The coverage continues, listing off some of her stats from Lincoln University.
Claire runs onto the field, nodding to a teammate as she takes her position.
And then…she glances to the side of the field. My heart spasms painfully when the camera zooms in that direction, the spectator section reserved for athletes to watch events they aren’t participating in. Where I would have sat if I’d shown up to the game. I spot Beck and a few other familiar faces.
The camera refocuses on the center of the field as play resumes, following an Australian forward who’s a streak of yellow on-screen. My knee bounces as I watch the US goalie make a stellar save.
Time ticks higher. My knee bounces faster as I sense what’s coming at any second. During the eighty-fifth minute, an American player has a breakaway.
I watch her approach Australia’s goal, watch the wild ponytail that I know belongs to Claire as she sprints up the field after her. Even from farther behind, she passes other blue uniforms. There’s a brief, undeserved surge of pride as I watch her trap the pass from her teammate.
It’s not a bad kick. It flies fast off her foot, straight on target.
But she gave away too much with her positioning. The yellow-clad goalie guesses the correct corner, diving for the ball that’s slowed too much and making the save.
I watch Claire’s face fall. Watch her fight to keep her composure, jogging back to the opposite end of the field.
Regulation ends with a tied score.
Three minutes of extra time are added.
I’m nervous, watching the match, even knowing how it ended. I can’t imagine how the spectators and players felt. A game doesn’t get much more high-stakes than this.
Australia scores.
The final whistle blows.
I close my laptop, uninterested in watching Australia’s celebration.
And think,I should have been there.
40
CLAIRE
I’m standing in line, waiting to order a club soda from the open bar, when a throat clears behind me.
I spin toward the sound, relaxing my face into a friendly smile as disappointment sinks through my diaphragm. I wasn’t positive Otto would be here, but I assumed—hoped—that he would be.
Instead, Boston’s star quarterback, Brady Simmons, stands before me. I’ve never met him before, and I don’t consider myself much of a football—American football—fan, but it’s practically impossible to live in New England and not know who he is.
“It’s Claire, right?”
Shockingly, he also appears to know who I am.
“Right,” I confirm, grasping his offered palm.
He holds my hand for a few seconds longer than necessary, lightly grazing my knuckles with his thumb.
“I was hoping you’d wind up playing in my stadium,” Brady comments.
When Boston first announced the Siege as the latest expansion team, it was rumored we’d play our games at LibertyStadium. Thanks to private donations and investors willing to bet big on women’s sports, we wound up with a brand-new facility. This season at least, we’ve made it worthwhile. We won our final home game before the summer break, 3–1, in front of a sold-out crowd earlier.
I shrug a shoulder. “It was too small.”
Brady laughs. It’s a nice sound, low and deep. The expression on his face has changed, morphing from arrogance to admiration. “I guess I’ll have to stop by yours sometime. Check it out.”
“You should,” I say, not to encourage his flirting, but because I know it’ll be excellent publicity if he follows through and shows up at a Siege game.
