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“You really need to work on your subtlety,” I inform her, spinning around on the bench to face my locker.
“What?” she asks innocently.
“You’ve been making worried faces at me for the last five minutes. Cut it out.”
“Are you okay? Normally you’re more hyper before games.”
She’s not wrong. I usually take on DJ responsibilities and blast a pre-game playlist or something.
“I’m fine. Just…my dad is here.”
Anne fumbles for words. “Your–your dad? I didn’t, I mean…you’ve never…”
“Yeah, I know I’ve never mentioned him. We’re…not that close.”
“Oh. Wow. If you want to talk about it…”
“I’m good, thanks. Ready to play.” I stand, stretch, and yank my jersey on over my sports bra.
Most of the team is already huddled around Coach Taylor. There’s no pep talk. We had a three-hour strategy session yesterday afternoon, and everyone knows what is expected of them today. This is just another game. It’s not a championship or even a playoff match.
No one wants to risk our perfect record so far this season, but even playing at the highest level of collegiate athletics feels mundane after a certain point. I couldn’t have even told you what day we were playing Northampton back when our schedule was announced.
Coach Taylor finishes explaining our warm-up drills, and we file out onto the field one by one.
After attending my first football game at Lancaster freshman year, I sweet-talked the guy who announces the football players as they run out of the tunnel to do the same for the women’s soccer team. And not just the starters—the entire team.
It was a genius move, if I do say so myself. Not only because it pumps up the crowd, but because it’s fantastic for team morale.
I mean, who doesn’t want to run out on the field as their name is announced on a loudspeaker to a chorus of cheers?
No athlete I’ve met.
Coach tugs at my sleeve as I pass her. “You good, Scott? You look a bit like you’re headed into a cage match.”
“To win it, right?”
Coach gives me a rare smile. “Give ’em hell.”
“That’s the plan.” I head down the tunnel after Emma.
“You’re in a weirdly good mood,” she says as I stop beside her.
I tighten my ponytail. “I’m always in a good mood.”
Emma snorts loudly. “Uh-huh, sure.”
“Number twelve, Emmmaaa Waattkkkiinnnssss!”
“That’s my cue.” She grins and jogs out of the tunnel.
“And last, but certainly not least, we have our captain. Lancaster’s leading scorer. Number twenty-two, Saayyyllloooorrr Scccccoooottttttt!”
I sprint out into a wall of noise. The stands are full, and I don’t bother to scan them. It’s a perfect fall day, warm with a crisp edge. The game is supposed to start at three, and the sun is bright but not blinding.
The sound of voices and the smell of concession stand snacks mingle in the autumn air, but I don’t pause to take in the atmosphere. I’m laser-focused on lunges, toe touches, and scoring sprees.
Warm-ups end, and I call heads. We win the coin toss, opting to take the kickoff.
