39 - Wesley
Wesley
By the end of the week, everyone at camp has learned my routine.
I’m early to the locker room and last to leave the field.
I take extra laps when the sun is already sinking and ice baths that do nothing to dull the ache that’s carved far deeper than my muscles.
I watch game film twice if the schedule allows and stretch until my legs shake.
I don’t need to do any of it; they’re already working us hard enough, but stopping feels worse.
It’s easier when my body hurts, when the tiredness runs so bone deep that I have no choice but to fall asleep the second I lie down. Better that than staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’ve made a mistake.
The locker room hums with pre-scrimmage energy. It’s our last chance to impress the coaches, and I plan to do exactly that.
Someone’s speaker is playing the same hype playlist we’ve all heard since college. The air smells like grass and sweat as everyone slides on the gear that’s been practically glued to us all week.
I sit on the bench and thread my laces through my cleats, slow and methodical. Right foot first. Pull tight. Loop. Cross. My eyes stay down because looking around means seeing faces that still laugh, joke, and have space in their lives for things that aren’t soccer.
I don’t.
Jess drops onto the bench next to me. Her ponytail is already damp even though we haven’t stepped outside yet.
She’s good, and I’m relieved we’re not competing for the same position.
She’s fast and smart; the kind of player who makes herself useful everywhere.
The kind of player the National Team likes.
“You ready?” she asks, braiding her pony without looking.
I nod. “Always.”
“After the scrimmage, a bunch of us are going out. It’ll be low-key, just some dinner and maybe a drink. You should come.”
I pull my left lace tight, harder than necessary. “I’m good.”
Jess tilts her head. “You sure? It’s our last night. It might be good to blow off some steam.”
She’s offered all week. Other players have too, but after consistently turning them down, most got the hint. Jess, though, offers persistently every day anyway.
“I’m sure. I need to stretch and get some rest. It’s a long plane ride back tomorrow.”
She laughs softly, tilting her head as if studying me. “You’re intense, you know that?”
I look up, meet her eyes, and give her something that probably resembles a smile. “That’s why I’m here.”
She shrugs, standing up off the bench. “Suit yourself, but the offer stands.”
Staying focused is a choice I make every morning. It’s discipline. You wake up and decide what matters, then you build your day around that decision so there’s no room for anything else to sneak in.
I have spent my life perfecting this, until him. But I’ve since course-corrected and won’t be letting myself slip again.
Training is twice a day instead of once. Gym sessions after dinner instead of team outings. My phone is off whenever I can manage. My lights are out early. If there’s a version of me that existed outside of soccer, she is archived, put away where she can’t interfere.
The coaches love it.
They call me reliable and consistent. This version of me is the one who makes it to the World Cup. This is the version that provides financially for my family. There is no room for a different version, not anymore.
I jog out onto the field with the rest of the group, the Florida heat already pressing down on my shoulders. The grass is immaculate, cut short enough to be fast. If I’ve learned anything this past week, it’s that everything about this camp is designed to make you sharper, faster, and better.
I’m thriving. I’ve played the best soccer of my life this week. It should make me happy.
This scrimmage is the last real evaluation. Ninety minutes of full-out play, nothing held back. I line up at midfield and bounce lightly on my toes, the familiar pregame buzz settling into my bones. Once the whistle blows, the world narrows.
Every touch feels intentional. I find space before it’s open, sending balls through seams that most people hesitate to even look at.
My legs burn from tracking back hard, pressing when I need to, and finishing anytime the chance comes.
At one point, I catch Coach Folley’s eye as he gives me the smallest nod, like he’d been hoping I’d play like this.
By the time the scrimmage ends, my lungs burn, and sweat has soaked my hair through. Regardless, I jog off the field, refusing to show how tired I am.
In the locker room, the energy is looser now. Everyone is thrumming with the adrenaline that comes after laying it all out on the line and knowing there is nothing left we can do.
Jess catches my eye across the room and lifts her brows in a silent question. I shake my head once. She rolls her eyes but waves as she leaves.
I peel off my socks so that I can slide my shin guards off, forearms resting on my thighs.
My phone buzzes in my bag, but I don’t check it.
It’s probably Avery pestering me about how the scrimmage went or Harper asking me how I’m doing.
I don’t feel like dealing with any of it, because it always leads to more questions. Questions that I don’t want to answer.
When the room starts to clear, I sit on the bench contemplating my evening.
It’s only seven, and there’s too much day left to go sit in my hotel room.
I retape my ankle, fingers moving automatically.
The joint aches, but it’s a clean pain. Earned.
I pull my cleats back on instead of putting them in my bag, grab my water bottle, and head back out.
The field looks different when it’s empty.
The sun has dipped enough that the light is golden, stretching long across the field. I jog the perimeter slowly at first. A cool down to keep my muscles loose, while I reminisce on the past week.
This is it.
This is everything I ever wanted.
Futures Camp. The National Team. The success I’ve always dreamed of.
I jog another lap. Another lap in, and I’m still waiting for the excitement to hit. When it doesn’t, my pace picks up. My strides lengthen, breathing growing more ragged. I cut across the field and push harder, legs burning as I break into a run, then faster, chasing something I can’t quite name.
The ache is still there.
I sprint until my lungs scream and my vision blurs. Moving until there’s nothing left in my head but the sound of my own breathing and the thud of my feet. When I finally slow, it’s at midfield. I bend over, hands on my knees, sweat dripping onto the white line.
It doesn’t go away.
My legs give out, and I drop onto my back, arms spread, staring up at the sky. The grass is warm beneath me. I stretch my calves and hamstrings on autopilot. This is what I’ve always dreamed of.
I keep repeating it, thinking that if I do it enough, it won’t feel so empty.
A door slams somewhere behind me.
I sit up as Coach Folley comes onto the field with his hands in his pockets. His posture is relaxed, but somehow, he’s still intimidating. He stops a few feet away, eyes scanning me with the quiet assessment I’ve come to recognize.
“You were excellent today,” he says.
“Thank you, sir.”
“This is who I expected to meet at that one-on-one.”
My stomach tightens. “I’m sorry about that. Again. I know apologies don’t fix it, but…”
He lifts a hand. “Not needed.” His mouth curves slightly. “You’ve more than proved yourself this week. I’m glad it was only a mistake.”
I swallow.
Mistake.
The word settles uncomfortably in my chest. My gaze drifts back up to the sky, clouds barely moving. It’s like I’m bleeding out slowly from a self-inflicted wound.
Because it didn’t feel like a mistake.
It still doesn’t.
That night, I felt alive in a way that even this doesn’t touch. Happy in a way that isn’t earned or ranked. There was no pressure, just wanting and something real enough to hold on to.
Except, I hadn’t held on to it at all.
Coach Folley claps his hands once. “Get some rest. You’ve got a future ahead of you.”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaves me there, alone again, the field stretching wide and quiet around me.
I lie back down, the grass brushing my shoulders, and close my eyes. This was the right choice. The pain is temporary, and sacrifice is part of the deal.
I don’t know how long it’s supposed to hurt before it stops feeling like I gave everything up instead of choosing it.