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I shook my head, a smile ghosting my mouth. Before I could (reluctantly) suggest we head back so he didn’t miss his team’s afternoon activities, a new voice caught my attention.

I turned to see a large tour group approach the beach. It was composed mainly of families with lots of children, and the tour guide spoke English with a lilting accent. I caught snippets of her commentary as they got closer. “An estimated 2,000 to 3,000 African penguins live at Boulders Beach…patterns on their chests are unique…” Her words drifted in and out under the sound of the wind and waves, but I heard enough to get the gist.

“Good thing you didn’t book a tour. We wouldn’t have learned anything you didn’t already know,” Noah said dryly.

“I doubt that. There’s always so much to learn from…” I trailed off as a lightbulb went off in my head. I sat up straighter, my heart suddenly pounding.

“That is definitely a job for extroverts,” Noah said, still eyeing the group. “It’s like babysitting a bunch of strangers every day.”

My mind raced at warp speed, gathering the pieces and stitching them together into an increasingly clear picture.

Encyclopedia of animal facts.

There’s always so much to learn.

Babysitting.

“Noah.” I barely managed to speak over the thundering of my pulse.

It was so obvious. How could I have missed it?

Noah returned his attention to me, his eyebrows lifting as I struggled to contain my excitement.

“I found it. My calling, passion, whatever you want to call it.” I gestured at the tour guide, a sense of clarity washing over me. “I want to do what she does. I want to be a tour guide.”

CHAPTER 40

NOAH

As much as I wanted to stay and explore Cape Town with Carina, I still had a tournament to play. After our date at Boulders Beach, I returned to the team’s base camp and shifted gears to prepare for our toughest match to date.

We’d advanced from the group stage to the Round of 32 after beating Switzerland during our last match. We were now in a knockout round with Croatia, the highest-ranked team we’d faced so far. Only one of us would remain in the World Cup after today, and the US needed to be at the top of our game if we wanted to win.

The match took place in Port Elizabeth. We’d lucked out with the weather so far, but that luck ran out at halftime, when a blanket of rain covered the stadium in a light yet steady drizzle. Rain dripped into my eyes as I tracked the state of play.

We were eighty-five minutes in and down by one goal—Croatia had scored one; we’d scored zero. If we didn’t equalize the match soon, we were toast.

We were running out of chances, but just when I thought we were done for, Austin broke through Croatia’s defense. The rain had affected the players’ traction, but it also gave us a unique advantage. Austin played for Seattle during the regular season, and he was used to maneuvering in the rain. He passed to our striker, who fired off a shot and…

Goal!

“Yes!” I pumped my fist as the American fans went wild, but I refrained from celebrating too much. Eighty-five minutes turned to ninety. Ninety turned into added time, and added time turned into extra time. Our thirty minutes of extra time was almost over and we were tied, which meant we were going into a penalty shootout. Teams took alternating kicks from the penalty spot, and the one that scored the most after five rounds won.

I fucking hated penalties.

They were statistically designed for keepers to fail. Because the kickers had time to prepare, I had to rely on reading their body language rather than the rhythm of the match to anticipate their shot. And because they were shooting from such close range, I only had fractions of a second to react.

The anxiety and pressure were next level, and though the onus was on the shooter to score, plenty of people expected the keeper to pull off miraculous saves. I expected to pull off miraculous saves. I was the last line of defense against elimination from the World Cup. I couldn’t let everyone down.

As expected, extra time ended without a tiebreaker. Croatia won the coin toss and chose to kick first.

Their first kicker lined up the ball. I rocked from foot to foot, my nerves stretched razor thin. He drove the shot toward the bottom corner. I dove just in time, catching the ball and tucking it against my torso.

Deafening cheers turned to groans and cheers from the other side when our guy also missed his first penalty. However, the second kicks went in for both teams, and the pressure ratcheted up another notch.

Croatia one, US one.

Time warped as the rest of the penalties flew by. The minutes between kicks passed in the blink of an eye, but the lead-up time to each of Croatia’s penalties stretched like taffy. Every second felt like an hour, and in a cruel twist of fate, our tie lasted until the fifth round.