I stand completely alonein the women’s locker room, as I am the only woman officiating today. I get this space all to myself. I can have any locker I want. Or no locker at all. I can use the one floor-to-ceiling mirror in this place for as long or as little as I like. I can walk around completely naked. I don’t. But I could. No one would care. I am one hundred percent alone.
I’ve showered, dressed, and now I’m staring into that floor-to-ceiling mirror. No one else around to judge my vanity.
My eyes zone in on the small cluster of freckles just below my right eye. There was a time in my life—ages twenty-three to twenty-five—when I’d stare at my face and ask,Who are you now, Margaret McCrae? Where is your life going?
Then, one day, I noticed that small cluster and how it forms a heart just below my right eye. I’m guessing I’m the only person on the planet to notice it. It took me twenty-five years to do so, and it’s my face. It’s such a tiny little bunch. Still, I saw it that day. I can’t unsee it now. Every time I look at myself, my eyes draw to that heart.
That day, my questions changed. Instead of asking who Iwas—as my life had taken a major shift and I no longer knew—that heart-shaped cluster suddenly had me remembering:You are loved, Maggie McCrae.
But did I love myself?
Yes. Yes, I did. Changes in my circumstances and all.
It felt like a better question. With a much more important answer.
I tap the cluster with my pointer finger, revel in the warmth in my chest, and snatch up my blow dryer. Washing, drying, and fixing my hair without a five-year-old busting in on me to see if I would like to try his banana cream pie feels a bit like a luxury.
Don’t get me wrong, I like banana cream pie. And I love my nephew. He’s the entire reason my life got a makeover almost six years ago. And yet, I bask in the peace of getting readyalone. No tiny little person asking me why my underwear has cats in pajamas on them.
I don’t know the answer to that, Wyatt. Because I like cats? Because underwear is a place you can express part of yourself and no one is going to judge you for it?
Does it matter? What matters is that cluster and how it made the trajectory of my life change.
“I love you, Maggie McCrae,” I tell the girl in the mirror—she’s much more of a Maggie than a Margaret.
I brush through my long brown hair a dozen more times—just for luxury’s sake. Just because I can. Then, I slip into my jacket and gather my backpack and my keys. Time to go home.
Stepping out into the cool Tesoro evening air, I pull in a breath through my nose, enjoying the pine and mountain scent that comes with Lake Tesoro. Then, I tap the unlock button on my red Hatchback.
“Hey.” Daniel Clifton stands next to his car. I hadn’t noticed my coworker. I was too busy enjoying the clean air andloving myself. “It was a good call,” he says, referring to the ruling I made on Cruz. There are always questions when a player has an outburst like Lucca Cruz tends to. I swear, that man would rival one of Wyatt’s two-year-old fits any day.
“I know,” I tell him. I am a woman in a man’s athletic world. I’m not questioning the call. Any sign of weakness, any hint at uncertainty, and I might as well prepare to be eaten alive—and then never hired to referee again.
Daniel nods his approval of my answer, then climbs into his own car before driving away.
I watch him go before settling into my vehicle and turning on forty minutes of “Nine Lives Later.” Not even my mother knows about my obsession with this podcast. Loving cats is one thing; wearing them on your undies and listening to episode after episode about them might be a whole other thing.
“Episode forty-three,” says the melodic bell-toned voice through my car. “The ship-cat who survived three WWII sinkings.”
“Oo, this one is gonna be good.” I’m not a weirdo. I just happen to like podcasts. And cats. I’ll never own one—Dad is allergic.
Oh boy. Does that mean I believe that I’ll live with my parents forever? Like, forever forever?
By the time Waffles the cat has survived his third almost drowning, I am holding back tears. That little guy clung to life on a wooden crate for three days before they found him. Waffles, the luckiest ship cat. Also, after three sinking ships, he’s known as the cursed ship cat. He wasn’t allowed on another boat after that third submerged vessel.
I sniff and pull into the drive of my childhood home. I grew up here, in Canyon Falls, California, with my mom, dad, and younger sister.AndI presently live here with my mom, dad, and younger sister. And of course, Wyatt.
And according to my mentality of never being able to own a cat, I don’t plan to move any time soon.
It’s after ten, so everyone except Lindy should be sleeping.Should bebeing the key words. Mom and Dad were older when they had me, and then three years later, they had my sister. They’re both in their seventies now, and bedtime comes around eight-thirty unless something exciting is happening—like Dad bidding on some crazy artifact at one of his online auction sites. In that case, Mom will stay up to rein Dad in. But I don’t think Finder’s Bid has any listings until next week. Once, Dad spent sixty-eight dollars on an unopened can of Coke from the ’80s, only to have Wyatt open it and drink it the day after it arrived. Ever since, Mom has stayed up to be his voice of reason.
I say let the man have his crusty ol’ can of Coke—as long as we hide it from Wyatt. Dad has worked hard his whole life. He saved every dime. He put one daughter through college and the other through rehab. He’s helping raise his grandson. He can buy whatever crazy junk he wants.
Mom disagrees with me.
I gather my bag from the back seat of my hatchback and sneak around to the back of the house. If Mom’s camera doorbell at the front entrance goes off, she’s going to wake up. I have figured out just how close I can get to the house before it’s pinging my mother awake.
Unlocking the back door, I slip into the dark kitchen, careful to be quiet.
