Page 47 of Made Better Together

12

EDEN

The shrill of the ref’s whistle pierces through the air.

“Offside,” she declares.

Shit. I look over to my teammate, April, who made the mistake, right as we were in momentum toward the goal. A score we desperately needed to win this match, currently 2–2 with ten minutes to go.

April shakes her head at me, mouthing, “Sorry, Cap.”

A junior, she absolutely should know better in her second year starting. Not to mention, the University of Florida defenders have been using predictable traps to make us offside—that is, a violation where you’re closer to the goal than any defender other than the goalie as you’re passed the ball. The UF players have been inching up toward the midfield once we’re near them, so that it’s only the goalie between us and the net.

It’s also her fourth error of the game. I don’t want her to get in her head about that, though. So I just give her a quick smile and a dismissive wave.

Making sure she’s not feeling down doesn’t change the fact that, at this point, I need to put this win firmly on my shoulders if I want it to happen. I’ve already scored our first two goals, anyway.

Every great striker in history, woman or man, has always shown up when it counted. Our job is to convert opportunities into scores.

If I want to be great, if I want to prove I deserve a major place on the US team, if I want Tolliver to finally win the College Cup my last season—this is exactly the type of moment I need to deliver.

I push out a breath and monitor the action in the midfield. Two more minutes go by as the UF players slow the game by making safe passes and controlling possession instead of attacking. A tie, or a “draw,” over us would be considered a victory, given our ranking. Unlike during the postseason, there is no overtime.

Finally, Bree, our center mid, makes a move, probably as tired of the keepaway as I am. She cuts off one of the passes, anticipating it early, and steals the ball.

Heck yes.

She quickly dumps it to Alondra, our left back, who’s playing up, even though her position is technically a type of defender.

Because we need to score.

Bree and I make eye contact as she gets a pass back from Alondra. She’s twenty feet away near the halfway line, but I still recognize the look on her face. Years of playing together at the highest levels—I can tell exactly what’s in her head.

It’s you and me, let’s fucking go.

She doesn’t require a response, because my body language does the talking. Twisting around toward the goal, I quickly filter the position of every player around me, and then sprint out toward the right side, giving her space to dribble the ball up.

After Bree passes it back and forth with our left winger, Chloe, the ball is in her control again as she reaches the goalie box. The UF defender tries to play me tight, so I fake going right, and then run around her on the left, creating clear space to the goal, just as Bree sends me a through ball.

A move we’ve done countless times over the years, and the experience pays off. As soon as the ball touches my foot, I boot it. But in a split-second decision, I aim for the right corner of the net, a fast low shot. The more predictable angle would have been to the left side.

My strategy succeeds when the UF goalie is flat-footed for a moment, before reaching for my shot too late, as it smashes into the back of the net.

“Tolliver, three to two. Goal by Eden Larsson, assist by Bree Rogers,” calls out the announcer as my teammates crowd around me in a quick celebration.

“Great job, Cap” and “Nice assist, Bree” are repeated refrains from the group.

“Stay focused, we’re not done yet,” I instruct, as everyone breaks up.

Five minutes later, we are done, though—with the win. Still undefeated for the season.

“A tough fight out there today, but we found a way to prevail,” Coach Brenner says to the team once we’ve showered and dressed. “Proud of all of you. We’ve spotted some areas of improvement, which we’ll work on next week.”

April dips her head at that last statement.

“In the meantime, a hat trick for Eden.” The locker room fills with “whoops” and “hell yeahs.” “Do you want to say anything, Captain?”

I know the answer has to be yes, even as I feel my adrenaline crashing. So I stand and push as much energy through my voice as I can.