Kate Christie (8 page)

But so was I. I reached the ball first, faked left and dribbled right. The forward fell for my fake and ran past me, scrambling, unable to stop her momentum as I turned in the opposite direction.

Dimly, from a distance, I heard laughter in the crowd. Then the overlapping midfielder was on me, all muscle and aggression and speed. I saw Jeni just to the right and passed her the ball with the outside of my foot. The midfielder slid me, trying to hit the ball. But I jumped, easily avoiding her leg, and yelled, “Up!” As a team, our defense pushed up to midfield, leaving the SDC strikers behind. Jeni passed the ball to Sara, our center midfielder, and we maintained possession for the next few minutes again. As the SDC forwards caught back up to us at the center line, the striker I had faked out brushed past me muttering, “Bitch.” I grinned and felt adrenaline surging through my blood, sunshine on my neck and arms, leg muscles tingling with energy. This was what life was all about.

The game moved quickly, each team battling for possession.

Though we had a couple of near misses up front, the score was 5 Kate Christie

still 0-0 with five minutes left in the half. We’d had the ball in their end most of the game, but their keeper saved shot after shot, even shutting down our senior All-American forward, Jamie Betz. I wasn’t a fan of Jamie’s, and the animosity was entirely mutual. She thought I was dirty because I played physical soccer while I thought she was mostly hype. We just never played any teams with decent defenders, I always told Holly. Not that I was complaining. If Jamie wanted to break the SDU scoring records, during this, her final year of college, I was all for it.

Finally, with five minutes left, the other team got a break.

One of our freshman wing defenders gave up a corner kick, the first of the game in our end. We lined up in the box, marking players. My mark was the striker who had called me a bitch earlier. She lined up on Mel, trying to obstruct her view.

“Hey, ref, can you watch her?” I demanded. Goalkeepers enjoyed more protection than the rest of us. They were also a lot more vulnerable than anyone else on the field, frequently diving face-first into a swarm of kicking feet.

The ref nodded and blew his whistle. Play resumed.

The kick came in high and floating to the top of the six.

Just as I stepped up to head it, I felt an elbow sharp in my ribs and faltered. The ball bounced once. Mel leapt on it screaming

“Keeper” just as my mark snaked her foot out. The SDC player cracked Mel full in the side as I watched, still off balance, trying to scramble forward. The whistle screeched as Mel rolled over on her side, dropping the ball.

“You okay?” I knelt down next to her, touching her arm.

Her mouth was open, eyes squeezed tight in pain, both arms clutched to her ribcage. Finally she managed a gasp, sucking in breath. She’d had the wind knocked out of her. Our trainer appeared next to me, a little out of breath from her sprint across the field, and took over. On the sideline, our second-string keeper was already warming up.

Where was that bitch? I stood up abruptly, looking around.

Adrenaline and rage bubbled in my veins. I was going to get her, and good. But the ref reached her first, shook a warning finger in her face and said a lot, quickly, in a low voice. The SDC forward didn’t look even remotely contrite.

Beautiful Game 5

Then the ref reached for his pocket. Eject her, I thought, my fists clenched. But you usually aren’t ejected until you’ve had a yellow, or warning, card, except for fighting or blatantly vicious fouls. This one was yellow card material because it had happened during a scramble. It was possible—though not likely, I thought darkly—that the collision had been an accident. The ref pulled his yellow card out and held it high in the air. The SDC coach pulled the forward off for the remainder of the half.

As the trainer and her student assistant helped Mel from the field, I turned away. This was my fault. I should have cleared the ball. If that striker hadn’t clobbered me in mid-leap, none of this would have happened. We weren’t going to lose this one, I decided at that moment. No way were we going to lose this game.

At halftime, I made a beeline for Mel. She was sitting on the bench, a bag of ice strapped to her side under her shirt with an Ace bandage.

“How you doin’?” I asked, my hand on her shoulder.

She shrugged, eyes red from crying. Mel never cried. “Win this one, Cam, will you?”

I nodded grimly and patted her head, feeling the softness of her short hair against my palm. “You got it.”

More battling in the second half. Our offense couldn’t seem to break through their defense and vice versa. Midway through the second half, I intercepted a long ball and dribbled forward. Anger and energy drove me. Jeni dropped back to cover and I turned on the speed I usually reserved for chasing down breakaways. The rest of the team got nervous when I dribbled up.

They were used to having me in back. But I was in the mid-third of the field here. Even if I lost the ball, there probably wouldn’t be that much damage.

SDC thought I was going to pass off. I dribbled around a surprised forward, avoided the hacking feet of an off-guard midfielder. I caught Jamie’s eye where she stood in the middle of the field. We understood each other. I went straight at the center back, who left Jamie to head me off. Just as the SDC defender reached me, I sliced the ball off to Jamie, waiting at the top of the eighteen-yard box. She juked the SDC player collapsing to 60 Kate Christie

her and shot from twelve yards out, a rocket that was still rising when it hit the right upper corner of the net. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t All-American for nothing.

The crowd cheered and screamed for us. The SDC keeper dug the ball out of the net and punted it angrily toward the midfield line. Holly and Laura both picked me up and twirled me around, separately. We were all laughing. Jamie slapped hands with the other forwards who mobbed her, but she was looking at me. I waited for her to catch up. We slapped hands then, holding on for a moment longer than necessary, eyes locked.

I nodded at her. “Sweet shot, Jamie.”

She nodded back. “Nice ball, Cam.”

We let go and jogged back toward our half for the post-score kickoff. We didn’t like each other much, but on the field that didn’t matter. This was a team, and we both understood what that meant. We both wanted to win.

Just before the whistle blew for kickoff, I glanced over at the bench and caught Mel’s eye. She gave me a thumbs-up.

SDC was down. We ran all over them the last twenty minutes, pounding the goal with shot after shot. Their keeper kept them in, again, making incredible saves all over the penalty box. They only had a couple of shots on our net, desperation shots from twenty and thirty yards out. Our backup keeper, Anna, a true freshman, settled down and made the easy saves.

With five minutes left, one of SDC’s midfielders juked ours and pounded down the left side of the field. I cheated over, ready to step up if I needed to. Then the midfielder wound up and chipped the ball down the far side of the field, kind of like a Hail Mary pass, hoping one of her strikers would win the foot race. I turned and ran back on an angle, ready to cover if Jodie, our outside defender, faltered. It was between Jodie and the striker who had taken Mel out. They were neck and neck, thirty yards out from the goal, almost to the ball, when Jodie stumbled. That was all it took. The forward sprinted past her on a breakaway.

She cut toward the goal, slowing just enough to control the ball. That gave me time to narrow the space. We were twenty yards out when she saw me coming from the side. She wound up, Beautiful Game 61

trying to get a quick shot off, but I slide-tackled her, hitting the ball square on and knocking it away for the save.

Only the SDC striker didn’t avoid my tackle as I’d expected.

Instead she lunged, a moment too late, into the spot where the ball had been. My follow-through carried all of my weight into her left leg, and I heard a sickening crunch as my foot connected fully with her ankle. We fell over each other in a heap.

At first I thought I’d broken my foot as hot pain shot up my leg. Then I heard a scream, close to my ear, and rolled away from the SDC player. She was sobbing and flopping around on the ground, hysterical, clutching her left leg. Her foot was twisted sickeningly, and I knew then that it was her bone cracking I had heard, not my own.

Her players and my players were there in an instant. Laura and Jeni helped me up as trainers from both schools sprinted onto the field. One of the SDC players knelt beside the injured striker, holding her hand and trying to calm her. Another player came toward me, eyes blazing.

“I hope you’re satisfied, you fucking bitch,” she spat at me.A little ways away I saw their captain yelling at the head referee. He was shaking his head. Finally he said something to her and walked toward me. Jamie, our captain, followed him over, talking to him too. He ignored her.

“That was a fair tackle,” he said to me. “You didn’t mean to hurt her, did you?”

I shook my head, looking over at the sobbing girl. “No. She saw me coming. I know she did.”

He nodded and walked over to the trainers to check on the SDC player.

Jamie touched my shoulder. “Nice hit,” she said.

I looked at her quickly—was that sarcasm? But she seemed to mean it. I shook my head, turned to limp away. Jamie followed.

My foot was killing me. There were tears sliding down my face, I noticed vaguely, though whether they were from pain or something else, I wasn’t sure.

“She should have stopped,” I said to Jamie. “I don’t know why she didn’t. You would have, right?”

62 Kate Christie

She patted my shoulder. “You didn’t mean it. I’m sure she knows that.”

Holly caught up to me and slipped her arm around my neck.

“You’re limping. Are you hurt?”

“Yeah, I’m hurt.”

She gave me a squeeze as we neared the edge of the field.

“Take it easy. Don’t worry about it. Shake it off, okay?”

I didn’t answer. Head down, I made my way to the bench even before Coach waved me off. My foot hurt, but not as much as the other girl’s ankle must have. The trainers were still working on her.I could feel people in the stands staring at me in silence as I approached the bench. Then someone started to clap, and the rest of our fans joined in. I passed a hand over my face, swiping at the tears, and sat down at the far end of the bench. The clapping died away. I looked out at the field. No, she was still down. The clapping must have been for me. I wiped my face on my shirt sleeve, ignored my teammates’ hesitant looks. She should have seen the slide coming. She should have pulled up. Shouldn’t she?

But as the moments dropped away one after another, my certainty began to ebb too, until I wasn’t sure I hadn’t hit her on purpose after all. Maybe Jamie was right. Maybe I was a dirty player.

Mel sat down next to me, wincing as the ice pack shifted, and slipped her arm around my shoulders.

“Don’t worry yourself, little one,” she said. “That was a clean slide. Just bad luck is all.”

I shook my head and looked into Mel’s dark eyes. She looked so mean, but she was really one of the kindest women I knew.

She liked to talk about how many kids she was going to have, three or maybe four someday.

“I don’t know.” I sniffed. “She’s the one who took you out.

Maybe I meant it.”

“Not your style,” Mel said. “I appreciate the thought, though.”

Coach Eliot approached, kneeling in front of me and looking up into my face. “You okay, champ?”

I nodded. “Just bruised.” I looked at the clock. Four minutes left. “I’m sitting the rest?”

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“You’ve done your part today. More than your part.” He stood up and caught the eye of a student trainer. “Steve, a bag of ice for Cam here, please.” Then he walked back to the other end of the bench to confer with his assistants.

They finally took the injured player off in an ambulance.

Play resumed with an SDC throw-in where I had knocked it out.

The final four minutes passed quickly. Our defense, guided by Jeni and Anna, shut down the deflated SDC team easily. The game ended 1-0.

My foot was bruised, the trainer agreed, so at the end of the game I got to ride back to the gym in a golf cart, foot swathed in ice. Before I took off, I limped over to the SDC bench, ignoring the glares some of the players shot me. I walked up to the coach, holding his gaze.

“I just wanted you to know I wasn’t trying to hurt her, okay?

Will you tell her that?”

He paused, eyeing me. Then he nodded once, sharply. “I’ll tell her.”

I walked away, head high, and climbed into the golf cart.

Holly hopped in beside me. In the driver’s seat, Steve started forward.

“I couldn’t let you take this fun ride all alone,” Holly said.

“Anyway, I have your bag. And your sweats. And your shoe.”

“Thanks.” Suddenly I could barely hold my head up. The adrenaline was wearing off, and all that was left was a dull ache in my foot and a sharper pang of guilt. I had ended the SDC

player’s season, maybe even her soccer career. I stared down at my bare foot, where an Ace bandage held the ice in place against my heel. The ice hurt more than the actual injury.

Holly pulled me against her side. “Rough game, huh, Cam?”

“Yeah.” I sighed and leaned against her shoulder, avoiding the curious looks of the spectators we passed leaving the field.

“Rough game.”

I was the last one to leave the gym that night. The trainer made me visit with her for a little while, just to make sure my foot was okay. Holly and Laura came into the training room to hear the verdict: just a bruise. Even though they were finished 64 Kate Christie

showering, they offered to drive me and my car up to the student center. They even insisted. But when I told them I just wanted to be alone, that I would meet them at dinner, they reluctantly left.Alone in the locker room, I took a long, leisurely shower, then dressed in a pair of comfy Levi’s and an SDU soccer Tshirt. I taped a piece of Dr. Shoal’s tough skin in a crescent shape at the edge of my heel, as the trainer had directed, and pulled my Sambas on, leaving the right shoe mostly unlaced. The four Advil I had taken were kicking in. Now it just hurt to walk. I was supposed to use a crutch, so I tried it out in the locker room. It felt weird. I didn’t think I liked being injured.