AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Daddy, this is Trouble!” she yells, pointing my way.
Freya slumps down in her seat and digs her palms into her eyes. “Why does she hear everything I don’t want her to?”
“Hi, Trouble,” Aiden says. A laugh leaves me. It’s unexpected and kind, a bit conspiratorial, the way he smiles as he says it and offers his hand, which I shake. “Good to see you again. We didn’t get to talk at the wedding—”
Because I was drunk and sulking on the terrace. God, I was such an ass that night.
“I’m a big fan,” he says. “You and Ren, out on the ice together, it’s a thing of beauty.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“So.” Aiden sits, settling Linnie on his lap and offering her what looks like a reusable fabric bag filled with pretzels, chocolate chips, and dried fruit. “What’d I miss?”
The family falls into a conversation whose rhythm and rapidity speaks to their closeness, a concept wholly beyond me. I turn back, facing the field and realizing the field is empty, that they’ve cleared it, presumably getting ready in the tunnel to be formally announced.
I watch the team walk out, then line up, the starting players forming a neat row, shoulder to shoulder. I find Ziggy and feel my heart do a terribly unreasonable kick in my chest.
“Seb.” A nudge to my shoulder makes me glance Ren’s way, once again reminding me of the many reasons I have to ignore that tugging ache when I look at Ziggy. With his familiar, kind smile, my best friend says, “I’m really glad you’re here.”
Not that I’m surprised, but Ziggy Bergman is a goddamn joy to watch play the game of soccer. I have only a cursory understanding of the game, but I know enough to appreciate that she’s brilliant at it. As a midfielder, she’s running a huge stretch of the field nonstop, unlike the defenders behind her, who stay back, protecting their end of the field, or the forwards on her team who work the top, pressuring their opponent.
Ziggy’s as fast as Ren said she was, bolting across the pitch, her braid like a fiery comet stark against the green grass as vivid as her eyes. She’s wildly agile for someone so tall, her touches fast and precise, her movements so quick, she’s left players from Chicago stumbling on their heels as she flew by them.
She seems to swap places often with another midfielder, moving between the sideline and the center of the field, which is where she shines, controlling the ball, threading lightning fast, right-to-feet passes to her forwards. I watch her have one assist, then another, the team piling up in celebration on her and a compact striker with short purple hair who’s scored both goals.
It couldn’t be more obvious to me that she’s poised to be the heartbeat of the team. I hope they see what I see. On the National Team, whose Instagram Reels I thoroughly stalked, it’s obvious from the footage including her that she’s just as vital to their success, becoming just as pivotal to them, too.
“Yay, Aunt Ziggy!” Linnie yells behind me as Ziggy wins the ball off her opponent in the center midfield, then soars up the field. With a perfect deke—well, that’s what we call it in hockey; who knows what it’s called in soccer—she tricks her defender, getting them to follow her fake to their right, while Ziggy nimbly switches directions and cuts with the ball past them on their left.
She’s bearing down on the goalie now as the last defender sprints across the field and slides into her with a tackle worthy of the dirtiest American football. Ziggy’s knocked to the ground and lands with a hard bounce on her shoulder, followed by her head, which slams to the grass.
My stomach turns into a block of ice. My heart’s pounding. Because right now, she’s not moving.
Every single Bergman around me sucks in a breath.
“Studs up!” Viggo yells. He stands from his seat. “What the hell is that? Where’s the yellow, ref?!”
“V.” Oliver yanks him back down to his seat by the T-shirt. “Settle yourself. The ref’s gonna call that.”
Frankie clutches her cane hard. “That was a nasty tackle.”
Ren sits forward, elbows on his knees and sighs heavily. “Yeah.”
“She’s fine,” Elin says from behind us, hands clasped between her knees. She’s staring at her daughter, her voice even as the trainers jog out to the field, those icy eyes she gave so many of the people surrounding me locked on Ziggy, as if, by sheer force of will, she can make her daughter move.
Viggo mutters something under his breath, tugging his ball cap low.
“She’ll get up,” Elin says. “She always does. Besides—” She lifts her eyebrows, her gaze still pinned on Ziggy. “She’s taken worse tackles from her brothers, playing football up at the A-frame.”
“That,” Viggo says, turning around and giving his mother a wide-eyed, exasperated look, “was a long time ago. And why isn’t Freya included in this shame-fest?”
“Uh, because I never slide tackled my little sister so hard, I knocked her out cold?” Freya snaps, taking the baby from her dad and cuddling him, which seems to be more for her benefit than for the baby, who, I would assume in part, thanks to those noise-canceling headphones, has slept in his grandpa’s arms through most of the second half.
“Okay, you know what?” Viggo says, glaring at Freya. “I did that once, and nearly had a heart attack because I thought I’d killed her.” He turns back to his mother. “And I apologized.”
Elin nods, still watching Ziggy. “I know you did. I’m not saying it to make you feel bad, älskling, I’m simply reminding you that your sister is tough. Give her some credit.”
“C’mon, Ziggy Stardust,” Dr. B says quietly. “Get up, honey.”
