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I boarded the bus to the final round of the championships that morning with excitement and nerves. The team we were up against was hard, but I felt confident that we could do it if we put our minds to it. Since Simon’s departure to the men’s team, we’d acquire a new female coach who worked us just as hard as Simon, and was less physically distracting, though a few of the queer women on the team had fallen for her.
“So, is Simon coming today?” Nora asked coyly, turning around in her seat to address me.
I shook my head. “Nah, the boys have a game today too, so he can’t make it.”
“Aw, that sucks!” Beth exclaimed. The other girls nodded in agreement.
Since Simon’s and my little — well, enormous — relationship problem had been solved, the girls had become super supportive of our relationship. Simon was at every game of mine that he could possibly attend, and they all still greeted him as ‘coach’ and hugged him. He was, in many ways, still part of the team.
So I think we were, the lot of us, a little bummed that he couldn’t make it. His careful watching from the sidelines made everyone feel safe and confident. But I knew, on a more logical level, that these were the kinds of compromises we had to make to stay together. If being with me meant he had to coach the men’s team and occasionally miss my games, well, so be it. Could be worse — he could be in England, where he’d see none of my games except via livestream.
Grace, who was sitting next to me, put a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry,” she said earnestly. “I know it means a lot to you to have him at the games.”
“I’m okay,” I replied, attempting to lighten the mood. “It’s the championships. That’s exciting with or without him.” I didn’t say that it would be more exciting with him there, but it was implied.
“You’re right,” Grace said, matching my tone. “Championships, we made the championships. Booyah!”
I giggled at her, and we chatted amicably for the rest of the ride. Grace and I had made up without trouble. Even in the best of friendships, there were challenges that one had to face. I think going through hard shit with her, and coming out the other side, made our friendship stronger than ever. We’d already agreed to live together again next year.
We arrived at the stadium, got off the bus and made our way to the locker room. The team was abuzz with jitters. This game promised to be a tough one.
It seemed like one minute we were in the locker room, cheering and chanting and getting amped for the game, and the next we were out on the field, listening to the opening whistle.
ULA students and alum hollered from the sidelines as we battled it out against the other team, crying ‘Defense’ and making noises to distract our opponents. The other school was tough as hell.
They were the sort of girls who played dirty — kicked your knees, body checked you, so on and so forth. Unlike in men’s soccer, women soccer players don’t like to lie down on the grass and bitch and moan about an imagined injury, though in this case, they were certainly not imagined. We already had enough stigma to face without playing into old stereotypes about female athletes.
But back to my point, which was that they were keeping us on our toes. I fought to get the upper hand on them, but every time we seemed to be gaining ground, they pushed us back.
Despite our best efforts, the last few minutes of the first half was equally frustrating. When we moved, they moved. When we shot at the goal, they blocked. It was like they knew our own plays before we even made them.
After their goalie caught one of my shots, an impossible catch so good it made me mad, I muttered, “Damnit.”
Annoyed but trying to snap out of it, I turned to the stands, hoping to find some inspiration from the crowd of people who’d come to root for us.
And just then I saw him.
Simon.
Sitting in the front row, cheering louder than anyone else.
No sooner had I made my discovery than the whistle went for half time. We were tied at zero. I quickly jogged up to Simon, right up to the stands. Around him, people waved their foam fingers at me and cheered my number.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, tilting my head to look up at him. The stands were elevated, and he was about three feet above me in the air.
He kneeled down, and with a grin, replied, “I’m cheering you on, what does it look like I’m doing?”
“But the men’s game—”
“Don’t worry about it, love.” His grin spread as he added, “Now go huddle with your team. Tell them to get on the other striker, and that your best pocket will be on the right, near that midfielder who isn’t doing a great job. Yeah?”
