“Everything okay?” Saylor questions, reaching up to adjust her blue headband.
I nod. “I’m good. Just…needed a minute. Big day, you know.”
Her expression softens with sympathy. “It’s just another soccer game, Caldwell.”
That’s the crucial difference between athletes like Saylor and me. It is a soccer game. It’s also a global event that will be watched by millions, dissected by commentators, and ultimately, crown a world champion.
But if Saylor, who’s facing ten times the pressure as me—someone who isn’t even starting and might not play at all—thinks so, then I can at least fake that mentality.
I smile and nod. “I know.”
“See you in there,” Saylor says, then continues down the hall to the locker room.
I can hear the ruckus from here, the combination of nerves and excitement evident in my teammates’ loud voices as they suit up for the coming match. Sweat prickles on the back of my neck and on my palms as my heart knocks against my ribs.
I suck in a deep breath.
“It’s just another soccer game.”
One last deep inhale. I exhale as I turn the corner, headed for the locker room.
The first half of the game is a blur, right up until Sierra Sanders goes down and doesn’t stand. Blood whooshes in my ears as I watch her limp off the field, avoiding placing any weight on her ankle, supported by two members of the Team USA staff.
The official holds the board up with her number, then mine displayed, and I’m suddenly called to the pitch during a tied gold-medal match.
I run onto the field to thunderous applause. The cheering isn’t for me. It’s a rallying cry, an attempt to help buoy the entire team into a comeback.
The wall of sound is enormous. Above me. Around me. Suffocating me.
I’ve been ready during every game I’ve ever played in.
And this—thegame—feels like the exception.
My muscles feel leaden. My steps are uncoordinated as I reach my position. My nod to Ali Lewis, the closest defender, is an awkward bob.
It’s like a nightmare where everything feels wrong and detached. Except I’m wide awake. Onstage, under a spotlight, surrounded by towering stands, packed with tens of thousands of spectators.
I risk one last glance at the spectator box with reserved seats for athletes. It’s full since this is a final, and I scan every face.
He’s not here.
I told him not to come, so the crush of disappointment is ridiculous. Some part of me hoped he’d show up anyway.
Play resumes.
I focus on the game. Recall all the tournaments and travel teams and tryouts that got me here, a gold-medal match.
Saylor takes a shot that I think will make it past the Australian goalie. There’s an audible exhale of disappointment when their keeper manages to knock it to the side, keeping the score tied.
Seconds tick higher, closer and closer to the ninety-minute mark. Every time the ball winds up on the opposite end of the field, I pray it’ll end up in the net. Every time it travels this direction, I pray the score will remain the same.
And then, finally, there’s a breakaway with five minutes left. We all sprint after Mackenzie, watching a yellow jersey rush to guard her.
I’m a runner. Distance, but I have speed too. If I hadn’t wholly committed to soccer by the time high school rolled around, I would have participated in track and cross-country.
I also have fresh legs, having subbed in.
So, it’s not a massive surprise I beat most of my teammates into the offensive zone.
