Page 62 of Rumor Has It

Just before the end of the first half, the forward who had been chipping at Becky for the whole game finally spoke. “So, are the rumors true?” She asked, her accent thick. The ball had gone out of bounds on Sweden’s defending half of the field, but not so far away that Becky could stop paying attention to play.

Becky frowned. Surely this woman wasn’t asking her about her relationship with Wren right now. “What are you talking about?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she should even entertain the comment.

“That you stole your sexy forward from a supermodel.” The player appraised Becky with a judgmental once-over.

This wasn’t happening. Becky wasn’t about to let this woman get to her. No matter what. She was playing at the national level. She was representing her country. She could not get mad and flatten this bitch.

Thankfully, the center ref blew their whistle, signaling the half. They were tied zero-to-zero. They needed to figure out how to get a jump on the other team, but more importantly, Becky needed to figure out how to not let that Swedish forward rattle her in the second half.

They started out with the kick in the second half, and as they had discussed at halftime, their forwards came out attacking hard. No one at the break mentioned anything about any of the other players playing dirty or saying anything out of line, so Becky went into the last forty-five minutes of the game knowing that the girl she was matched up with was doing it to rile her up intentionally. That must be their tactic against her, specifically. She should be flattered, not pissed. Especially, when the other woman knowingly stepped on Becky’s foot while they were waiting on a throw-in far down the sideline.

Becky bit back the name she wanted to call her. If she reacted at all, the other team would know that their plan had worked. Any sign of breaking just meant they would keep needling until Becky flipped and got carded. Getting a yellow this early in the game would absolutely result in Coach Jameson and Coach T pulling her, and she knew it. They didn’t like it when she played dirty. She couldn’t give in to it today.

“You didn’t answer before,” the other woman said.

Becky ignored her.

“I mean if you don’t answer, I’ll just ask her after the game.” Taunting. This bitch was taunting her.

Becky shrugged, trying to act nonchalant about it. “Go for it.”

“I just think if she’s single, I’d have a shot.” A perfectly manicured eyebrow lifted.

Becky gritted her teeth. Objectively, the woman was stunning. She was a little taller than Becky, blonder, with more angular features, and sparkling blue eyes. By all accounts, if she hit on anyone, it would probably work. But she wasn’t talking about hitting on just anyone. She was talking about hitting on Wren.

Wren who liked Becky. She literally said so the night before, and then soon after fell asleep holding Becky’s hand.

“Knock yourself out,” Becky said, confident that Wren would reject this woman, but pissed at even the thought of the woman making a move.

As the game wound on, it was clear that while the defender covering Wren had been as fast, she didn’t have nearly the stamina. Becky watched, waiting for the perfect moment. The girl who had been pestering her for the whole game was better at being annoying than she was at soccer, and Becky took the ball from her with ease. She sidestepped one of their midfielders, keeping control of the ball at her feet. Her eyes were on Wren, watching as Wren started her run, the run that had haunted Becky’s dreams for years. The perfect arch that Becky always got lost on, one step slower. But now she used all that knowledge and all that tracking for the good of their team. She put the ball perfectly in Wren’s path, knowing exactly where the forward would be before she even finished her turn.

Wren had more gas in the tank than the defender now desperately trying to catch her. This was it, the breakaway they had been waiting for the whole game. Until a midfielder came out of nowhere, cutting Wren’s angle down. There wasn’t even an attempt for the ball. They went at Wren, hard.

Both players went down in a tangle of limbs and kicked up grass. The ref’s whistle was blowing before they’d even stopped rolling, a yellow card flying out of their pocket. The other player got up and brushed themself off, but Wren stayed down, face first in the field.

Becky’s heart stopped. This might be worse than when she caused the injuries herself. There was nothing she could reasonably do. If she sprinted across the field, the media teams would have a field day. She was painfully aware of the fact that a camera was probably tracking her at that very moment. She walked over towards her team’s bench, her eyes never leaving Wren as their trainers jogged out to her.

Her coach was talking, using Wren’s downtime as an opportunity to draw up a set kick. Becky gave it a third of her attention. She wouldn’t be up there close enough to help anyway. The kick was going to be right outside the penalty box. She and at least Allison Martins would be back at the center line in case Sweden got the ball cleared. Her eyes stayed fixed on Wren.

Unbridled rage coursed through her as she watched Wren’s face scrunch up in pain as one of the trainers made her point her toes. She knew the midfielder’s number, and she knew that without a doubt, if that player dared to get anywhere near her, Becky was going to lay her out. She was going to lay out the woman who wouldn’t stop chirping in her ear, too. There were only ten minutes left. She felt pretty confident that the coaches wouldn’t pull her after a yellow this late in the game.

Relief rolled through her as Wren staggered to her feet, putting a little bit of weight down on her ankle before proving to the trainers that she could jog in place a bit. She signaled to the coaches and to the referees that she was good to continue with a thumbs up. Her emerald eyes locked on Becky’s for just a second, and she nodded once, a final signal that she was truly okay.

Becky nodded back. She retook the field in what Katie had once described to her as “Terminator Mode.” She channeled all her rage into a singular purpose.

The set kick went exactly as planned. Erin Rice was able to bend the ball into the top right corner of the goal. The United States Women were finally up by one.

Sweden came back hard, their legs a little refreshed from their brief reprieve, which proved all the better for Becky’s plan. As soon as the forward near her got the ball, she took it away from her with far more force than she had used all game. She was smart enough to touch the ball first, though. So, while the other woman absolutely went down and Becky may or may not have stepped on her hand as she jumped over her, the referee didn’t have much to make a call on.

The ref did yell at her to clean up her play though as they waited for Sweden to throw the ball in.

She behaved for exactly six minutes. And she only lasted that long because that was how long it took for number twenty-four to get the ball in a close enough proximity to Becky that Becky could reasonably steamroll her. Which is exactly what Becky did. Again, even though she ran straight through her opponent, she hit the ball first. So, while the referee did blow the whistle at her and the other team did get a set kick near the center line, she didn’t get carded.

Which was perfect, because there were only three minutes of normal play left. There would certainly be a few minutes of stoppage time to account for when Wren was down, but there would only be so many more opportunities for Becky to do some damage.

The best part, she thought, as she cleared the ball down the field, just within reach of Kinsey Stadler, was that the refs had been really bad at noticing dirty play for the entire game. And the forward next to her had done nothing but get more obnoxious as play had gone on. Which is why Becky didn’t feel a single ounce of remorse as she flung her elbow backwards into the other woman’s solar plexus. In fact, she felt a rush of pride as she heard the other woman wheeze a bit for air. Serves her right. She shouldn’t have thrown so many elbows into Becky’s ribs for the past hour and a half.

When the ref blew the final whistle, Becky snapped her attention to the forward she’d staunchly put in her place. “Would you like for me to introduce you?”