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I
    f you ask me, the hardest part about playing high school soccer is
not
playing high school soccer.
    Honestly, if I had a choice, I’d never leave the soccer field. I’d roll out a sleeping bag and snooze right on the grass. If it rained, I’d move the bag under the bleachers.
    But that’s the thing: I
don’t
have a choice. Everyone else chooses for me. The state athletic association. My teachers. Coach Berg. Even my awesome parents and supersweet teammates. Ever since last year, when Mr. Lenders caught me juggling a ball while I was supposed to be in class so many times that he suspended me for a whole school week, everyone has kept a really close eye on me.
    â€œYou been going to all your classes, Williams?” Coach Berg will say. (That’s me—Williams. Addie Williams.)
    â€œNeed help studying for your Algebra II test, Addie?” a teammate will ask.
    â€œRemember, Addie,” my parents like to remind me, “you’re a student first, an athlete second.”
    They’re all worried that I’m going to get suspended a second time—but they shouldn’t be. Because of the suspension, I missed two games last year, and there’s no way I’m ever letting that happen again.
    Still, it’s not easy sitting in a desk when I could be galloping across the soccer field—especially on days like today.
    Game days.
    Today is Fraser High’s fourth game of the season, which means I’ve spent the entire school day waiting for the final bell to ring. When it does, I practically leap out from my desk and bolt for the hallway. As I weave through the crowd, I imagine it’s filled with my opponents. I pretend there’s a ball at my feet as I sidestep a sophomore and juke out a junior. The kids moving in the same direction as me are my teammates, and I guide the invisible ball toward one of them as I open the door to the locker room. Soon I’ll be in my uniform and headed for the field.
    Except when I open my locker, I find a note on top of my uniform shorts:

    Dear Addie,
    You suck at soccer and life. Do us all a favor and quit.
    Sincerely,
    Coach Berg

I
    would feel more freaked about the letter if it were actually from Coach Berg.
    But it obviously isn’t.
    For one thing, it’s written in pink ink. The letters are loopy. There’s no way Coach Berg’s handwriting looks like this.
    Besides, I already know who wrote the letter. It’s the same girl who wrote me dozens of letters last spring—the same girl who used to call me her best friend.
    Eva Riley.
    Clearly, she
wants
me to know she sent the letter. If she didn’t, she would have disguised her handwriting or used a different pen.
    She may have signed
Coach Berg
, but she knew I’d figure it out. Because over the last few weeks, it’s become clear that she’s no longer wants to be my best friend.
    She wants to be my archenemy.

T
    he first note I ever got from Eva was during the last day of my suspension. It just so happened to be the last game of the season. That’s right—I got suspended during the
playoffs
. I’d been cutting class all spring. But Mr. Lenders, hall monitor extraordinaire, didn’t do anything about it until I was preparing to play the most important games of my career.
    While my team was losing on a neutral field, I was standing on our home field, passing the ball back and forth with Belle.
    Belle, by the way, is my dog. She’s a Brittany spaniel, and she’s way better than your average dog. Remember Air Bud, the sports star-slash-retriever? Belle’s like a real-life version of him. Whenever I kick the ball to her, she kicks it right back to me.
    Okay,
kicks
might be a stretch. More like
nudges
. She pushes the ball forward, inch by inch, with her nose. Pretty impressive, I think, for a dog.
    Still, it takes forever for Belle to return my pass, and my mind tends to wander. As I watched her nudging the ball that day, I