Cassie leaned into her, “Just remember that everyone out there is here to see you kick ass today, that always helps me.”
Then we were called forward.
We moved as one, boots striking concrete in rhythm, the sound of us echoing beneath the roar.
And when we stepped out into the open, into the pitch and the noise and the history of it all, I didn’t feel the enormity of the occasion.
I was ready.
“We’re into the final three minutes here in San Diego, and the Valkyries lead by just four.”
“It’s 19–15. One converted try swings this. The opposition have territory, they’ve got momentum, and they’re five meters out.”
I didn’t remember deciding to go.
One second, I was over the ball, hands locked, feeling the opposition player cling too long and hearing the whistle cut sharp. The next, the ball was at my feet, and their defensive line was fractured, bodies slowing to peel away from the breakdown.
I scooped it up and ran.
The first few strides were powered by instinct, run by wild adrenaline. When their nine reaches for me, I fend her off with my left hand without breaking rhythm.
My feet pound into the turf, hard and relentless.
Forty meters.
I cut slightly infield to close the angle. Their fullback was sweeping across from the far side, sprinting hard, trying to narrow me toward touch.
Somewhere in my peripheral vision, navy-and-white jerseys surged forward with me. Evie sprinted across the inside line, forcing one of their centers to hesitate, and that was it. Lola cut wide on the outside, dragging their winger with her and leaving me free to move.
One more second was all I needed.
My legs burned. The lactic building, that thick resistance in my thighs that makes each step feel a fraction slower than the last, but I refused to give up. My arms pumped harder to compensate. I leaned forward, shortened my stride, and protected the ball against my chest.
Studs thumped behind me, the rhythm of someone gaining ground. The Opalites’ front line was fast, but I knew I could do this. I wanted to do it for every single woman on this pitch. For everyone in the stands, watching at home. I fucking ran.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
I angled slightly again, forcing her to commit to my outside shoulder before stepping back inside, just enough that she had to adjust.
Behind me, I heard the grunts of Delany and Lola folded into the chase line, cutting off runners who were trying to reach me.
My body screamed. My lungs felt too small. My vision narrowed to white posts and green turf.
I vaguely heard the girls screaming my name andgo, go, go!
I stretched, arms out, grounding the ball just as contact crashed into my hips.
For a heartbeat, there was silence inside my own head.
One final whistle.
Then the stadium exploded.
“She’s done it!”
“Captain’s try in the last minute of a final!”
“That is ruthless from Teddy Sloane!”
