The Girl Who Fell(27)

Sudbury works the ball to the opposite side of the field, but with effort. By the time I’m set to score, the nymph flits out of my blind spot and hops the ball over my stick. She attempts another goal that Karen thwarts. My breathing comes heavy. Every muscle engages.

Nearly an hour into the game, lights buzz on overhead like mosquitoes. Chants construct walls of sound, the rival crowd so much louder than our supporters. The autumn air nips at the tips of my ears and feels too cold as I breathe the shock of it in and out of my overworked lungs.

By halftime, we’re tied 0–0. Near the end of the last quarter, the game is still scoreless. I feel drained. Only a few minutes remain on the clock. We’re facing possible overtime and all I can think of is splaying myself out on the cold grass and never running again for the rest of my life. Exhaustion spasms my thighs as Coach gathers us for our last time out.

“It’s us or them, girls,” Coach tells us. “One team has to bring home the trophy. That’s the way this works. What you do in the next string of minutes will determine which school will hold the state title. Understand?”

We nod collectively as Coach continues.

I know the high of winning and I want it for me, our school, Coach. I let her last pep talk propel me back onto the field with renewed energy.

Within seconds, a hard thwack sends the ball within reaching distance of Karen. She runs to it, smacks it down the right sideline, and another forward gets control. She keeps the small ball magnetized to the end of her stick. I summon my last bit of strength to sprint to the opposite sideline and position myself for the pass. It comes. Hard. The ball soars over the cropped grass and I halt it with my stick.

I draw it back.

One arm straight.

One elbow bent.

I fix my shoulders.

I swing hard and hear the whoosh of air as the stick cuts through the atmosphere. My forearms ripple with a sting and the thwack echoes against the silenced crowd. I watch the ball rise on wings, heading right for the enemy goal.

Their goalie stretches to reach with her oversize glove, but the ball soars into the upper right corner of the goal box. The net absorbs the spinning orb before spitting it onto the quiet grass, where it stops rolling with all the finality of the end of a sentence.

The final air horn blows. The game is over. The end of my field hockey days for Sudbury. Our supporters explode with cheers and I am lifted by a dozen arms, hoisted into the air so that I’m flying inside and out. Beyond the madness, I see Karen between our goalposts, raising her stick above her head like a bar, pumping it fiercely with two hands. She runs toward me and I swallow this feeling, how it tastes like sugar and pride.

The fatigue in my muscles washes away and my adrenaline convinces me I could run a marathon. When we line up for our good-game high-fives, pride pulsates through me and I’m convinced there is no greater high in the universe.

From within the crowd I hear Lizzie’s distinctive ranch-hand whistle. I spy her on the sidelines with her camera, her hand corralling the team into a group shot.

“Gather up, ladies!” I call, and they do. We pile onto and around one another and scream out “Champions!” at Lizzie’s prompting. We are a mob. A mass. Connected in our triumph. I raise my stick over my head. Someone thrusts the game ball into my other palm. I hold these pieces above me as my teammates raise me above them. Lizzie’s camera follows me upward, her repeated flash leaving dots in my eyes—smaller, brighter versions of the field lights that have borne witness to our hard-won victory.

When my feet return to the ground, Lizzie tells me, “You are now without question the most bestest field hockey player I’ve ever been best friends with. It’s my working headline.” She pulls me to her before her face contorts. “Even if you do smell ripe.”

“It’s an unfortunate side effect of greatness.”

“You were awesome out there, Zee. Really.”

I can’t stop the smile sprinting to my face. “It felt great. A tough game, but an unforgettable one for sure.”

“Not a bad way to end a career.” Lizzie scans the photos on her camera’s display screen. “Yours and mine.”

That’s when it hits me that this is the last game of mine she’ll watch. The last time she’ll write up a story about my team. The thought jolts me with loss. That, and . . .

“Have you seen Gregg?” I wipe the sweat from my forehead with my sleeve and scan the crowd.

She looks at me, her eyes soft. “It’s his loss, Zee.”

My heart plummets to my stomach.

Coach calls for me to get my hustle on. “Chop, chop, Doyle!”

I thumb toward my classmates loading onto the bus. “I gotta ride back with the team. I’ll text you about the party at Karen’s.”