The crack came during a rainy practice. Malcolm, jealous of the new star, ripped Viola’s jersey during a tackle. She spun away, but not before he saw the edge of the white athletic tape.
“I won,” Viola said. “You were in London, writing bad poems about a girl named ‘Mystic.’” she's the man 2006
Duke walked toward her, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. “Sebastian?” he said, uncertain. The crack came during a rainy practice
So Viola did what any rational, desperate, and slightly reckless seventeen-year-old would do. She borrowed Sebastian’s khakis, hacked off her ponytail, practiced scowling in the mirror, and became him. “I won,” Viola said
On the pitch, though, the disguise melted away. Viola’s feet remembered every drill, every fake, every through-ball her father had taught her before he decided “girls should play something prettier, like tennis.” She was faster than Cornwall’s star forward, Duke, and smarter than their captain, Malcolm. Within two weeks, “Sebastian” was the team’s secret weapon.
He sat down on the floor. “So what do I do now?”
She peeled off the fake sideburns. They came away with a wet tear of spirit gum. “There is no Sebastian,” she said, loud enough for the bleachers to hear. “There’s only me. Viola. And I’m better than half your starting lineup. Ask your goalie.”