The Girl Who Fell(5)

I’ll use that fear to win tonight.

Prolong the season.

Cool air sweeps over me as I exit the gym, the bright lights of the distant field marking our arena: a rectangle of cropped grass, regulation lines, and more hope than any space should be able to contain. It feels odd to realize I’ll miss even these lights, these electric eyes that have been watching over me for four years. My stomach dips with unexpected sentiment just as I hear Gregg’s call.

“Wait up, Five!” I turn, even though my jersey says 23. When I was a freshman, five wasn’t available so Gregg suggested two numbers that add up to my lucky number. I’ve been 23 ever since.

Gregg jogs to me, his smile moon-wide.

“Hangin’ around the girls’ locker room, huh? It’s kind of a creeper move.”

“Funny.” He bends into an almost-bow. “I’m here to carry your cleats.”

“Come again?”

“It’s an epic night, Zeph. I thought I might have the honors.” He reaches for my cleats and my game shoes look small in his palms. A wash of gratitude feathers over my skin.

We head toward the field, my feet bare except for socks. It’s the only way I’ve ever walked to a game. Ever since the first time I played for Sudbury when I was running late and the Junior Varsity coach yelled me out of the locker room before I had all my gear on. I scored two goals that night. Got promoted to Varsity three games later. The cold pavement seeps through my socks and licks at my toes, but it only energizes me. Baseball players aren’t the only ones who hold on to their superstitions like lifelines.

“You psyched?” Gregg asks.

“Um, kind of petrified.”

He thrusts out his arm, stops me short. “Why?”

I stare into the washed blue of his eyes and my worry forces itself out of my rib cage. “This could be my last game for Sudbury. Or my last field hockey game ever. What if I fuck it up? What if we lose?” There are so many unknowns next year. What if I’m predisposed to bailing on all that’s important to me—like Dad? What if I let the team down? “What if—”

Gregg pulls an imaginary zipper across his own lips and I quiet. “Remember our school talent show in second grade?”

My voice almost left me that night, too scared to speak to an auditorium audience. “I remember.”

“You wore that Groucho mustache and told a bunch of knock-knock jokes. Remember your closer? Knock-knock . . . ,” Gregg prompts.

“Who’s there?”

“Tanks.”

“Tanks who?”

“No, no, no,” he mimics. “Tank you!” He bows for an imaginary audience. “You had the crowd laughing their asses off.”

The memory paddles up in me like a friend visiting.

“You were a star that night, Zipper. You’ll be one tonight.”

The eight-year-old me visits when she hears Gregg’s nickname. She tells me I’ve got this.

Gregg bends his tree form to nudge my shoulder with his and we continue to the field. Our shadows march forward in front of us. Straight. Determined. Together. Just like our plan for Boston next year.

A sudden flash of pom-poms and cheer cascade by us.

“Cheerleaders?” Gregg says. I shrug.

Lani Briggs, head cheerleader, sidles up to Gregg’s opposite side. “Hey Slice.”

“Lani. What brings you and the crew out tonight?” I can hear Gregg flashing her that killer smile.

“Football’s loaning us out since, you know, the field hockey team hasn’t gone to State in, like, forever.”

“Jinx much?” I mutter under my breath, and Gregg elbows me.

“That’s cool. Good to see so much support,” he tells her.

“Maybe we can meet up after?” Lani asks, her full flirt dialed high.

“Maybe.”

“I hope so,” Lani coos just before she bounds forward to join her clan, her red and white pom-poms raised over her head.

“Gross,” I tell Gregg.

“Lani?” He laughs. “Please. I’m not man enough to handle her stimulating conversation.”

“I’m not sure it’s conversation she’s looking to stimulate.”

“Get your head out of the gutter, Doyle. You’ve got a game to win.” We reach the sidelines and Gregg hands me my cleats. “You’ll rock this, Zeph.”

I lace up my cleats and watch the football cheerleaders line up on the opposite side of the field. I snug my mouth guard around my teeth and squat in a final stretch.

Coach calls for us to take the field and I assume my position as right wing forward. Gregg’s unmistakably deep, “Bring ’em hell, Five!” reaches me from the crowd. Then the ref’s whistle blows a split second before I hear wood crack against the hard round ball. I run deep, open the face of my stick, ready for a pass. I bend low when the ball comes my way, trap it under my stick and snake it down the length of the field. I reach scoring position without a defender, no one blocking me, but it’s not my shot to take. Lyndsey is set in front of the goal and I flick the ball to her, where she instantly hammers it into the corner of the net, putting Sudbury on the scoreboard first. Lyndsey and I crash into each other with a full-body high-five, riding on our wave of adrenaline. The cheerleaders sing out a practiced chant, which makes tonight seem bigger than all of us. That surge carries me through the rest of the game, through the fatigue and frustration, until the ref  ’s whistle blows for the last time and he raises his arms in a win for Sudbury.