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She’s right. The other girls were playing hard.
“Let me see what the referee has to say.” I’m already on my feet, walking to the place Brandon and John are talking with Sara, the other team’s coach.
“It was fair game,” Sara argues. “They were defending the field.”
“That wasn’t just a defensive play, Sara, and you know it,” I argue while joining them.
“These games can get pretty heated,” she replies. “Let the girls play.”
“I want your player out of the game.” I tip out my chin, ready to defend my players.
“No way,” Sara cries out loud.
“She deserves a red card, Brandon,” I say, looking at the referee. “Why is this taking so much time?”
“Yellow card and a free shot,” Sara counters.
“This deserves a red card and penalty, Brandon. It’s only fair.”
Sara gives me the stink eye and ignores me while still arguing with Brandon and John. After a couple of minutes of a heated argument, Brandon decides on a yellow card and a penalty. This isn’t what I was expecting, but oh well.
“Girls,” I call them to the side. “You can do this. Let’s win the game!”
“I’ll kick,” says Marilynn.
“You got it,” I reply. The girl is fantastic, and for sure, she’s scoring.
“Yes, yes, yes!” I’m yelling at the top of my lungs a few minutes later when Marilynn scores. With two goals, we have a victory to celebrate. “Well done, team!”
“Six minutes left,” Marilynn says with a grin. “We got this. Defense, team!”
They march to the midfield, where the other team is waiting for the referee to give them the whistle to start the game again.
A player with the number eleven on her back is ready to kick the ball with her friends around her. After biting my nails for centuries, the game ends, and we proudly celebrate the victory. My girls are celebrating like they won the World Cup. Some of them are extremely talented. If they keep playing, I’m sure the sport will open many doors for them, from scholarships for college to the chance to play professionally.
After collecting all our equipment, I send the girls for a shower. It’s time for them to have lunch, and after that, a lecture at the main hall will be waiting for them. I’m approaching the showers when two girls still wearing their soccer T-shirts sneak through the side door carrying some backpacks.
I’m sure those bags don’t belong to them.
“What are you doing?” I say while approaching. They were so focused on the task that they didn’t hear me.
One of them looks at me with wide-open eyes and doesn’t move. “Nothing,” replies the other, the same girl with the number ten. “We were helping with the laundry.”
Helping with the laundry, sure. I’ve heard stories like this a lot of times before. Not just from my students but from attending summer camps when I was younger.
“Why were you sneaking around?”
“We weren’t.” Replies the same girl, while the other remains quiet.
“What’s your name?” I ask her.
“Ingrid Walton,” she replies. “I’m sure you recognize the name.”
I don’t, and at this moment, I don’t care.
“Ok, Ingrid Walton, come with me,” I order her and then tell the other. “And you, take these bags where they belong and then join us at the office.”
“Yes, Ms. Garfield,” the other girl replies while little miss Walton rewards me with a frown.
