Chapter 2
Two
CHLOE
Tonight, the breeze chants my name. It’s the perfect night for soccer. The perfect stage for a Big Moment. Our home opener against our biggest rivals.
My pump-up pre-game playlist blasts in my ears as I change into my uniform after school.
I always listen to the same songs in the same order, pairing them with my pre-game rituals.
Say whatever you want, but for some people, sports are a spiritual experience.
A familiar calm settles over me as I lace up my cleats.
The pressure to defend the best forward in the state, Abigail Matthews, hasn’t disappeared yet. It can’t, really.
But instead of spiking my pulse, it sinks into my skin, merging with my own confidence, the flint to my nerves of steel, and sparking a fire to win.
I bob my head in time to the beat, picturing my dad with his painted face and an obnoxious blue knit hat, waving a foam finger and yelling, “Go, Baker, go!” at the top of his lungs.
I pull on my Cardinal Ridge cobalt warm-up jersey and follow my teammates outside. My cleats clack on the concrete, though I can’t hear them. Stadium lights flood the field. The air smells like wet grass, crisp and cold, and earthy.
During warm-ups, I look for my dad in the stands.
It’s easy to find him; his blue and yellow flag screams school spirit from halfway up the bleachers.
Mom’s working again—no surprise there. Her event planning business keeps her busy most nights now that she’s hired a bigger team and expanded her offering.
That’s great for her, really. Sometimes I just wish she’d keep a night free to watch me play.
Teagan calls the team to line up for shooting drills.
In my mind, I thank Coach Dixon for naming her our stoic, if sometimes icy, co-captain.
She’s Bad Cop to always upbeat Kendry’s Good-Cop.
They complement each other nicely. Tonight, it’s Teagan’s energy I need to help me focus.
She won’t settle for anything less than perfection.
We run through our warm-up drills until the referee blows her whistle to signal warm-up time is over. Teagan, Kendry, and Janae, jog over for the coin toss, while the rest of the team huddles on the bench to listen to Coach Dixon’s pep talk.
When I take my position on the field, I breathe deeply and exhale everything else out of my mind.
For the next ninety minutes, only the field exists.
Cardinal Ridge and Harrison’s rivalry began long before I was born, and it will no doubt continue after I’m worm food. As far as talent goes this season, we’re evenly matched. The game is going to come down to who can turn Big Moment Potential into a win.
Voices volley across the freshly mowed field as both teams point out gaps in the formations or call for the ball.
Sweat streaks down my forehead and back. I sprint to clear a through ball, wishing for the cool winds of October instead of the oppressive August heat.
The right forward, Abigail Matthews, lets out a frustrated groan when I reach the ball first. Number ten will not win any of those passes. Not tonight. Even though the girl is four inches taller than me and lightning fast.
Adjust your position, my dad always says. It doesn’t matter who the other person is. All that matters is that I shift my game to fit.
Like an antibody learning how to fight a virus. I’ve played Harrison before, and I’ve marked this particular virus. I know the girl’s tells: how she always fakes to the inside and cuts back outside so she can strike with her dominant right foot.
At halftime, the score is tied 0-0. Coach Dixon gives a pep talk about staying tight on our marks and taking advantage of every opportunity.
The night air cools my skin as the sun mercifully makes its descent toward the horizon. I squirt fresh water into my mouth, swish it, and spit it out in the grass behind the bench.
When I take the field again, my eyes lock on Rhoads in the front row of the bleachers. He’s sitting with the rest of the boys’ soccer team, turned to the side and laughing at something his friend Dillon is saying.
My stomach flips when his eyes meet mine.
This conversation isn’t over, Baker.
I turn away and squash all thoughts of swoopy-haired playboys.
No distractions.
The referee places the ball on the center line. I shake out my arms and jump three times, bringing my knees to my chest and relishing the burn of working muscles. Regardless of what’s happening outside the pitch, I need to stay focused.
During a Harrison breakaway, I slide-tackle the ball away from number ten. She groans again, but I smirk. Grass clumps beneath my shin guard and stains my yellow sock. Pain pulses in my knee. The sacrifice and inevitable bruises are worth it.
I clear the ball, and Teagan takes off down the field, playing a give-and-go with two of the mid-fielders. I pull myself off the solid ground and urge my team forward. Janae shouts at us to push up, waving her gloved hands in my peripheral vision.
Goosebumps prickle my flesh, the magic of the moment declaring itself. This could be it, our one big chance. Ji-woo spins around two defenders, dragging the ball with her. Inside the eighteen-yard box, she pulls back to shoot.
I inhale and hold it, afraid if I breathe too hard it’ll Butterfly Effect us out of this opportunity.
A defender catches her ankle. She falls, and from the way she’s clutching her foot, I can’t tell whether she played up the contact or if the other girl really hit her that hard. I hope she’s just acting. We can’t afford to lose her, and definitely not in the first game of the season.
The referee blows her whistle and signals a penalty kick.
The crowd holds its breath.
Teagan helps Ji-woo up. She wobbles but manages to walk, limping slightly. She gives Coach Dixon and the trainer a thumbs-up to say she doesn’t need a sub. Then she yells for me.
I jog toward her. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” She rolls her ankle, testing it. “But I want you to take it.”
“The penalty? Me? Are you sure?”
“You burned her last time. You got this.” Ji-woo slaps me on the back.
I nod, setting my jaw. I did score on this goalkeeper once before, during a spring club game. Not like this. Not a penalty kick. Honestly, it was kind of a lucky accident aided by a very fortunate gust of wind.
But I can do this.
Two deep breaths steady my nerves. I place the ball on the spot, careful not to look at the keeper. I don’t want her psyching me out, and I don’t want to give her any indication of which direction I’m going. The stadium is either completely silent or deafeningly loud.
This is what I’ve been searching for ever since that first big play back in first grade. A Big Moment in a rivalry game. My chance to impress my coach and solidify my position on the starting squad.
Blood pumps hot and wild through my arms all the way to my fingertips.
The referee nods at me.
I position myself, and on the whistle, I strike the ball, looking up only after I’ve made contact.
The white sphere rolls toward the corner, glowing in the stadium lights.
The keeper dives, arms outstretched. I keep my body ready in case there’s a deflection.
At the last second, her gloves make contact with the ball and send it wide of the goal and out of bounds.
Harrison’s fans explode in cheers.
I stare at the goal for another second. My shoulders hunch forward, trying to get close enough to my chest to protect my heart from breaking. Too late, shoulders. It’s already cracked in half.
My teammates offer me a high-five, anyway, shouting encouragements. A feeble attempt at support when I know what they’re thinking. That was the moment. The one shot that could have sealed our victory.
And I blew it.
My eyes flick up to the stands again. Ever the cheerleader, my dad still wears his signature “go get ‘em” face. In my mind, he says what he always does when I make a mistake. You've got to have short-term memory, Baker. Forget it and move on. He’s right. I can’t dwell on it now.
All I can do is make sure Harrison doesn’t score.
Which I do until there are four minutes left in the game and Coach Dixon benches me.
“What the heck, Coach?” I force a yellow pinny over the top of my jersey. It’s tangled. I don’t bother fixing it.
“Have a seat.”
Yeah, right. I remain standing. “You’re seriously benching me with four minutes left when we’re playing Harrison? Are you insane?”
“You played a good game.” He frowns at his clipboard.
“Is this about the PK?”
“Let it go, Chloe.”
“I work my butt off for this team. I think I deserve to know why I’m getting pulled in the final minutes.”
He sighs. “We need a goal. Bea’s more offensive-minded. She’s more comfortable pushing forward on the attack, more comfortable with the ball at her feet and going at defenders one-on-one. That’s it.”
“But—”
Coach Dixon holds his hand up. “Save it. Unless you want to put your starting position in jeopardy.”
Steam spirals out of my ears. It’s Coach’s call, of course. If he wants to leave the back line vulnerable to a through ball on the counter-attack by pushing our defenders forward, I can’t change his mind. But I don’t have to be happy about it.
In the last minute of the game, Harrison steals down the field.
I lean forward on the sideline, huddled with the other unfortunate souls who have to watch the seconds tick by, unable to affect the game.
When number ten receives a pass, I stand, toeing the line.
“Close her down! She’s going right!” I shout as loudly as I can.
But Bea, the sophomore defender who replaced me, can’t hear me.
She doesn’t know the player like I do. Bea falls for the fake, lunging the wrong way as number ten cuts back to her favorite right foot just outside the box.
The defense is in chaos, everyone trying to find their mark or shut down the shot.
My whole body clenches. It knows what’s about to happen.