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Explosive.
She’s chasing a through ball—perfect placement, just ahead of her stride.
She plants.
Turns.
And her foot?—
Slides.
Not clean.
Not controlled.
Wrong angle.
She goes down.
Hard.
The sound of it?—
It’s not loud.
But it’s wrong.
The kind of wrong that cuts through crowd noise.
A collective inhale ripples through the stadium.
Isa doesn’t get up.
The whistle blows.
Sharp.
Urgent.
Players slow. Then stop.
One of her teammates kneels beside her.
Another waves frantically toward the sideline.
“Shit,” Delia mutters beside me.
My body goes still.
Too still.
I know that feeling.
The ground.
The impact.
The split-second panic ofsomething’s not right.
