“Speaking of Coach Yuro.” Iggy nods to a
tin equipment shed as the varsity coach steps
out pulling a wagon filled with orange cones.
He waddles across the field—a short, big-
bellied man with hair that sticks up in jagged
spikes. All week Iggy has tried to read the
coach’s face, but it’s like a slab of concrete—
pale and unmoving. He doesn’t smile, and he
never seems to be looking when Iggy does
something good. The coach definitely notices
when Iggy does something dumb, though, like
jumping for a header and getting nothing but
air or tripping over an untied shoelace.
“You need any help?” Iggy shouts. He feels
weird just sitting there.
Coach Yuro grumbles something under his
breath, shakes his head, and continues setting
up the orange cones.
“I guess not,” Malcolm says, grabbing a
soccer ball out of his bag and bouncing it on
the ground.
Iggy nods at the net. “We should get
going.” He wants to practice before the
upperclassmen arrive. They’ve been going after
3
