Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
CHLOE
Tonight we’re playing away at Douglas Heights. Obnoxious students heckle us from the front two rows of the aluminum bleachers as my team and I jog across the field and back toward our bench. The field lights flick on, and fluorescent beams drench the grass.
“Ignore them,” Teagan says.
Blatantly disregarding this instruction, Kendry blows a kiss to the group of guys with red and white paint caked on their faces before turning and sprinting away.
“Fraternizing with the enemy?” I tease, jogging beside her.
“Psychological warfare.” She laughs. “Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”
Fall has officially arrived, the temperature dropping low enough I keep my sweats on during warm-ups. The sky fades from fresh bruise to deep eggplant as I tap close-range shots at Janae in quick succession to wake up her reflexes.
And then it’s time.
Don’t think, just do.
I repeat the words over and over in my mind. It’s my new mantra on the field. Tonight, I find out if all the time I’ve been training with Rhoads has been worth it.
Wind nibbles the exposed skin on the tips of my ears, and I pull my headband down to cover them. It will slip up again, but by then adrenaline and endorphins will block out all irrelevant sensations.
We all take our positions on the field. The ref blows his whistle.
Game on.
Near the end of the first half, a Douglas midfielder dribbles at me. Her white uniform glows under the lights. I bide my time, waiting for my chance. She touches the ball too far, and I shoulder my way in to win it.
The air smells like rain. Though nothing’s fallen yet, heavy clouds loom, threatening.
I glance up, find Piper’s red ponytail bobbing near the midfield circle, and slide her a pass. She points toward the sideline. “Go!”
Bailey’s normally in that spot, but she moved in to cover another midfielder, and the space is wide open.
Don’t think, just do.
I sprint forward just as Piper sends the ball into the space behind the defender, breathing hard as the wind tries to suffocate me. My feet collect the ball, and I dribble forward with measured touches.
The right defender closes in as the rest of her team falls back. I let go of expectation, of the calculations my brain wants to do and instead focus on the way my cleats grip the ground.
I do a scissor move and scan the field for my teammates. There’s Piper in the middle, streaking toward the back post.
She raises her arm. “Ball!”
I take another step to set up then strike the ball toward her just as the defender’s solid shoulder digs into mine, trying to knock me off-balance.
The contact came too late to matter. Piper receives the ball with her chest, then pops it back to the top of the box where Isla—one of our center-mids—is waiting.
The pass isn’t perfect and a Douglas Heights player steps in to clear it. I hustle back to aid the defense and find my mark, making sure she doesn’t get between me and my goal.
Janae scoops the ball up in her neon yellow gloves and punts it out of danger. Bailey and Ji-woo expertly thread their passes through our opponents’ scrambling defense on another counterattack
I breathe a deep sigh of relief when they cross the halfway line and head toward the Douglas Heights goal.
A fat, frigid raindrop plops on top of my head. Then another.
And then it’s full-on drizzling, not a super storm, but enough to make things slippery.
I wipe my face and squint, watching the developing play but keeping tabs on my mark at the same time.
Bailey and Ji-woo get all the way down to the opposite end line and knock the ball off a defender.
There’s only a minute left in the half. Coach Dixon gestures for me to push up more.
Huh. That’s new.
Soggy grass and softened mud squish under my feet as I fill the space just above the far corner of the eighteen-yard box. Piper sets up for the corner kick. When she strikes it, water sprays, but her aim is on point.
The ball’s arc peaks right above me. I don’t have a good angle to the goal, but I back up, let it drop, and head it back toward the penalty spot. Isla’s there. And this time, she gets to it before the defender.
With a satisfying thud she deflects the ball. It skips across the wet grass like a flat rock on the surface of a still pond.
Right into the corner of the goal.
“Yes!” I scream into the rain.
The whole team rushes Isla into a sopping wet group hug as the referee blows his whistle to signal halftime.
Huddled under the pop-up tent on the bench, I wrap myself in a towel and listen to Coach Dixon praise our tenacity and composure during the weather change and his suggestions for the second half.
The rain slows then fades completely just before we head back out onto the field.
I squeeze the last of the water from my hair and toss the wet towel in the basket behind the bench.
“Chloe?” Coach Dixon calls me over. Uh-oh. Am I getting benched? He told me to push up!
“Yeah, Coach?”
He raises his stern gaze over his laminated sheet of notes and plays—my mother would be so proud—and nods at me. “I don’t know what’s changed or what kind of training you’re doing on your own. But it’s working. Keep it up.”
If the floodlights lost power right now, my smile could light the whole stadium. “Thanks, Coach. Will do.” I polish that compliment and display it proudly on a shelf in my brain.
My nose—probably as red as the cherry atop my favorite milkshake—runs from the cold. Mud cakes my socks and cleats. It’s probably even in my hair at this point. My knees and ankles ache from the effort of keeping my balance on the slippery ground.
But inside, I’m warmer than if I were snuggled in a fleece blanket in front of a roaring fire.
When the game ends and the score stands 1-0, there’s only one person I want to celebrate with.
The only problem is, I don’t know if he’ll even speak to me again.