“I don’t think they call fouls at this age bracket,” I told her.
“They should.” Isabel put her fingers into her mouth and whistled. “Watch the forward, Willa. She’s coming up the edge. Don’t let her past you.”
Willa, all long dark hair and big blue eyes, sprinted forward and hip-checked the other player out of the way, snagging control of the ball. My mom hollered. My dad leaned forward with his hands braced on his knees and shouted encouragement.
“They are going to kick all of you out,” I muttered.
Molly and Noah clapped wildly when Willa passed to her cousin Luna, who barreled over a tiny girl with red braids. Luna screwed up her little face in concentration. Most professional players didn’t look that bloodthirsty when they eyed the net. She pulled her leg back like she was gearing up for a sixty-yard field goal, and when she swung it forward, it connected on the ball with a decisive snap. The ball went sailing, and the defender hit the ground to avoid a concussion.
It hit the back of the net, and our family erupted.
I’m talking Super Bowl-level cheering. Hugs and high fives and fist bumps.
The other team’s parents gave my mom a dirty look when she yelled, “Those are my babies!”
I swiped a hand over my face and tried not to laugh.
“Everyone hates you guys,” I said.
Isabel sighed, setting her hands on her hips. “They really do.”
Anya slung her arm over Isabel’s shoulders and grinned at her little sister. “Willa’s just lucky they don’t hand out red cards at this age because her ass would be benched just about every game.”
“These are the lessons we’re teaching the youngest generation, huh?” I asked.
Dad strode onto the soccer field and snatched both girls up in his arms. They hugged his neck, wearing wide happy grins on their dirty, sweaty faces. Luna had grass stuck in her hair, and Willa’s face was streaked with dirt from … somewhere. He kissed their cheeks, and they chattered excitedly in his presence. Luna snagged Dad’s favorite black Wolves cap and set it on her head. It was way too big, and my dad’s booming laughter was easy to hear over all the happy chatter around the field.
Molly and Noah joined them, and Mom wandered over by me, Isabel, and Anya.
“I heard you,” Mom said. “No one hates us.”
I gave her a look.
“Much,” she added. “I can’t help it. I never got to watch the girls in sports because they were over it by the time your dad and I got married, and watching you was so nerve-wracking because I could tell how badly you wanted to do well …” She shrugged helplessly. “But watching my grandbabies has brought about this savage side of me I never knew existed.”
“Really? You never knew?” Isabel asked dryly.
Anya snickered.
“I didn’t realize you felt that way when I played,” I said.
Mom slid her arm around my waist and leaned into me. “Yup. Being a parent is weird.”
In middle school and high school, football had always been my primary focus. But when I was younger, spring and summer were soccer and baseball. Fall was football and basketball. I dropped basketball and baseball as I moved into high school.
My mom was right, though. I’d always felt the weight of my last name every time I took a field or slipped on a uniform. Not because of my parents—they never made me feel like I had to play any particular sport. Any pressure I felt to be the best, to make a name for myself, came from me. But I never considered how my parents might have perceived it.
Willa wiggled to get down. Then she sprinted over to us, bypassing her mom and big sister. I stretched out my arms to catch her and swung her up high. Her delighted laughter had Isabel shaking her head.