“Say a girl gave everyone in class valentines and the guyhatesvalentines, but he keeps it anyway.”
Rowan’s lips twitch at the corners, but he plays along with my ridiculous scenario.
“Well, then I’d say he either really likes the valentine, or maybe he wants to regift it to someone else. In fourth grade, I got this really cool Valentine’s Day card with Lightning McQueen on it. It said, ‘You make my heart goKa-chow!’” He says it with all the animated enthusiasm he’s capable of. “It was blank, so I gave it to a girl I liked. Totally worked too.”
I scowl at him. “It has his name on it.”
“Okay.” Rowan chuckles. “Well, if he doesn’t like valentines, and he isn’t going to regift it, then there’s only one other possibility.”
Eagerly, I stare at him for the answer. My heart flutters nervously.
“He must really like her.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Vaughn
We arrive at the showcase just outside of Detroit Thursday evening. We drive straight to the fields to check it out. They have an indoor and outdoor complex, and we file into the indoor field for a welcome meeting.
They give us the schedule for the next two days, and several coaches talk about how excited they are to be here and what they’re looking for in players.
I’m not surprised at all to see some guys from Michigan. Two guys from Pacific are here and Thomas Rex of Springfield, fresh off his team’s State Championship.
When we head back to the hotel, Dad falls asleep right away, and I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling. I think about Lacey.
I wonder what she’s doing. If she’s working on homework or maybe preparing for the homecoming game tomorrow night. Is she going to the dance? Did someone ask her at the last minute? And if they did, did she say yes?
It’s a long time until I finally doze off, but when the alarm goes off in the morning, I’m filled with energy. Dadlooks at me curiously when I’m ready to go before him, but he doesn’t say anything.
At the fields, they have breakfast for us, and then we head outside to warm up. The wind is blowing hard today with the kind of gusts that feel like they might knock you over.
I’m just glad it’s not snowing or raining. Not because I couldn’t handle it, but because I want the conditions to be as good as possible so I know how I stack up against everyone here.
We’re put into groups and rotated around the different skill stations. The ages range as much as the skill level, with a majority being seniors about to finish high school.
“Collins,” the coach from Dublin calls my name, and I step up to the line for a thirty-meter dash. It’s the shortest of three running drills to test speed, direction, and endurance.
“That wind is wicked,” the guy before me mutters to no one in particular as he shakes his head and moves to the back of the line.
“Patrick Cooper,” the Dublin coach introduces himself to me while we wait for the timer to be ready to go again. They triple check everything between three people and the times are entered with an official, so it takes them a minute between each of us. “You were just a little thing the last time I saw you. I played with your dad during his second World Cup win.”
“I’ve heard. He said you had the nastiest step over he’s ever seen.”
Patrick lets out a hearty laugh. He’s still broad and muscular like the pictures I’ve seen of him when he played, but now he’s got a gray beard and some extra weight around his middle. Despite that, he looks like he could still jump into a scrimmage and beat most of the guys here.
“Let’s see what you got,” he says as he brings the whistle to his mouth.
My muscles are warm and loose, but as I get into position, I feel everything tighten and coil like a spring ready to pop. As soon as the whistle sounds, I’m off. My legs and arms pump as I focus on the cones thirty meters away. When the wind pushes against me, I push back harder.
It’s over in just a few seconds. So fast, it’s hard to have any notion of where I’ll place among the others.
Next up is the vertical jump. My dad has been stressing the importance of this one for as long as I can remember. The jump is the best representation of the explosiveness of a player. Speed is important too, but don’t overlook the jump. And we haven’t.
I spot my dad at the front of the line with the coach running this test. I think he’s a coach for Denmark. Undoubtedly Dad knows him. He knows everyone.
I try not to spend too much time watching everyone else. I don’t want to get in my head about it, but it’s hard not to watch. Especially when it’s clear a lot of guys didn’t train for this.
Dad finds me in the line and gives me a knowing glance when the senior from Pacific barely manages to hit the first bristle. He’s short, so he has that working against him, but even so his score is going to put him at a disadvantage. At least if the other coaches think anything like my dad.
