“Let’s bring it in,” Nicole says, putting her hand out. Everyone piles their hands on top. “One, two, three, Raiders!” everybody yells, and I jog out onto the grass and take my position.
The whistle blows a second time, and Nicole kicks off. Lynchburg immediately steals the ball back, because they are really good, and start making their way down the field, effortlessly passing the ball back and forth between their players. They call each other’s names and cooperate. They remind me of my former team.
As center back, I’m the last line of defense before our goalie. I quickly glance over my shoulder at her. She’s crouched, hands outstretched, ready to take on the world. I dart forward to engage with the Lynchburg striker. She fakes left, but my reflexes are good. I thrust my right foot out and dislodge the ball from between her feet. Rearing back, I boot the ball up the right side of the field to Chloe, who dribbles a few feet before the ball is stolen away again.
Lynchburg is better than most teams in our district. That’s just the way it is. But I’m not going to give up. Over the next twenty minutes, Alyson stops two shots on goal, and I manage to boot the ball away about ten times, but Lynchburg is wearing us out. Sydney is not bad on D. She’s helping out a lot back here.
Then it happens. Thirty minutes into the game, a Lynchburg forward launches a shot into the upper left corner of the goal.
“Dammit!” Alyson yells, covering her face with her goalie gloves.
“It’s cool,” I say, clapping my hands. “You’re doing great. We got this.”
Sydney smiles gratefully over at me, but Alyson drops her hands to give me an ugly look that would make even Hope Solo cringe. “You never should’ve let her get that shot off, Taylor!”
With a sigh, I turn to face the field as the ref toots the whistle. Time for round two.
Chloe kicks off to Nicole, who dribbles up the center of the field but loses the ball when a defenseman boots it away. One of our midfielders—I think her name is Beth—takes control of the ball and hustles past Lynchburg’s right defender. Holy shit! She might actually get into scoring position.
Then she trips and falls. The ref blows his whistle. I take off running toward her. Is she okay? God, I hope she is. I reach Beth and squat beside her.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“My ankle.” She clutches her cleat.
I look around to find Coach. He’s taking his sweet time making his way across the field. None of our other players come over. What gives? The St. Andrew’s girls would all be sprinting her way.
This team is just getting ridiculous.
When Coach Walker reaches us, he helps Beth get to her feet. “What did you hurt this time?”
“My ankle.”
I help Coach lead her off the field. As soon as we’re at the benches, she reaches into her tote and pulls out an ice pack, prewrap, gauze, and tape. I peek inside her bag, and it’s packed to the brim with first aid supplies. It’s like a mobile hospital.
“I hope you feel better,” I tell her, and she looks up at me with quivering lips and shiny eyes.
“Thanks,” she gasps.
I jog back onto the field, passing Chloe. She grabs my elbow. “Beth does this every game.”
“Does what?”
“Fakes an injury.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“She gets off on the attention. It seriously pisses me off.” Chloe glances down at the brace on her knee. Even from this distance, I can see the pinkish-white surgical scar. I shudder, thinking of the pain she must’ve gone through. She hasn’t been particularly nice to me, but I feel for her. You don’t fake using a brace like that one.
“Don’t give Beth any more attention, got it?” Chloe says before jogging off.
Shaking my head, I get back into position. The ref blows his whistle, indicating a Lynchburg player should throw the ball back in from the sidelines.
We’re down one-nothing, and Nicole continues to be a ball hog: she seems to have a complete inability to pass the ball. A few times, both Chloe and Brittany are completely open, but Nicole attempts fancy footwork, trying to outmaneuver Lynchburg. But they are so aggressive and so in step with one another that any play Nicole tries fails.
“Pass the ball to Chloe!” I scream at her, but she ignores me.
My yelling seems to inspire both Sydney and Coach Walker. “Pass the ball!” they holler.
Chloe gives me a shrug at one point, obviously grateful for my efforts, but why won’t she yell back? Why is this team made up of wimps when it comes to Nicole? I will admit that great players can be intimidating. The better a person is at a sport, the less likely other players are to want to cross them. It must go back to the survival of the fittest or something. I mean, would anyone question LeBron to his face?
While I’m thinking about this, Lynchburg makes another play for our goal. Two players barrel toward me, passing the ball, talking to each other, completely in sync.
I charge at one, but she passes at the last second, and the other girl slams the ball into our goal.
2–0.
Hell.
“C’mon, Alyson! You still got this,” I say, giving her a pep talk. “They’ve taken, like, a hundred shots, and you’ve stopped most of them.”
Instead of yelling at me, this time she nods and jumps up to slap the crossbar above her head. Then she claps to get back into the zone.
Chloe kicks off, barely tapping the ball to Nicole. Nicole immediately makes a break for it, dribbling up the middle of the field. A Lynchburg defenseman boots the ball back to our side. I’m closest, so I run to meet it. I prepare to pass it to Brittany, but then I think, why? She’ll just pass the ball to Nicole, because she’s a lemming.
I hate lemmings.
I take off with the ball.
“What are you doing, Lukens?” Nicole yells.
I ignore her and dribble past our forwards, totally leaving my position, heading for the goal. I lean back, plant my foot to aim, and boot the ball toward the upper left corner of the net. It sails in, and I jump up and down.
“Score!”
I turn around, expecting my teammates to surround me with celebratory hugs, but I get nothing. A few look relieved, but most are staring at Nicole, who looks insanely pissed off. Ugh.
“Get back on D, Taylor!” she shouts.
I run past her on the way to my position and say low enough so only she can hear, “Fine by me if you want to lose.”
Okay, that was pretty bitchy of me, I’ll admit it. But I want to win. I want to have something positive to write on my college applications. But even more than that, I want to be part of a team. A team that shares secrets and confides in each other, trusts each other, laughs together. Hundred Oaks is not a team. Team members pass the damn ball.
At that moment, I hear a familiar British accent. I look off the field to my right to see my old teammates passing by with cleats hanging around their shoulders. Arm in arm, Steph is laughing with Madison. They don’t even notice me…
The ref blows his whistle, and Lynchburg kicks off.
I tell myself to start running.
Our First Dance