Chapter 14 #2
If this had been college, Becky would have rolled her eyes, or shrugged, or even laughed in the face of Wren’s justifiable outrage, but she didn’t feel comfortable doing that now.
She winced, unsure of herself on a pitch for the first time in a decade.
“It was strategically the best move,” she offered, giving Wren space to take the set kick.
She had to let it go. She couldn’t stay focused on Wren, on anything that one play might have broken or ruined between them.
Wren would have to understand, right? Surely, she would get it.
Becky couldn’t think about that now. Nor could she worry about her parents’ reactions either.
She listened to her captain as she got lined up in a defensive wall in front of Wren.
Wren’s kick was obnoxiously perfect, arching at the exact right angle to find Courtney Sinclair’s head in the back of the penalty box.
Fortunately, her team had practiced defending headers from Sinclair for the better part of two weeks.
Her foul had been worth it, Riptide hadn’t scored, and her keeper was taking the in-bounds kick from the center of the keeper’s box.
Unfortunately, before she had a chance to properly apologize to Wren, one of Riptide’s defenders cleared the ball back over her head and another footrace was on.
She was still gassed from the race she had just lost. Riptide’s midfield line had figured that out, and if they exploited it once, they would certainly do it again.
Becky cut Wren’s angle off, slamming her shoulder into Wren’s, using the fact that she had at least twenty pounds on Wren to her advantage.
What she hadn’t expected was for a pissed off Wren to regroup and charge back into her before she could get a clean, clearing kick off.
The ball was knocked loose between them as they scrambled, tugging and shoving each other as they tried to gain possession.
She felt Wren’s hands tangle in her ponytail and yank, the force of it, spinning her off the ball. Wren got a pass off, finding someone open behind her. Becky didn’t care who. Who the hell pulls hair? She was pissed. “My hair? Really, Eames?”
“You started it,” Wren shot back, her voice laced with rage, her scarred eyebrow lifting as if to dare Becky to deny it.
“I made a smart play. I didn’t pull your fucking hair,” she spat back.
Becky would love to say that that was it.
But it was unfortunately just the beginning.
A few minutes later, Wren timed a run perfectly for a pass that until now, no one on Riptide had managed to make all season.
Becky had to stop Wren before Wren reached the box.
Unfortunately—for everyone involved—that meant a slide-tackle from what was technically behind.
Wren went down hard, thankfully outside of the box.
The center referee, who had tolerated the last ten minutes more than most would, did not take to that slide too kindly.
He sprinted towards Becky, blasting his whistle.
His hand flew to his pocket. Becky had been on the receiving end of a yellow card more times than she could count.
So, she wasn’t that worried about this one.
As long as he didn’t pull a red, she’d be fine.
She rolled to her feet, only barely watching the ref from the corner of her eye.
As expected, he flashed a yellow. She nodded and gave him a thumbs up.
Instead of worrying about him, her attention had already moved to Wren.
The slide and the subsequent fall had been a bit more aggressive than she had intended.
She tried to get closer to help Wren up, but one of Wren’s midfielders got in her face, yelling.
Becky had been called a dirty bitch before.
She’d been called far worse than that, but hearing it now, in relation to Wren, made her pause.
Her attention from Wren broke, long enough for her to lock eyes with Wren’s teammate.
The woman looked absolutely livid. She was screaming at the ref for only throwing a yellow when Becky had slid in with her cleats up.
But she hadn’t. Her cleats hadn’t been up.
She’d come from a bad angle, yes. The yellow was warranted, yes.
But she hadn’t been looking to cause injury, just to stop the play.
She sidestepped the other player and made it around to Wren.
Wren was propped up on her elbows, a serious wince on her face.
Turf rash had spread up Wren’s leg from just over her sock line up and under the hem of her shorts.
It looked so painful. She had caused that.
She bit her bottom lip and approached carefully.
Riptide’s trainers were already jogging out to them.
“Wren, I am so sorry,” Becky said when she finally got close enough for Wren to hear her.
Wren’s green eyes were filled with pain. “Fuck off, Rebecca.” Her voice was strained through gritted teeth.
Her pain jolted through Becky like a bucket of ice water.
Becky felt numb. She hadn’t meant to hurt her.
The last ten minutes had gotten so out of hand.
Wren pulling her hair had lit a fuse, and she’d lost sight of the bigger picture.
The bigger picture that involved more beyond the scope of this field in a regular league season game.
Courtney Sinclair, captain of Riptide, as well as the United States Women’s National Team, had just joined her midfielder to engage in a heated exchange with the referee.
Becky didn’t need to be any closer to know what Courtney was saying.
She was laying out Becky’s play for the past ten minutes and how she’d deserved far more than a yellow.
Shame. This feeling coursing through her was shame. She hadn’t been able to keep up with Wren, and her response to that had just potentially ruined a whole lot of things.
Her own captain, a woman named Amy Alvarez, jogged over.
Amy had over 100 caps in the PWSL. She’d been on and off the National Team earlier in her career, but she hadn’t been for the last several years.
Her dark eyebrows knitted together. “You good?” She asked, placing both of her hands gently on Becky’s shoulders.
Becky nodded, but honestly she wasn’t. She felt like she might puke.
“I didn’t mean to,” she blurted out. She had, though.
She had meant to slide and stop Wren. She’d made the conscious decision to do so with ample time so that the other team wouldn’t get a penalty kick. She flinched at the thought.
Amy shook her gently, this time her frown looked far more concerned than anything. “Seriously, Kid. You okay?” Amy called all of the rookies ‘kid’. For something that Becky had been so convinced was going to rub her the wrong way, it was oddly comforting now.
Becky immediately started chewing on her thumbnail, a habit she’d broken a long time ago.
“Come on,” Amy nodded off to the side, away from the melee of trainers, refs, and other players. Most players from both teams had returned to their benches to get a quick water break.
When Becky looked around, she realized that everyone had made it over to their sides, standing just inside the touch lines.
Everyone but Courtney Sinclair—who was still heatedly and animatedly calling for Becky’s head—Becky, and Wren.
Thankfully, from what Becky could see through legs and medical kits, Wren looked okay.
It looked like she was just getting all patched up.
“Hey, Kid,” Amy said, softer this time. “I’ve seen the news articles.” She nodded towards Wren. “Are you, like, going through your first professional yellow card and a breakup right now?”
That got Becky to roll her eyes. “No. We’re not— I mean we haven’t—Well, it’s not.” She didn’t really know what was happening between them, but she knew damn sure that this wasn’t going to help. “I don’t think so?”
The frown returned, crinkling a line in the middle of Amy’s forehead. “Convincing.” She paused, tilting her head. “Look, the clock runs out in four minutes. They’ll add probably six of stoppage time. Okay? Can you keep your poop in a group for ten whole minutes? Or should I tell Bob-o to sub you?”
Becky really appreciated Amy’s direct approach. She couldn’t handle the thought of being coddled right now. She shook her head. “I can give you ten solid minutes.”
Amy nodded. “Can we get ten minutes without you picking up a red?”
Becky nodded vigorously.
“Good. I want you in the next match,” Amy said before jogging over to their team’s bench to get some water with the other players.
She wanted to join them. She really did, but she couldn’t look away as Wren’s trainers helped her up.
At the way she winced when she put pressure on her skinned leg.
Tape had been wrapped around her upper calf and thigh.
Becky couldn’t hear what the trainers were saying or what Wren was saying in response, but Wren’s eyes locked on hers and Becky felt her stomach bottom out.
It was worse than rage or even disgust. It was nothing.
The thought of how happy Wren had looked to see her before their match had vanished.
Becky felt nauseous. This felt like their first match in college all over again, only this time Becky didn’t want to kill the smile on Wren’s face.
She didn’t want to see that blank mask fall ever again.
But there wasn’t really anything to be done.