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I pause with my foot on the ball, pulling in deep breaths of oxygen to replenish my bloodstream.
That’s it, and not just the end of the game or the end of practice for the day. That whistle signaled the end of Scholenberg. Today is our last day. The final of fifty-six days—eight weeks—just drew to a close.
The women surrounding me look just as taken aback. We’ve reached the end of the marathon. A finish line we all knew was coming.
Crossing it feels different. Instead of relief, I feel a sense of loss as I join in on the clapping someone started. This is likely the last time any of us will cheer each other on, at least out loud like this.
“Go get showered and cleaned up. I’ll see you all tonight,” Coach Weber announces.
Scholenberg is hosting a farewell dinner before we all go our separate ways across the globe tomorrow.
I head toward the tunnel, falling in line behind Ellie, but pause when Coach Weber calls out to me. It’s a mirror of the first day here.
I spin and jog over, stopping a few feet away from her. “What’s up, Coach?”
“I had my doubts about you, Scott,” she states.
“Oh-kay,” I say, taken aback.
“I knew you were talented. I expected you to skate on that, especially after an injury. But…I was wrong.” She gives me a rare smile. “You’re the most dedicated—not just talented—player I’ve ever coached. That will take you far, you understand me? You’ve got confidence on the field, but I also get the feeling not many people have told you this. Some players are talented. Others work hard. But it’s rare—extremely rare—to have both, to never lose the drive to be better. Keep at it, and there won’t be anyone left to surpass, Scott. I’m expecting to one day be known by nothing aside from the fact that I coached you for a summer.”
I’m frozen. Stunned. No one has ever heaped anywhere close to the mountain of compliments she just dropped on me.
I just completed the most competitive soccer program in the world, and Christina Weber is telling me she expects her legacy to encompass nothing but coaching me. And she’s completely serious.
“Uh—I—wow,” I stammer. “Thank you.”
“See you tonight.” She pats my shoulder and then heads toward the tunnel.
I remain standing on the pitch, still shocked. Savoring my final moments on this field. I walk toward the middle, dropping down on the center line and staring up at the cloudless sky. I could be anywhere, lying on any stretch of grass. But there’s a tug of attachment to this spot. Sentimentality that I’ve never felt on Lancaster’s field after playing three seasons there.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been lying here when a shadow falls across my face. Somehow, I know who it is even before I shade my eyes to squint upward.
“What are you doing?” Beck asks.
“Stargazing,” I say, shifting my eyes away from his imposing figure and back to the sky.
There’s a whoosh of air to my left as he drops down beside me in the center circle.
“It’s the middle of the day,” he observes.
“So? They’re still up there.”
“You’re done?”
“Yeah. Dinner tonight, and then…home.”
A beat of silence. “Nothing happened with her.”
We haven’t spoken since I left him and Alesandra in his apartment.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow, Beck.”
“What if you weren’t?” he asks.
