Defending Irene by Kristin Wolden; Nitz Read Free Book Online Page B

schools and their own soccer teams.
    If I had been down on the field, any rude remarks about a girl playing would have flown right over my head. Of course, I could think of someone who would be more than happy to translate every insult and even make up a few of his own.
    Dad stood up. “I want two words with the mister .”
    â€œPlease, no.” I grabbed his arm.
    Dad grinned. “Ah, Irene, do not have fear. I will not be one of those crazy American parents who ask of the mister : ‘Why isn’t my daughter playing?’”
    Dad clambered down the bleachers. I watched as he attracted the mister ’ s attention, introduced himself, and waved a hand in my direction.
    The mister smiled. I hadn’t thought that he could. More surprising still, he laughed at something Dad said. Luigi and his father. Alike as two drops of water? For the briefest of moments, yes.
    My back straightened. I leaned forward. But I could only hear their voices and not their words. Before long, they shook hands and my father bounded back up the bleachers.
    â€œWhat did he say?” I asked. “Why did he laugh?”
    â€œOh, it was nothing. A small joke. The mister pleases me,” Dad announced. “He has organized the team very well. His players respect him.”
    Or else they were all afraid of him. Even Luigi. Or was it especially Luigi?
    â€œWhat joke?” I persisted.
    â€œA small one. So small, I have already forgotten it,” Dad told me.
    Frowning, I turned my attention back to the field. The game was starting. I meant to watch it quietly and not draw attention to myself. But the action was exciting and Dad was so enthusiastic that I found myself cheering for Emi, Luigi, and yes, even Matteo. I was on my feet as he broke away from the defenders and scored his second goal.
    At the end of the first period, my teammates sat on the bench or sprawled at full-length on the ground near it. I avoided looking in their direction. It was easy since Dad was happily reconstructing the best and worst plays of the game and telling me what I should have done if I’d been out there.
    By the end of the second period, everyone had started to slow down. In the third period, when free substitution of players was allowed, my teammates were really dragging. Matteo still had his bursts of speed but otherwise had dropped to a trot or even a walk. Luigi made several great saves: falling on balls, diving catches, and even punching the ball up and over the goal. But a rash of corner kicks and our team’s inability to push the ball past midfield left him vulnerable.
    â€œI am sure the mister wishes that he had you in the game now,” Dad murmured after Scena scored their second goal. “Everyone is tired. It goes this way very often in the first game of the season. On Monday, you will run.”
    My team managed to hang onto a one-point lead. After another diving save, Luigi had sent the ball sailing down the field as the final whistle blew. I was ready to dash out of the stands and into the car, but Dad was deep in conversation with a local on how we could find the remains of a Roman road somewhere just past Castle Thurnstein.
    My teammates gathered around the mister for what looked and sounded like a lecture. It had been an ugly win. When the huddle broke up, one figure broke away from the group and ran to the foot of the bleachers. Matteo.
    â€œIrene! Ciao!” He smiled at me, a heart-melting smile of peace on earth and good will to all. Then he motioned for me to come down.
    I smiled, waved, and shook my head. I didn’t trust him.
    Dad elbowed me. “ Dai , Irene.”
    I stood up. It was not the time for explanations, even though I knew it could be a trap. But ‘hope is a thing with feathers’—at least according to a poem I’d read in Communication Arts last year. I could feel the feathers tickling my spine and stomach. Could Matteo have changed his mind? Had my coming to the