“I want to finish it,” I tell them. “I feel a little shaky, but it’ll feel good to move again, run through it, end strong. He got kicked off.” I nod toward the other end of the field where the defender walked out. “That’s enough for me.”
“And he’ll be getting slapped with a fine,” Coach tells me.
Gavin’s staring at me, eyes tight. “You sure?”
I nod, glancing out across the field. I want to get out there and score, not just tie it up, but win. Not because I have anything to prove in light of the hatred I experienced today; their bigotry isn’t my burden to bear. I want to win this game because I believe it’s possible, because I believe in myself, because right here, right now, pouring everything I have into this game, is exactly where I want to be.
After convening with the refs, Gavin and I pull the team together. I glance up at the clock, seeing five minutes of added stoppage time, just like I thought. As the ref walks toward me with the ball, Gavin stares past me, eyes dark, expression unreadable. I feel anger rolling off him in waves. Following his line of sight, I catch another player on the team giving me a nasty look. Clearly, he thinks his teammate was treated unfairly.
I flash him my widest smile, then happily accept the ball from the ref.
The next four minutes are an exercise in frustration. My opponent’s defenders double-team me like they have all through the game, and now they’re trying to rough me up—emphasis on, trying to. There’s a real upside to being six-three and a hundred and eighty pounds of pure muscle; I don’t really budge.
We’re still down one, and I’m so hungry to score, it’s like a fire in blood.
As a foul’s called on the other team, I run up as high in the field as I can while staying onside, watching the clock, knowing at any minute they might blow the whistle.
That’s when I feel it, the weight of Gavin’s gaze on me. Peering up, I meet his eyes and try to make some kind of sense of his thunderous expression. I can see that vein in his temple pulsing from here, and as the whistle blows, as he takes that very first touch on the ball, I know something’s different. It’s like traveling back in time, seeing a player I haven’t since before I became a professional myself. Gavin flies. Moving with the ball in a burst of speed, footwork so fast it’s a blur, he burns through the midfield. I drop deep and wide, clearing space for him, mindful to stay onside.
Tearing down the field, he heads straight for the defender who gave me the nasty look when we resumed play, who’s kept his mouth shut but made it clear with how many times he keeps stepping on my foot and throwing an elbow that he’s trying to make me miserable.
The guy lunges as Gavin cuts with the ball, leaving his legs splayed, and Gavin deftly slips the ball right through his legs. He’s nutmegged him. The stadium’s chanting, screaming, losing their collective shit at what they’re seeing.
My heart’s in my throat, my pulse pounding, as Gavin steps around the defender he’s just embarrassed and made fall on his ass. On his first touch, he sends the ball arcing through the air straight to me. I sprint toward it, knowing it’s perfect—that I’m as fast as he needs, that he’s sent the ball exactly where it needs to go.
My head connects with the ball, flies into the corner of the net.
Goal!!!
I’m screaming, elated, smiling so wide my face hurts, as the team piles on top of me, shouting, thrilled. We’re tied. Which is good. Fine. But not great.
Not enough.
My eyes lock with Gavin’s in understanding. He glances toward the dwindling time. Thirty seconds left. I know exactly how we’re going to use it:
To win.
23
GAVIN
Playlist: “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” Penny & Sparrow
Endorphins pump through my body. I stare out at the field, feeling energy, fire, in my limbs like the game I loved never left me, like everything I have is at my fingertips, in my feet, about to pour out onto the grass until it seeps into its soil. I feel the strength in my body, even knowing it’s ebbed. I feel my voice, hoarse and sharp, cutting up my throat from my place in the middle of the field, from the center of this place that’s the center of my world.
I see Oliver, drink him in. Chest heaving. Flushed. Dripping in sweat. Hair half out of that infuriating spurt-of-gold ponytail.
Fucking perfect.
The whistle blows. There’s no time to tell him what I want to do. Our opponent has the kickoff, and they’re already sending it deep into our end. Ben’s fucking useful for once, winning it off their offense, dropping it to Amobi, who works it over to Carlo.
Carlo sends it up the wing to Ethan. Cutting in, Ethan sees me ahead, higher in the midfield, and sends the ball my way. I wait for him, toying easily with my defender, faking him out and breezing by. I hear the stadium noise tick up, feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Reading my tactic, Ethan cuts toward midfield as I stretch the field, deep toward the sideline, drawing out the defense until the box is exactly how I want it, wide open, with Oliver running in to fill it.
I trust Ethan enough to know I want a give and go, having screamed at him since preseason started to see those triangulations quicker. I send the ball his way, and he reads me perfectly, a straight shot down the field.
But farther than it should be.
Cursing under my breath, I explode, a hot warning pain radiating through my back, slicing down my leg. I ignore it, sprint toward the ball as it darts dangerously close toward the goal line.
My defender’s hot on my heels. Too close for me to get a foot on the ball and keep it inbounds. At least, for me to get an upright foot on the ball. At the last moment, I slide in across the goal line and nudge the ball to safety when it’s inches from the paint.
The stadium erupts as my defender trips and stumbles past me, as I crawl upright and sprint back onto the field. The next defender’s barreling toward me. I fake right, as if going for the goal, then tap the ball left, making him stumble, too.
And then I see him, tall, lightning fast, that golden head of hair heralding his arrival. As Oliver sprints toward the goal, I flick the ball off the outside of my right foot. It’s one step in front of him. Then he’s there with a one-touch to the back of the net.
Goal!!!
Arms raised, I feel triumph singing through my veins.
But then a body slams into me, wrenching my back. A pop and burn blazes through me, chased by pain like I’ve never known, swallowing up the world in darkness.
I know it’s a dream. No, a nightmare. And yet, I can’t make myself wake up.
My pain is dulled thank God, my steps measured, as I walk into the locker room and drink it in. The polished wood of each player’s cubby glinting under the lights. The funk of soccer gear and body sweat. The sound of my bag dropping at my feet like it has for seventeen years. The creak of my cubby’s bench beneath my weight as I stare down at my bag, the tools of my trade, a ball, a few scraps of flimsy fabric, a pair of cleats.
My armor against the world. The armor that became my world. When no one wanted me, when I hated everything, when I felt helpless and hopeless. Soccer was everything.
I want to wake up. I don’t want this dream to be reality. But somehow I know reality isn’t what I want either, so I stay, just a little longer. Instead of waking, I walk out of the tunnel as I have so many games, the lights flooding my vision when I step onto the grass.