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“Maeve, of course I was planning to go. But that was before the game got rescheduled for today, and now there’s a conflict in the schedules. I didn’t have any control over the thunderstorm last week, or when the game was moved to.”
“The game didn’t get rescheduled for the same time as mine.Youscheduled this film review at the same time.”
“Maeve, this is my job! I’m sure Alleghany isn’t taking the day off reviewing film. You can’t expect me to just because of your game.”
“Well, it would be nice if I could expect you to act like you have two kids, not just one,” I retort. “We may be twins, but we’re not interchangeable.”
I stride into the kitchen, not bothering to wait for his response.
I’ve never said anything to my father before because I knew it wouldn’t make a difference, just like it didn’t now, but I underestimated how freeing it would be to let my father know exactly how I feel about his blatant favoritism toward Liam and football.
The feeling of satisfaction fades when I realize exactly who I want to tell about this. The person who inspired me to say it in the first place. The boy who broke my heart last night.
I put my spoon and bowl in the dishwasher and head upstairs to get ready for my game.
Liam appears in my doorway about twenty minutes later, hovering uncertainly. Things were already tense between us, and my outburst during breakfast has added extra layers of awkwardness.
“Good luck,” he finally says.
“Thanks,” I reply, tying off one side of my French braid.
“Liam!” my father bellows from downstairs. “Let’s go.”
Liam disappears into the hallway. I finish braiding the other half of my hair and then gather up my gear and head downstairs. I run into my mother on the front porch, just back from showing a house.
“You’re headed to the game already?” my mother asks, glancing at her watch.
“Yup.”
“Okay, I’ve got to make a quick stop at the office to drop these keys off, but I’ll see you at the game, all right?” I’m guessing the reassurance means she already spoke to my father.
“Okay,” I respond, heading toward the sedan.
The crowd of people at the field is unexpected. I’ve become accustomed to having about the same number of spectators as the roster of players on a basketball team. Last year’s final was an away game, so fans were especially limited. Thanks to our superior season record, we’re hosting Clayville today, and a vast majority of the hundred or so people gathered around the field are wearing Glenmont’s signature shade of maroon in support.
I drop my soccer bag off at the team bench. My teammates greet me with nervous smiles that don’t help to alleviate the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I don’t usually get anxious before games, but this is it. The final one. The one that really matters. Coach Bloom beckons me over.
“Ready, Stevens?” she asks.
“Absolutely,” I reply, projecting as much confidence in my voice as I can.
Coach Bloom smiles at my response, but I think she sees through it, at least a little, because she squeezes my shoulder once before nodding toward the field.
“Run them through the usual,” she instructs me. I nod once before heading toward our end of the field. My teammates follow me without prompting.
I’m halfway through leading the warm-up stretches when I see him. He’s wearing all black and a baseball cap in an obvious attempt to look incognito, but it’s definitely him. I’d know those broad shoulders and that confident stance anywhere. What I don’t know is what he’s doing here.
“So, am I crazy, or is that Weston Cole at our soccer game?” Becca whispers from her spot next to me as we shift to sitting on the grass in order to stretch our hamstrings.
“You’re not crazy,” I reply.
Rather than serve as a distraction, Wes’s presence buoys me as the game starts. Just like the last time he showed up to watch me play, I want to impress him. Make this worth his while.
It’s probably not the healthiest mindset considering we just officially broke up, but it serves me well on the field. It’s also the perfect antidote to the nerves niggling in my stomach. Brazen confidence washes them away.
I score the first goal of the game ten minutes in. After that, Clayville doesn’t stand a chance. We’re unstoppable. Becca scores right after halftime, and I make a second goal fifteen minutes later. Clayville tries, but they can’t stop our momentum.
The final whistle sounds, and I’m swarmed. My ears ring with the screams and shouts of my teammates as we unite into one celebratory mass. The first thing I do when we detangle is glance at the spot where Wes was standing. He’s gone, and I try not to let the ache of disappointment infringe on the happiness bubbling inside me.
