I waituntil the last ten minutes of the game. We’re up two to nothing, and the United look like trash. They’re barely completing a pass. That’s when I go down.
I hold my leg and moan. Maggie’s on the opposite side of the field, and I don’t even attempt to look her way. I haven’t all day. My acting skills are exceptional.
Roman jogs over where I lie. “You okay?”
“Cramp,” I lie.
I can just see Callum from the corner of my eye as he waves the center official over. I’m tempted to peek at Maggie, but I won’t break my cover. I’m going to be in a load of trouble for this—might as well make it count.
I tell the official I need a sub, and Callum and Roman, along with our trainer, help me off the field.
The trainer treats me with cold spray, water, and a quick massage. “I’m not feeling anything,” she says.
I shake my head like I don’t understand it. “You’re a miracle worker. It’s already feeling better.” I nod to the cold spray next to her medical bag.
And now, I wait. I know the drill. The fourth official—the one who stays on the sidelines at the halfway mark of the field—will monitor me until he’s confirmed I can go back in. His entire job is supporting the on-field officials with equipment and substitutions. I just have to wait patiently.
He’s looked me over; he’s spoken with the trainer. He’s got one hand on his headset lying on the bench, the other offers a simple thumbs-up, asking if I’m ready. I shake my head no. I force my face to cringe and reach for a bottle of water. “I need a few more minutes.”
His eyes back on the game, he nods, taking his hand from the headset. He never wears the communication deviceunless he’s the one communicating. I’ve been counting on that.
I sit for only a minute before sliding the man’s wireless headset from the bench and into my lap. Then I stand and walk back toward my team. I slip the thing onto my head and listen. There’s a slight buzz, but the game is in play without intervention from the referees.
“Maggie?” I say into the headset, understanding that all three refs on the field can hear me.
“John?” She’s looking at the center ref, her tone confused.
“Nope.” I’m going to run out of time unless I can give myself a little more of it. “Fourth official,” I say.
“Sam?” And now she’s looking in the direction of the bench. Her eyes dart to the clueless man whose headset I’ve stolen.
“Sure,” I say, doing my best to speak in an American accent. “You need to take Lucca Cruz up on his offer.”
A small “eep” sounds from inside my headset. She knows it’s me.
But as long as the other refs don’t, I have time.
“Cruz, number three, has been subbed off the field,” a low, commanding voice says in my ear—one of the other two officials.
“That is correct.” I just can’t keep the Portuguese lilt out of my tone. “But McCrae needs tolistento him.”
“Sam, is there something wrong with your headset?” the man says.
It’s now or never. So, I bellow some Milo Vega’s pop-soul lyrics into my headset. “My friends think I’m crazy?—”
“Sam!” the man yells.
But I ignore him. I keep going. “But I know she’s somewhere out there?—”
“Who’s on this line?” another man says.
I make it through three more words before I hear what I need to hear.
“Okay!” wails a frustrated Maggie. “Not another word! Stop!”
She said okay. That’s pretty binding. Right?
I casually walk Sam’s headset back to the bench he stands by. His expression tells me he knows something is happening, but he’s not sure what. Play hasn’t been stopped for my little display. So maybe, just maybe, I’ll get away with it.
