Game on.
The girls moved into position, ready to defend against River Run’s possession, as they won the coin toss. The game was brutal just as everyone anticipated—flags thrown at both teams, multiple fouls, one stretcher, a near fistfight, and lots and lots of filthy language . . . behind the backs of the referees, of course.
Well into the second half, with no score by either team, Regan made a decision. She was scoring a goal. If it killed her, she would push down the field again—clocking close to seven miles by then—and slam the ball into the goal.
“I’m knocking her hands off,” she huffed aloud, dribbling the ball around her opponent.
“Whose hands?” the opponent asked, chasing after her.
“Your goalie’s.”
“Bitch, please.”
Regan passed to her left, confident Tara was there to receive the ball and pass it farther up the field to Ashley, hanging left of center. Just like synchronized swimming, the ball spun fluidly down the field from player to player.
Regan pumped her arms and picked up her pace, blasting through center field to her final defender. Number 10 glanced at her and then at the ball, shooting forward in front of Regan, trying to catch her in an offside call.
“I don’t think so!” Regan cried, shoving her body in front of the defender and catching the ball with the inside of her foot.
A moment to shine. Some fancy footwork to trick her opponent. Fans screaming their heads off. It was the set-up of set-ups.
“Feet, don’t fail me,” she breathed, pushing toward the goal.
A sudden swarm of defenders. Tara to her left. She passed the ball and sprinted ahead, close enough to smell the goalie.
Wide. Open.
Tara immediately passed back. Regan would have to catch the ball with her left foot—would have to shoot with her weaker, less accurate side. She had no choice. The ball hurled toward her, higher than she wanted. No time to think. She jumped. Her foot flew out in front of her, and she caught the ball on that sweet spot right above her toes, swacking it with the force of a rocket launcher. It catapulted in a dangerous downward motion—the kind of motion that tricks even the most seasoned goalies. The goalie misjudged the rate of fall, and the ball slipped just under her fingertips, slamming into the far right corner of the goal.
Regan fell hard on her side, cleat digging into her inner thigh. Instant blood. Instant elation. Rough hands all over her—her teammates grasping and clawing to yank her up—encouraging a victory run. She jumped on Tara, bouncing up and down in a sweaty, sticky hug. And then she charged down and around the field, arms outstretched, screaming over and over, “Hells yeah! Hells to the yay-uuuuuhhhhh!!”
Hers was the only goal scored that game. Five minutes remained, and River Run worked tirelessly for a tie-up. But it was a futile objective because Regan made the decision. And it wasn’t the only decision she’d make that fateful afternoon.
***
“Go wait in the car, Mom,” Regan said. She never talked to her mother like that. It wasn’t exactly disrespectful. Just decided. And her mother understood.
She marched with purpose toward Brandon, whose face sported a premature smile. She wasn’t going to linger to hear all of his stupid excuses. No way. This was going to be fast and easy.
His lips parted for the first words.
“Shut up,” Regan said. “Shut your mouth, and don’t open it ’til I’m done.”
His eyes went wide.
“There is nothing going on here—” She waved her hands all over the front of him. “—that I like anymore. Nothing.”
“Regan—”
She thrust her face under his nose. “I said shut up. Shut the fuck up.”
He closed his mouth.
“You’re a bully. You always have been. You prey on weak people to make yourself feel good. You think you own everybody and everything. Well, guess what, buddy? You don’t own me. I can’t believe it took me three years, and I wish to God I could get those three years back, but whatever. I can’t. I can move forward, though. And I’m gonna. Don’t call me, look at me, or touch me ever again. You understand that? I will put you on the ground and rub my cleat in your face if you even think about it. I’m done with you. I’m done with your threats, your manipulations, your lies. I’m done with your psycho personality. I’m done with you. You got that? DONE. Now get the hell out of my way because I’ve got a life to live.”
She pushed past him and strolled away without a second glance in his direction. The euphoria started in her feet—those feet that didn’t fail her! It shot up her legs and burst in her heart, forcing her hands to the sky and a triumphant “YES!” from her lips. She yelled it over and over, a new firework exploding in her heart each time she proclaimed the word. She walked all the way to her mother’s car with her hands stretched above her head, feeling the feather-light high-fives from all the angels in heaven.
That night the music permeated every square inch of the Walters home. No one made her turn it down because they knew she deserved it—loud, fist-pumping melodies that signaled her victory on the field and her bigger victory of the heart.
“Should we be worried?” Mr. Walters asked, watching his daughter bounce up and down spastically, completely oblivious to her parents’ presence in her open bedroom doorway. Caroline was there, too, trying hard to match her sister’s moves.
“I’ll let you know if and when I find her stash of furry leg warmers and glow sticks,” Mrs. Walters replied.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, “and I don’t wanna know.”
Mrs. Walters smiled. “Better you don’t.”