CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Whitney
Ten Years Ago
“ Y ou’re taking too many touches,” Patrick yells from the sidelines but I push the white noise out of my head. Let it fade into the background. Ignore him.
I know what I’m doing. It’s like I can see everything play out in front of me before it even happens. Where my defenders are going to move to. How the shape the rest of my players keep is going to dictate the space I can take. How that hole is going to open up right there so I can take a shot.
I’ll win the game.
I’ll be the hero.
I can picture it all. Each step. Every juke. The final shot. The roar of everyone else’s parents as I win the game.
And then out of nowhere, a green jersey flashes in front of me. Before I can react, before I can guard it, the ball is stolen. The player breaks past my defenders, dribbles down the pitch, and takes a shot.
Scores.
The crowd roars, but it’s not for me. It’s not for my team.
The sinking feeling in my gut remains long after the final whistle is blown and the bleachers have cleared. I lie in the middle of the pitch staring at the dark sky above. Stars are nonexistent here in the city. Just another bright thing to be snuffed out by this damn town. The grass beneath my back is itchy, and the feel of my tears hitting my ears is a weird sensation.
I hear the crunch of Patrick’s shoes and his resigned sigh as he settles down beside me to mimic my position.
“Wanna talk about it?” he asks eventually.
“Nope.”
He chortles. “Well, I do.”
“How did I know you were going to say that?”
“You’re an incredible player, Lucky Shot. Phenomenal. You know the field, can read opponents, have skill well beyond your years, and a finesse that’s rare—”
“But?”
“But you’re selfish and a ball hog.”
“Someone has to score and no one else was stepping up, so I did.”
He snorts. “True. But you don’t trust your teammates so you don’t recognize when they do step up.”
“I don’t trust anyone. I mean ... other than you, of course.” And isn’t that the truth? I did what he asked. I stayed and didn’t run away. I stayed and have done so for the past two years, waking up every morning wondering if this is the day the Ramsel family will send me away. Hoping I haven’t eaten too much food this week, that I haven’t caused too much trouble today, and that I don’t interfere too much in their day-to-day. Because the easier I am, the less of a burden I am, I might get to stay longer.
They tell me they’re not going to send me back. They say it all the time. But I’ve heard that promise before.
I can’t trust them or those words. How can I when in my short life, I’ve had more promises broken than kept?
“You have to trust your teammates though. That’s what a team is. It’s building something together so that you can all achieve or fail together.”
I make a noncommittal noise in response.
“You’re out here crying—”
“I’m not crying. I don’t cry,” I assert despite my dampened hair and the salt tracks from my tears down my cheeks.
Patrick softens his voice. “It’s not a weakness, kiddo. It’s a strength. You love this game. You love competing.”
I love this place. Here. The academy and what it’s given me.
I love you like a father, Patrick. The only person I’ve ever trusted to do right by me.
And I love this game where I can get so lost that it quiets the noise in my head and the hurt in my heart of not being enough of anything to be wanted.
“So?”
He doesn’t respond. He falls silent, and I think of the fights we’ve had over the past two years. The life lessons he’s tried to teach me that I initially rebel against and only agree with in the silence of my bedroom. The hard truths he’s made me face about what I’m lacking—trust, confidence in others, my inability to let others in, and oddly enough, humility. How he’s praised me for the things I’ve done right—my accountability, my dedication, my love for the game. And how he’s forced me to use a sport to make me a more rounded person.
“I’ve made a few calls to some coaches for you.”
“What do you mean you’ve called coaches for me?”
“Just what I said. You’re upholding your end of the bargain, and it’s my turn to give you something in return.”
“But I’m not switching academies. You’re my coach. This is my home.” Panic hits at the thought of being asked to leave the only place I’ve ever felt I belonged.
“Lucky,” he says, the only name he calls me, “I’m talking about college coaches.”
My tongue thickens in my mouth, and I struggle with how to respond. Is he serious? He can’t be serious. “Why?” I croak. “I’m nowhere good enough to play in college.”
“I did not just hear you say that. You are good enough, in soccer and so many other things, kiddo.”
“There are thousands more girls out there who are better than me.”
“Says who?” Irritation peppers his voice. “I don’t want to hear those words come out of your mouth again.”
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“And I don’t want your apologies either. What I want is to give you a chance at a different life. One away from here where you can get a good education and play under the big lights like you deserve.”
“Patrick. Coach . I ...” I was going to community college. That’s free. I can’t afford to go to college. I can’t ... I fight against the tidal wave of hope that soon gets smothered by dejection.
Daring to dream in my life has only brought me heartache. Lesson learned.
And yet ... college? He thinks I’m good enough for college? My chest bursts with a pride I don’t think I’ve ever felt before.
“I’m trying to get you a soccer scholarship. I’ve been working for the past few months on it. A few coaches have come out to watch you as a favor to me.”
“Coaches have been here? Have watched me?” I sit up and stare at him with bewilderment.
And then another wave of panic. I haven’t played my best soccer lately. I’ve been in a funk, got stripped of the ball, I—
“Coaches want superstars, but they also want team players. They want someone who’ll look out for the team’s best interest, not just their own. You could have one hundred goals to your credit, but if your team has lost every game, it makes you look like a selfish ass.”
“Was one here today?”
“Not sure. I was busy coaching you...when you tuned me out.”
“I could see the shot. I could—”
“Of course you could, but I could see more than you from the sidelines. I was coaching you and you shut me out.”
I huff out in exasperation, knowing he’s right but not wanting to admit it.
“If you always look out for those around you, you’ll become an even stronger superstar than you already are.”
“Those are just words you have to say because you’re my coach.”
“No. Those are words I want to say to make you a better person, a better teammate, and an ideal college recruit.”
He sits up and meets my eyes. “You had a phenomenal game today right up until you chose yourself over your team. You have to be selfish to be a striker. I know that. You know that. They know that. But you also have to walk that fine line of humility to see the greater good for the team. It’s not always about taking the shot but about the combined effort, the teamwork, which got you—or another player—there.”
“Is this one of those life lessons, Coach?”
He chuckles and leans back on his elbows. “Something like that.”
“Lesson noted. I’ll work on it.”