Siobhan Vivian - We Are the Wildcats

ALSO BY SIOBHAN VIVIAN

Stay Sweet

The Last Boy and Girl in the World

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Childrens Publishing Division

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the authors imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright 2020 by Siobhan Vivian

Jacket illustration copyright 2020 by Dana Ldlov

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is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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Interior and jacket design by Lizzy Bromley

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Vivian, Siobhan, author.

Title: We are the Wildcats / Siobhan Vivian.

Description: First edition. | New York : Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers, [2020] | Summary: A toxic coach finds himself outplayed by the

high school girls on his team in this deeply suspenseful novel, which

unspools over twenty-four hours through six diverse perspectives Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2019024571 (print) | LCCN 2019024572 (eBook) |

ISBN 9781534439900 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781534439924 (eBook)

Subjects: CYAC: Field hockeyFiction. | Coaches (Athletics)Fiction. | FriendshipFiction. | High schoolsFiction. | SchoolsFiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.V835 We 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.V835 (eBook) | DDC [Fic]dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019024571

LC eBook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019024572

Ada Limn, How to Triumph Like a Girl from Bright Dead Things. Copyright 2015 by Ada Limn. Reprinted with permission of The Permissions Company LLC on behalf of Milkweed Editions, milkweed.org.

FOR ZAREEN

HOW TO TRIUMPH LIKE A GIRL

By Ada Limn

I like the lady horses best,

how they make it all look easy,

like running 40 miles per hour

is as fun as taking a nap, or grass.

I like their lady horse swagger,

after winning. Ears up, girls, ears up!

But mainly, lets be honest, I like

that theyre ladies. As if this big

dangerous animal is also a part of me,

that somewhere inside the delicate

skin of my body, there pumps

an 8-pound female horse heart,

giant with power, heavy with blood.

Dont you want to believe it?

Dont you want to lift my shirt and see

the huge genius machine

that thinks, no, it knows,

its going to come in first.

It is tradition that the fifth and final day of tryouts for the Wildcats varsity girls field hockey team be the most grueling of all. Though, real talk? Its not like the others were a walk in the park. Roughly half the girls arrive to the field with a vague sense of whats coming. The rest show up clueless. But theres no telling the two groups apart becauseknowing or notthis is it. Today is everyones last chance.

The girls mill around on the sidelines, taping up their sticks, their wrists, their ankles, cinching loose tank tops tight with little knots at their backs, rinsing out yesterdays nasty from their mouth guards with squeeze bottles of icy water. Its early enough that the air remains somewhat cool and the turf looks almost like real grass, with indifferent dewdrops clinging to blades of bright green plastic.

Summer break is just about over. Come Monday, a new school year begins. There is much the girls could discussfirst-day outfits, class schedules, summer gossipbut not a lot of chitchat happens, because Coach doesnt want chitchat. He wants focus. And theres really no need for team bonding yet because there is no team. Every varsity spot is up for grabs. Even girls who lettered last year arent safe. Even the ones who bled to bring home a second-place trophy at states could be cut.

Maybe should be cut.

At eight oclock, a velvety knell rings out from the upper schools bell tower. With it, heads collectively swivel, ponytails swish. Every eye is on Coach as he pushes open the heavy metal doors of the athletic wing and stalks toward them, clipboard in the crook of his arm, a can of Red Bull in hand, a baseball hat pulled down low over his shaggy blond curls.

Both the JV and freshman coaches nip at Coachs heels. They are two much older and rounder versions of Coach, dads essentially, embarrassingly eager to assist him today. Dark wounds of sweat already bleed through their T-shirts.

The girls need no instruction. They quickly circle up and begin to stretch, clapping a slow-and-steady pulse for each position change. As they press and lean through lingering soreness, they watch-but-dont-watch Coach inspect his field. Trying to gauge his mood. Sense what he might be thinking. They get only reflections of their own longing in his mirrored sunglass lenses.

Some girls spent the past summer secretly worriedrightfully sothat Coach would not be returning to West Essex this year. There is always the fear he will leave them for some better opportunity. Hes honestly too good to coach at the high school level, and especially a girls team. The very least they can do is win for him. Whether his decision to come back was because of them or in spite of them didnt much matter. He came back. Thank God.

Coach lifts a silver whistle to his lips.

Warm-ups begin. Always the same circuit. A brisk mile run around the fields perimeter. Then twenty-five push-ups. Then twenty-five crunches. Then twenty-five scissors. And lastly, a set of suicide sprints to lace the lines of the pitch.

It is now 8:30 a.m. Their hearts warm with blood, lungs flush with oxygen, the girls fetch their sticks and listen for Coach to call a skill drill. They gamely hope he goes with Tic-Tac-Toe or maybe Slalom, something chill to start things off. Instead, he cups his hands and bellows, Figure Eights!

This is the first sign they are in for it.

The other two coaches rush to set up cones, dotting the field with one for each player. Then, at Coachs next whistle, the girls hitch forward at their hips and begin pushing their orange balls with their stick blades in a tight, controlled infinity loop. Over and over they dance this twirl, eyes pinned on those orange balls to steady the spinning world, their abs and thighs and asses all fires stoked white-hot.

Fifteen grueling minutes later, Coach blows his whistle. It takes the girls brains a few nauseating seconds to register they are no longer in motion.

If this were any other day of varsity tryouts, the girls would now pause for a quick water break while Coach handed out mesh pinnies in either white or navy for a scrimmage. Scrimmages are how Coach works through a Rubiks Cube of roster possibilities, swapping players in and out of potential lines and positions, whittling these forty or so hopefuls down to his final squad of twenty.