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of practice would be . . . a lie, actually. Our only hope was that the coaches would decide to have us watch the entire game from the safety of the sidelines. We also wondered what our teammates’ reactions would be to our presence—if some among them had been involved in the hazing, they’d realize that we weren’t quitting the team.
    When we boarded the bus after school, I studied each teammate’s face carefully to see who looked surprised or dismayed. Whoever the masked hazers were, they weren’t expecting to see us show up on the bus, and they surely wouldn’t be happy about it. But as I scanned their faces, I felt halfway disappointed and halfway impressed. Nobody’s face betrayed anything. The girls’ team was on the bus as well—their game was right before ours—so a lot of the guys were chatting up the girls. Whoever the hazers were, they were pros.
    I grabbed Frank’s arm. “Let’s split up,” I whispered. “If we strike up conversations with our seatmates, maybe we’ll learn if anything similar has happened to other people.”
    He slipped into a seat next to a junior named Ty. I kept walking and finally slid into a bench next to a sophomore, Gabe. I’d noticed at practice yesterday that he was small, but really fast.
    â€œHey,” I said, trying to look friendly. “I’m Joe.”
    He nodded, pulling out headphones. “Gabe,” he said. “Whassup?”
    Friendly, I noted. Either doesn’t hate me or is good at faking it.
    â€œNot much,” I said. “Kind of nervous about this game, honestly.”
    The bus rumbled to a start and we began driving toward Mill Valley, where the game would be played.
    â€œThe first game is tough,” Gabe said knowingly. “You just have to play your best.”
    â€œWhen was your first game?” I asked.
    â€œThis past fall,” he replied with a shrug. “It was tough. But at least I had a bunch of other guys starting with me.”
    â€œHow many guys on the team were new last fall?” I asked.
    Gabe thought a minute. “Maybe ten, twelve?”
    â€œWas it . . . hard?” I asked. “I mean, the team seems pretty tight. And I’ve heard . . .” I paused, looked around, and lowered my voice. No one near us seemed to be listening. “Rumors.”
    Gabe looked startled. “Um . . . what do you mean?”
    I cleared my throat. “I’ve heard if you don’t play well, things might happen to you.”
    Gabe suddenly seemed uncomfortable. Jackpot, I thought. “Oh, that’s probably exaggerated,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry.”
    Time to go in for the kill. “Did that happen to you?” I whispered.
    â€œWhat?” he asked nervously.
    I looked around again to make sure no one was listening, then leaned in. “Did something . . . happen , if you didn’t play well?”
    Gabe’s eyes darted around anxiously.
    I lowered my voice even further. “I just want to be prepared, if anything goes down. I know I didn’t play so great yesterday. I want to try my best, but . . .” I paused. “I also want to know what’s in store for me.”
    Gabe seemed really nervous now. He looked from me, to his hands clenched in his lap.
    â€œCan I tell you something?” I whispered. “Something happened last night. . . .” In the lowest voice I could manage, I gave him a play-by-play of the night before—including the pedestal and the near branding. At certain points Gabe’s eyes widened in what looked like recognition.
    â€œI’m just not sure how much more I can take,” I said finally. I was being sincere, too. “Can you tell me what happens if you don’t do what they want?”
    By this point Gabe had flushed bright red. He looked all around him, like he wanted to see whether anyone was listening. Seemingly satisfied, he leaned in and said in a