Author's Point of View
Samantha Baxter shifts from foot to foot on the N.Y.U. soccer field. The manicured lawn looks vivid green against the woolly gray afternoon clouds that hung low in the sky.
It feels as though the gentle autumn warmth had been sucked out of the air overnight, leaving a moist chill that cut though her warmup pants.
Sam breathes in the scent of freshly cut grass and impending rain. The smells of soccer.
"All right--we're going to have to go heavy on the offense." Sam rubs her hands together as her teammates listen. "Nancy and Cheryl, you two take the midfield. Maria, Ginger, Midge, and Caroline, you're defense. You guys are going to have to stay on your toes. The rest are on forward."
"We're going to crush those boys." Brigitte Frazier glares at the opposing team: The N.Y.U's varsity boys soccer team.
You would think Ben Morrison would prefer to spend his time hitting on sophomores--though he's a freshman, his type is older women, and there's nothing wrong with that--instead of playing the same sports as Samantha, but there he is, with his teammates, but every now and then, Sam would catch him staring at her. Weirdo.
The male team's coach, Coach Chuck, and the female team's coach, Coach Dena--who are, incidentally, married to each other--are pacing the sidelines wearing identical purple and white anoraks.
Sam glances at her coach briefly, then looks back at her team. "Carlson, you've got our goal, right? Don't let those bastards score."
"I've got this," says Vanessa Carlson. At almost six-two and stunningly beautiful with long apple-red hair and chiseled cheekbones, half the guys in school have a crush on her.
Then Amanda Fowler, who normally plays center mid but has taken over as striker when Samantha was injured, looks at Sam harshly. "Are you sure your ankle's healed? You don't want to hurt it more by coming back too early."
Sam frowns. "I'm fine," she insists tautly. Of course Amanda doesn't want Sam to play--she wants to take her place.
But Sam IS fine.. mostly. Last week, she had accidentally slipped after getting out of the pool and she sprained her left ankle in the process. But she powered it through with physical therapy and the occasional hit of pain relievers.
She suddenly feels two strong arms wrap around her shoulders. The guy says, "Gotcha!"
"Get your hands off me!" Livid, she roughly pushes Ben away from her. "I can sue you for sexual assault," she hisses, jabbing a finger at his face.
Ben sneers. "On what grounds? I'm sober and I barely touched you."
"Physical contact initiated without the consent of the other person is harassment," Sam says in furious tones, her jaw clenched. "And do you mind? I'm trying to focus."
He snickers, his blue eyes shining with mischief. "You're cute when you're in game mode." He bumps fists with two of his buddies, Jason Norris and Marshall Bates.
"Ha-ha," Sam says dryly, visibly irritated that Ben isn't taking the game seriously.
Ben's pink lips stretch into an obnoxious smirk. "About practice two days ago.."
She crosses her arms across her chest and lifts her chin defiantly. "Are you going to apologize for being a prick?" she asks sardonically.
"Why would I do that? You're the one who's confused," he says with a mocking smile. "But I'll forgive you this time," he adds, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder.
