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“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
There is someone I’d like to talk to right now, someone who understands what it’s like to carry a thousand pounds of expectations. But I can’t call him. I haven’t contacted Beck since I left Germany, and he hasn’t reached out to me.
We’re done, just like I wanted. A clean break.
I peel my hands away from my face and slide off the wooden bench, ignoring the concerned stares of my three best friends. I’m sure they’re all thinking I told her so right now, believing I’ve exhausted myself this past week with extra runs and workouts. If only. Physical fatigue is something I figured out how to fight through a long time ago. Mental angst is my current issue, and it’s never affected me before the way it is right now.
Coach Taylor gathers us round for a pep talk I barely listen to a word of. My body knows exactly what’s expected, but my head needs to get in the game. Thankfully, I feel my focus start to sharpen as I step out on the field, focusing on the green jerseys of our opponents. Everyone is going to be looking at me this game.
I went to Scholenberg.
I’m a senior.
The team captain.
This is my year to shine. And considering how successful my past three seasons at Lancaster were, that’s saying something.
We lose the coin flip, but it doesn’t matter. As soon as the kickoff happens, I steal the ball and bolt up the field. Lincoln is taken totally off guard. Green jerseys that were preparing to attack sprint back up the pitch, but they’re too late. Defenders aren’t ready. Even if they were, spinning around them would be just as effortless.
I flex the muscles of my thigh and propel my foot forward like the strike of a snake. The ball spins into a blur of black and white, landing in the back of the net a few seconds later. I lost track of how many goals I’ve scored in my life a long time ago, but that doesn’t make it any less satisfying to add another to the tally.
The loudspeaker crackles to life, announcing my unassisted goal forty-seven seconds into play.
I smile and nod as my teammates swarm me, but I don’t really register anything they’re saying to me. My attention is where it should be now. I’m concentrated on nothing except winning. I’m in the sort of shape where I could run for a lot longer than I’ll need to, and the mental block from earlier has disappeared, broken down by the rush of being the best on the field.
The rest of the scrimmage passes in a blur. I score once more. Emma also sneaks a shot past Lincoln’s goalie. And one of our sophomores manages a half-field kick that drops right behind the goal line.
It’s a dominant performance, and Lincoln trudges off the field with shoulders slumped after we shake hands, probably glad this was an away game for them.
A local reporter I recognize from last season calls my name as we file off the field. I pause reluctantly. The high of winning hasn’t fully erased my weird mood, but I should be grateful the guy is here at all. Women’s sports need all the coverage they can get, and this was only a scrimmage.
“Saylor, that was a very impressive performance you had out on the field today,” he says.
“Thank you,” I reply.
“I spoke to your coach before the start of the game, and she credited your dominance on the field to your aggressive playing style. Despite the knee injury you suffered earlier this year, you still seem to manage to find a second gear when everyone else on the field is exhausted. Where does that drive come from?”
“I’ve never seen the point of leaving anything on the field. If my opponent is tired, that’s their problem. It just makes me run faster.”
The guy interviewing me chuckles. “Well, that’s certainly a mindset most athletes strive for, but few can actually achieve. I’m sure you’re a role model for lots of future soccer stars out there.”
Mila’s face flashes in my mind.
“Are there any athletes who have inspired you?”
“Adler Beck.” I don’t have to think about my answer, but I wish I did.
“Really?” My interviewer doesn’t bother to hide his surprise.
I’m not certain if it’s because he thought I would name a female athlete, or if he expected a more original answer than the most famous footballer in the world.
Inferring it’s the latter, I feel obligated to add to my response. “I was fifteen when he scored the game-winning goal for Germany in the final. I’d been playing soccer since I was five, and everyone kept telling me that I was too single-minded, that I should try other sports, other hobbies. Chill out. Be a kid. People said I was too young to be fully dedicated to something. I stayed after practice one day to keep working on a drill I messed up, and when my coach found me there hours later, he made me skip practice for a week to force me to take a break. But then there was this German guy, being idolized by millions for doing the very same thing. He inspired me.”
It’s the lengthiest answer I’ve given during an interview, and I hope that’s the reason for the long pause that follows my response.
“Well, a pleasure speaking to you, Saylor, as always,” the reporter finally says. “Congratulations on the win.”
“Thanks,” I respond, then head into the locker room.
