“’Bos!”
My sister came to stand beside me, her arms around her daughter, Margery.
“Good luck, sis.”
I smiled as they made their way to the stands.
Then stood and ignored the way my body felt for the next seventy-two minutes.
The last eighteen was a lesson in survival.
It was with eighteen minutes left in the second half that the goalie tried to take out our star player. Our star player that was, of course, Bossy.
I glanced backward at Weaver and growled. “Do not move.”
He didn’t make a move, but I could see his body tensing with each dirty hit that came her way.
One fairly hard one had me inching toward the linesman on my side. “Ref, please, watch number eleven.”
He nodded but didn’t vocalize any agreement.
It was on the fifth dirty hit that the linesman lifted his flag and started to wave it in the air.
The center ref blew his whistle and jogged over.
The linesman leaned in and spoke with the ref and nodded.
“PK!” he called out.
“Holy shit,” I heard someone say.
Bossy got up and dusted the grass off her knees and shoulder where she’d hit hard.
The team converged on her and pointed toward the ball.
Bossy shook her head.
They encouraged her more and pointed again.
Bossy, shoulders stiff, walked toward the PK line where she would take the penalty kick.
“Come on,” I heard Weaver say.
Bossy lined up and took the shot.
The goalie dove the right way, saving the ball but not catching it in her grasp. It bounced back toward Bossy and she volleyed it in the air.
The sound of the ball hitting the net was the sound of angels.
“Yes!” everyone screamed, along with me.
I was jumping and screaming and…pop.
Fuck.
Water started to slowly leak down my leg.
My water had broken.
