Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University 1)

Reagan

The locker room is as quiet as a graveyard, everyone zoned in on what we need to accomplish. There’s no question Stanford is going to be hard to beat. Especially with Dallas and his dislocated shoulder on the bench.

We barely scraped by USC yesterday in the semifinals. My goal put us into overtime and Warner’s won us the match but nobody celebrated. It could’ve gone either way and we got lucky. Luck isn’t going to cut it today.

I glance over and find D smiling at his phone. Something is up with him. He’s been in a strangely good mood considering he’s got no car, no license, and the accident pretty much spelled the end of his water polo career.

This game marks the end of the line for most of us. Even if we manage to win today, no city will be hosting a parade. No rings will be issued. Our water polo careers end here unless we’re lucky enough to be selected for a national team and play in the Olympics. I’ve been doing this most of my life. Countless hours dedicated to it. And the odd thing is, I’m not as upset about it as I imagined I would be.

Maybe I have Alice to thank for that.

“What are you smiling at?”

His blond head snaps up. He shuts off his phone and pockets it. “Nothing.”

Coach walks in. Standing in the middle, he glances around, meeting each and every gaze that stares back at him in eager anticipation of his motivational speech.

“I’m all outta magic, so if you’re waiting for me to turn a turd into a pot of gold, you’ll be waiting a long time.” In the pause, Coach’s chin tips down and his hands get shoved into his pockets. All around me, pensive glances change into frowns. There’s a palpable sense of confusion in the room.

“Our journey here hasn’t been pretty. We’ve dropped a couple of stinkers.”

A bunch of us nod in agreement.

“There have been times I didn’t think we’d even get this far, but I’ll tell you something else…That’s how I judge the cut of a man’s character. Not when the stars align and everything is going right. Not when we get lucky and draw a shit team to play. But when we face adversity––”

“Yeah,” the chorus chants.

“And when we fight like hell to earn the win.”

“Damn straight.” The cheering and clapping starts.

“This year is special because you men earned this one, fought tooth and nail to get it done. Pulled out your best play when this team most needed it. That’s what separates the winners from the losers.

“You don’t have to be the most talented, the fastest, the strongest. What you must do is recognize you can’t do it alone. That when you come up against a brick wall, you’re smart enough to climb over it with the help of the man next to you. That’s what Sharks water polo is.”

Westbrook whistles. Peterman shouts, “Yeah!”

“I’m asking you to do it one last time. To dig deep and give this team all you got. And don’t do it for me. I’ll be here next year and the year after that. Do it because it’s a chance to make history, to be part of something bigger than yourself. Do it for each other.”

The locker room explodes, everyone already riding high on a cresting wave of adrenaline.

“Let’s go kick some Cardinal ass!” Cole shouts.

Grabbing our gear, we head out of the locker room to the indoor arena.

My phone chines. I glance at the screen and smile before shoving it back in my bag.

Jersey: Go get them, Flipper. Three kiss emojis.

I’m pumped, and for the first time all season, feeling good about this game. Knowing the girl I’m crazy about is in the stands makes it even better. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but I think we have an honest shot at winning this thing.

By halftime we’re down four goals. I’m not feeling good about this game at all, and I’d never say this to the guys, but we have no shot at winning this thing.

“The fucking Hungarian almost broke my nose.” Warner pushes the tampon up his left nostril.

“That was a love tap,” Quinn says to Warren. “Stop your bitching. Your supermodel nose will survive.” He looks at me. “And you––play faster.”

I flip him off. Warner goes with a death stare.

“I don’t give a shit if you have to foul him,” I tell Brock. “Take Papp out. He’s blown up every one of our power plays.”

The Hungarian is ranked the best player in the league with good reason. He’s big, fast, strong––and has no scruples.

Brock glares at me. “You don’t think I’m trying?”

“Try harder,” I urge. “Because if something doesn’t give, it’s going to get embarrassing.”

“I don’t play dirty, dude. Don’t ask me to.”

Brock and his squeaky-clean morals. “That’s going to be cold comfort when those assholes are hoisting the trophy.”