A Mustard-Covered Disaster and Other Bad Decisions
Sloane
Halftime.
I wasn’t hungry.
I swear.
Then someone yelled, “Fresh meat pies!” and fifteen minutes later I’m staring at a tray that screams PMS, stress-eating, and emotional instability.
Translation: I have no idea what to bite into first—an almost-finished hot dog, half-cold fries, and a steaming meat pie.
My mother looks at me like she’s observing a rare anthropological specimen.
“Sweetheart, are you planning to eat the box too?”
“Only if they keep yelling without fixing anything,” I mutter, pointing my fork toward the field.
From our prime seats—front row of the covered family-and-staff section—you can hear my dad loud and clear.
I don’t even have to look to know he’s waving his arms like a medieval warlord.
“Becker! Do I need to run you back to Elm Hollow myself?!”
The crowd laughs. A couple of fans behind us comment:
“Knew it. Heart can’t survive a first half without yelling at Becker!”
“Yeah, but the nine is off today. He does those plays in his sleep!”
Yes.
I’ve noticed.
Unfortunately, way too well.
Distracted Cohen Becker is a low blow to my heart and my logic.
He missed a pass, lost a tackle, and—worst of all—had that “I’m mentally somewhere else” look.
“Your mother is talking to you, Sloane,” she says calmly, sipping her hot coffee.
“Hm?”
“You just dropped ketchup on your scarf.”
“Damn it!”
I dab at the red wool. It’s the scarf Dad gave us last year—“Lakewood Special Edition,” white lettering on crimson.
My mom wears hers folded with geometric precision. I, on the other hand, am the version with a messy bun and a scarf covered in… cripes, now mustard got on it too.
Perfect.
A fan two rows up jumps to his feet holding a banner.
“LET’S GO LAKEWOOD! THIS IS OUR HOUSE!”
The crowd erupts, and even though it’s freezing, the air feels warm, buzzing.
Kids waving tiny flags, people laughing, the smell of fried food—
a little party inside the tension.
The big screen rolls the halftime stats.
Cohen: two shots, zero goals, one crossbar.
“He missed two easy ones,” someone behind us says.
“It’s his head,” another replies. “When Becker isn’t mentally there, you feel it right away. He looks… distant.”
“He’s just a spoiled idiot. All he cares about is having fun. When are they sending him home?”
That spikes my blood pressure.
Seriously?
What do they know? How dare they?
I’m about to stand and yell louder than my father—without even realizing it—when Mom’s firm hand on my arm saves me from a stadium fight.
She turns toward me, amused. “My goodness, Sloane, look how you’re staring at him.”
“I’m not staring!”
“You’ve been watching only him since we sat down.”
“He’s on the field, Mom! Watching the game is normal!”
“Mm-hmm… you realize you didn’t even ask who I was talking about, right?”
She gives me a wise, way-too-delighted look.
I hide my face in my scarf.
“Stop,” I mumble.
She smiles. “It’s strange, though. I’ve never seen him this… disconnected. He’s usually focused. Almost icy.”
“Maybe he’s just tired.”
“Or maybe…” She pauses, pretending to be interested in a commercial on the big screen.
“Or maybe what?”
“Nothing, dear.” Sip. “Oh, did you see that girl practically in a bra holding a sign that says Marry me, Becker?”
Okay, she’s not literally in a bra—but she might as well be more dressed with one.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re gripping your fork like a weapon and I thought I’d give you another reason to lose it.”
What?
I freeze.
God bless mothers who always take their daughters’ side.
Mine has apparently chosen to have fun at my expense.
“I’m not gripping anything.”
“Mm-hmm.”
The stadium noise dips for a moment.
A guy with his face painted red returns to his seat.
Two kids behind us argue about who’s stronger—Blaze or Turbo.
A man to our right shouts, “Becker, wake up! My grandma runs faster than you!”
I look back at the field.
The players are returning for the second half.
The sky’s darker now, the air colder.
The floodlights shine along the sideline.
And then I see him.
Cohen.
He’s talking with Delgado, one hand in his hair, eyes lowered.
His red jersey clings to him, the big nine on his back sharp under the lights.
When he lifts his head, our eyes meet for a second.
Brief. Intense.
Like a punch and a breath at the same time.
“Sloane,” my mother says softly, “the game’s starting again.”
“I know.”
I don’t need to look at her to feel her smile.
Yes—she’s definitely enjoying this.
The referee’s whistle slices through the air.
I adjust my scarf, inhale.
Somewhere on that field, Cohen Becker is trying to regain focus.
And I’m trying to remember why I shouldn’t worry about him.
Spoiler: I’m failing.
Second half.
The crowd rumbles, music bounces off the stands, and my stomach decides now is the perfect time for butterflies.
I don’t know what happened in that locker room.
Maybe Dad yelled loud enough to wake the dead, or maybe someone threatened to make Becker clean the locker room with a toothbrush.
But when they walk back onto the field… he’s not the same man.
I see it instantly—in the way he moves.
No more lost look.
No weird, restless tension.
Just a man back on a mission.
The crowd feels it too.
A shift.
A low murmur that grows and grows until—
“LAKEWOOD! LAKEWOOD!”
The first ball lands at his feet and for the first time today it’s like watching a pianist return to the stage.
One touch, two, three—perfect control, burst, shot.
The ball slices through the air and rattles off the crossbar.
The stadium gasps.
Then, on the rebound, he catches it again and—
GOAL.
The stands explode.
Mom and I jump, scream at the top of our lungs, and throw our arms around each other.
Dad pumps a fist in the air.
And I’m positive I imagined Cohen winking toward me.
Idiot. Show-off. Annoying. Impossible.
As usual.
There’s no way he did.
Right?
I’m somewhere between “national pride” and “public hazard with hormones.”
Cohen Becker runs to his teammates, swallowed in a pile of Blaze, Turbo, and Saint.
“I’d say he’s back,” Mom comments.
“Mh.”
“‘Mh’ what? He’s making an entire stadium lose its mind.”
“He’s playing well, that’s all.”
“And you’re looking at him like he just invented oxygen.”
I ignore her.
Or try to.
The match picks up with even more intensity.
It’s like the team’s heart is beating again.
Saint orchestrates the midfield like a conductor, Turbo flies down the wing with his usual cocky energy, Doc controls every pass, and Derek “The Wall” is a literal fortress.
Blaze—my new personal hero—smashes the ball with ridiculous power, and Cohen returns the favor with a textbook assist.
A second goal.
Lakewood 2 – Westbridge 0.
The stadium becomes one single voice.
Drums, chants, kids waving flags, strangers hugging strangers.
Dad laughs, stomps the ground, yells something at Saint who flashes him a thumbs-up.
Mom watches them with shining eyes.
And me…
I watch Cohen.
Standing in the middle of the field, hands on his hips, chest rising, hair sticking to his forehead.
Sweaty. Breathing hard. Laughing.
Alive.
And—damn it—beautiful.
He turns toward the stands.
For a second I think he’s looking our way, but I tell myself that’s impossible.
Too many people, too much noise, too much distance.
And yet, when our eyes meet—just for a heartbeat—my stomach flips.
“Sloane?”
“Hm?”
“You weren’t breathing for like a minute,” Mom says, serene, as if giving a weather update.
“I’m fine.”
“Of course.”
The game ends with the crowd on its feet, chants shaking the glass, and Dad hugging half the coaching staff.
I clutch my scarf—still stained with mustard and ketchup—and smile before I can stop myself.
Lakewood won.
Cohen scored.
And I am officially a walking disaster.