noel shoots me a look and gestures for Carlos and Murray to turn toward us, too. I must visibly react to their sideways glances, because Ryan whips his head around and then sighs once he’s facing me again. “Don’t pay him any attention, dude. You can’t show him that he bugs you. You need respect to be a good captain. So, earn their respect. Confidence. No weak shit.”
Ryan absolutely taught us many lessons as captain.
Tough times don’t last, but tough guys do.
We can feel sore tomorrow or sorry tomorrow—our choice.
We either have results or excuses, but not both.
Ryan never showed weakness.
He blinks, and I snap to. “No weak shit.” After a beat: “I mean, that is, if the vote—”
“You’re my legacy here, Zack. Everybody knows I’m the one who plucked your ass from JV, and now you’re the best player on the team.” He gestures toward the newest trophy and then rolls his eyes. “Well, after me, obviously.”
I nod. “Of course.”
“Own it,” he says. “You’re captain. It’s yours. And so is that next States trophy.”
More nodding.
“There’s just this...hiccup,” he says, clearing his throat and standing up straight before whispering even lower. “You know there’s always some senior prank action, it’s not a big deal. I thought it’d be funny—harmless, even—to play a little joke on the Menendez Day School dorks. They were so salty after States. So, and I know how it sounds now that it’s—” He sighs. “I found this dead hammerhead over by the pier, right? I mean, it’s not like I killed it. It’s washed up and it gives me an idea. And so, I snuck in this morning and put it in Johnny’s locker at Menendez. Only now Johnny’s texting me that he knows I did it and he ratted to their coach.”
My jaw involuntarily drops.
What the hell, Ryan?
“It was just harmless,” he says, as if reading my mind. “Just a reminder that, I don’t know, they can’t escape the Hammerheads. There’s some kind of symbolism there.”
And as if on cue, the door bursts open and there is the red-faced coach from Menendez Day School.
“Yeah, symbolism.” I shrug. “That the Hammerheads are dead.”
2
Take One for the Team
The locker room goes dead silent as Coach Greenfield and the Menendez Day coach walk right past us into the office to have a closed-door discussion. There’s a lot of tension in the room, but nobody seems to know why, based on the way whispers start out hushed and grow to a confused panic.
“So, what’s going to happen?” I ask Ryan.
He shushes me and looks around to make sure nobody is listening. Luckily, even Noel is preoccupied.
“It’s just...” He pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes tight, like he’s really in pain. “I’d love to tell them the truth, but you know Duke would axe my ass if I had some disciplinary shit like this...”
“No, of course, you can’t lose Duke.” We all heard the entire saga of his recruitment. We all know how hard he worked for that scholarship.
Ryan sighs. “I know. But if I don’t confess, then the whole team is going to be punished. And who knows what that looks like. Not playing on the Fourth? Something way worse? What if the team is disqualified from competing for titles next year? I don’t want to see that happen.”
He looks away and seems lost in thought before snapping his fingers together. “Maybe we ask Meyers to do us a solid. He’s a loyal dude. He can just say he did it, that he didn’t mean it, and take whatever punishment they give him. It’s summer, so I bet the whole thing blows over before the Fourth.”
I consider this.
“You really think so?”
“Definitely. This is just a dumb prank being blown way out of proportion. And if it’s an incoming senior, Coach is going to want to angle for as little punishment as possible. Plus, Meyers is a striker, so he’s definitely not going to let them kick him off the team or anything.”
I nod. “But the team will think...”
“Once we’re in the clear, I’ll tell the team the truth. I just need to make sure I’m good with Duke and all that.
“Look,” Ryan says. “Meyers will be totally fine. You’ll lead the team to the charity match on the Fourth, and at the party, you’ll be named the new captain. By the end of the summer, none of this will even matter.”
I nod again, more slowly this time.
Someone has to take the fall. And like Ryan said, it’s summer—how bad could the punishment be?
I can’t help but think Ryan is right: if someone doesn’t take the blame, the whole team is going to be punished. And then this becomes a huge thing. And what does that mean for our future as a team? How does that affect literally everything we do moving forward?
Not having soccer would ruin my life.
Nobody makes fun of you when you’re a soccer star and homecoming prince. They don’t notice the little things about you that used to be funny when you’re hanging out with the cool seniors, your TikToks are going viral, and the local news treats you like a celebrity.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about being the best? Once you’re on top, people stop noticing. They only ever seem to pay attention when you’re doing better or worse.
Which is why I need to make captain. Onward and upward.
Ryan came up with a whole game plan for me. When I’m captain, I’ll lead the team to another state championship win and score an NCAA D1 scholarship, which will lead to Stanford, then the US men’s team before Chelsea. Then I’ll be the second American to win the Ballon d’Or, after him. We’ll be a duo so popular we make the co
ver of FIFA.
“I’ll talk to him,” I say.
Ryan nods, grinning. “This is an opportunity for him, Zack. A chance to really take one for the team.”
I walk back over to the guys and plaster a huge smile on my face.
“What did he say?” Meyers looks over to make sure Ryan’s not watching us.
I shrug. “Just that I should be more confident.”
“You’re so lucky—he’s always looking out for you, man,” Meyers says, rummaging through his locker. He’s the only one with a bloodstain on his jersey and it stands out against the orange-and-white material, but he says he likes it because it scares the other teams. He sprays an ungodly amount of Axe toward himself. “Oops, thought it was empty.”
“Jesus,” Beckett coughs, waving his hand through the deodorant cloud.
“I just cannot wait—our best summer ever,” Meyers sings with a smile brighter than I’ve seen in a while.
There’s only one way Meyers gets his amazing summer, Ryan gets to keep his spot on the Duke team, and the rest of the guys don’t get punished.
I take a deep breath and run my hand through my hair, shaking out a wave of nerves that has just come over me.
“Wish me luck.”
Meyers and Beckett both give me strange looks: “With what?”
3
Milkshakes Fix Everything
“Well, damn,” Meyers says as we slow to a stop. He taps on the steering wheel and points to the car ahead of us. “Come on, Grandma. Honda Accord Sport, really? What’s the freaking sport? Badminton?”
We’re riding through the residential streets right outside of the high school. It’s only a couple blocks from the ocean, but with all these four-way stops, it feels like it takes a million years to make it half a mile to Blue’s. The sky’s a hazy, golden potion of oranges and pinks, and at every stop sign, I stare past Meyers to the ocean.
Just thirty minutes ago, I blew up my life to make sure my life didn’t blow up. The logic is a little muddy, but Ryan said I absolutely saved his ass. That if there was ever any doubt about me being voted captain, once the team found out I took the fall for them, there was no way I wouldn’t get it.
Still, I’m not stoked that, for the time being, everyone thinks I’m the one who pulled that horrible prank.
“I can’t believe you have community service,” Meyers says to me. “It’s just gnarly.”
Beckett rubs his forehead in the back seat. “And I can’t believe you did that. Such a gnarly prank. This is one of the dumbest things you’ve ever done, Zack. And I say that as your best friend, but come on.”
“This summer has become a nightmare and it’s barely getting started.” I groan and throw my head back, shutting my eyes. “What have I done?”
What I haven’t done is text my parents. I’m not even sure what to say. I almost send a message to a group text that we only really use for emergencies, but I decide against it. I’ll have to tell Mom and Dad individually, and it’s going to suck.
“If you ask me, you got off light with just community service hours. But how are you going to fit in summer practices before the charity match?” Beckett asks.
“It’s all too much...” Meyers frowns as the grandma in front of us slows to another stop. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel. “Maybe we should still go to the party tonight. It’ll be good for you.”
I sigh. “Dude. My mom is not going to let me go to a party tonight.”
“It’s just I was really hoping I’d get a chance to see Hope,” Meyers says. “But I’m not going without you.”
“Why not?”
Meyers shrugs. “You were invited, not us.”
Beckett punches him in the shoulder. Then he sighs. “Zack, this is unbelievable. In what world was this prank a good idea? You did this when you had everything at your fingertips.”
“I don’t like bad-cop Beckett,” I say, sinking into my seat. Lying to the two of them is already shaping up to be one of the worst parts of this plan. “It was dumb. Okay?”
“And it’s just so not you.”
I shake my head. “It was a mistake. I thought it’d be funny or something.”
“Right. Whatever you do, don’t tell me you did this to impress Ryan.”
Meyers groans. “Okay, this is not the vibe for the last day of school. The prank is done. The punishment is set. Beckett, will you crank the tunes? Pump up the vibe in here? It’s like doomsday.”
Beckett reaches up f
rom the back seat and pulls the aux cord back, plugging his phone in, and moments later, Young MC is thumping through the speakers. Meyers’s older brother, Monty, listens to ’90s music, so Meyers listens to ’90s music, which means Beckett and I also listen to ’90s music.
“Guys, I just want to forget any of this crap happened,” I say over the music.
“Probably for the best,” Beckett huffs. “Though it’s going to be hard to forget when you’re spending your summer volunteering at the library, just thinking about how you got there. Kind of the whole point of community service.”
The library. I could have had a million punishments. There are so many places in Citrus Harbor I could be doing community service, but somehow I’ve been stuck with the library.
“What will you even do there?” Meyers scratches the back of his neck.
Beckett doesn’t bother pretending he’s not annoyed with the entire conversation. “Probably shelving books, dusting, working events, reading to kids...”
“Putting those little plastic sleeves on books!” Meyers acts like this one is exciting.
“And, again, thinking about how you got there,” Beckett adds.
Meyers turns the music down. “Okay, Beck. We get it. But it’s giving judgment, and we don’t judge each other.”
I turn back to face Beckett, and he lifts a shoulder and blinks. “I’m slightly judging you for this one.” But then he rolls his eyes. “It’s just so profoundly dumb of you, Zack. So incredibly dumb.”
“Do you think the rest of the guys feel the same?”
“I don’t think they care too much,” Meyers assures me.
Beckett shrugs. “I can’t believe Coach is still letting you lead the team until the charity match.”
“Dude, Ryan chose him,” Meyers says, with a clap on my shoulder. “Even Coach can’t undo tradition.”
Beckett says, “I just don’t think this is great. Optically.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Something to do with glasses?”
He laughs. “No, optically, as in keeping up a good appearance. From a PR perspective, you really could have done without this whole ordeal. Like, your reputation is going to be what now, exactly?”
Meyers claps. “Zack is in his reputation era.”
“I am not,” I say. “I’m not in any era.”
I’ve learned better than to push back too much on any Taylor Swift tangents Meyers goes on, because if he thinks I’m at all dissing her, he’s going to launch into a tirade about how talented she is as a songwriter and how she portrays emotions and how it’s totally normal for him to love her so much because he, too, is a romantic. Based on the number of times Meyers has sent a Taylor Swift song to our group text and related it to something we’re going through (though, let’s be real, usually it’s about Hope), I think it’s safe to say he’s the Hammerheads’ biggest Swiftie.
“You kind of did do
something bad,” Beckett says under his breath, which makes Meyers grin.
“This will all blow over.” I exhale. “Definitely before the Fourth. It’s fine.”
Pulling into the parking lot and turning the key, Meyers turns to me, face screwing up. “So, you don’t need a milkshake to distract you?”
“Of course I do.” I open the door and slide out. After an exaggerated set of stretches, I start up toward the door. “The need for a milkshake is unwavering.”
Truth be told, I’m not planning on wallowing over the optics or this community service stuff. Even though I’m helping Ryan out, it feels like crap right now, and the best way to get over negative feelings is to become consumed with positive ones. So, I’m going to consume a fat-ass burger and a chocolate shake and then go skate, run, or swing at the punching bag in the garage until I’m all filled up with endorphins. There’s simply no time for bad vibes.
When we walk into Blue’s, we’re met with a familiar photo. Blown up extra large and plastered on the wall behind the to-go counter, there we are—the boys soccer team a few days after we won the state championship this spring, ...
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