“The world will not immediately explode,” she says.
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
But the problem is that she’s right.
Every single muscle in my body still remembers the way it feels to play.
And right now, all my effort is being used to memorize muscle groups rather than actually use them.
I rub my forehead.
“Katie’s right. This could get the whole team disqualified,” I say quietly.
Willow shrugs and takes another bite of cereal.
“If you get caught, you’ll stop. It’s just a try-out,” she adds. “Hey, maybe you won’t get in.”
I sit there for another long moment.
Finally, I look up.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
Willow’s eyes widen. “Wait - really?”
“Yes.”
For half a second, she just stares at me.
Then she slams the cereal spoon into the bowl with a triumphant clatter.
“Oh my god.”
She leans across the table, suddenly all focus. “Right. We need a plan.”
I laugh nervously. “This is already a terrible plan.”
“No,” she says, already thinking ahead. “This is an excellent terrible plan.”
She points at my hair. “First problem.”
“My hair.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m not cutting it.”
“Fine. Skullcap.”
She starts counting on her fingers.
“Baggy jersey. Helmet always on.”
“Don’t talk a lot,” I add.
“Yes,” she says immediately. “Definitely don’t talk a lot.”
