Page 27 of Love and Other Goals

The joy of this game I once loved so much expands through every cell of my body. Without even thinking about it, my arms raise as though holding a bow and shooting an arrow into the goal—my token score celebration, once upon a time.

I hear Mateo’s loud cheer seconds before he whirls me around in celebration. “Yesssss, Lana!” he says, then wags his finger at the guys. “Now you see what it’s like to be caught off guard by her skills.”

Laughing but also winded (this is the most I’ve sprinted in a while!), I bend down with my hands on my knees, gasping in oxygen as I smile up at Andrès and Chris.

“That’s it, we know you’re pulling out all the stops. No more going easy,” Chris says with a grin.

What follows can only be described as one of the most fun experiences of my entire college career. I’m surprised by how quickly my brain unlocks the closed soccer compartment and unleashes all the muscle memory I have in order to keep up with the guys.

We’re equal parts seriously competing, laughing, and trash talking as we go back and forth on the field. Andrès and Chris are up 4-3, and Mateo is fighting Chris to keep the ball to try to tie up the score. He does a lightning-fast pullback to get the ball away from Chris before passing it toward me in the corner of the box.

Andrès is sprinting next to me to try to reach the ball first when we suddenly hear, “Alvarez! Garcia! Garrett! What do you knuckleheads think you’re doing?”

We quickly stop short and swivel our bodies to the office building, where Coach Anderson is standing. Looking not too happy.

“Out here goofing off with no cleats, no shin guards, no nothing. One of you idiots is going to wind up rolling an ankle and ruining our season!” Coach yells as the three guys sheepishly hang their heads.

“Sorry Coach, it was my fault,” Mateo yells back. “We’ll head out right now.”

“See you at practice tomorrow—early, for ten extra laps,” Coach adds before turning back to the building.

The four of us are out of breath with our hands on our knees or above our heads. I exhale. “Sorry about that, guys.”

They look at each other and grin. “Totally worth the extra laps!” Andrès says, as he and Chris give me high fives. “This was awesome. We’ll have a rematch after soccer season is over, so you’re not too sad about losing.”

“Whatever man. Lana was totally about to score, I could sense it,” Mateo says as he throws an arm over my shoulders. I’m grateful that my cheeks are already flushed from running so the guys don’t know how much I’m blushing at his touch.

“Sure, sure, you can tell yourself that all you want till you get to prove it!” Chris teases as they wave and head toward the parking lot.

Mateo turns to me. “So, you still want to go out to the trail?”

I shake my head. “Nope, I’d say that counts as sufficient physical exercise for this date.” Mateo chuckles as his dimple pops, making me smile. “I have a better idea—let’s go get slushies.”

There’s a gas station on the edge of campus that has the mother of all slushie machines. There are ten different flavors, but more importantly, the machine runs on some kind of magic that makes the texture of the slush perfectly smooth without a hint of chunky ice. Similar enchantment keeps the flavor evenly dispersed, so you’re never left with a sad pile of barely-flavored ice.

“What the lady wants, she gets,” Mateo says, tossing the soccer ball back to the sideline. We head to his truck and drive toward the campus gas station. The weather is not terribly hot, but he cranks up the air anyway. I lean my face toward the vent to try to dry some of the sweat on my forehead. My hair is sticking to the skin on my neck and shoulders, and it’s probably three times bigger after running around so much.

I don’t even care.

It’s a short drive, but the whole way my brain falls back in time to high school, submerged in soccer memories. Amazing wins with my team, heartbreaking losses, the roar of our families and friends cheering us on from their sideline lawn chairs. I’ve kept a lid on all those memories for the past three years, but it feels good to open it back up and breathe in the nostalgia.

Mateo parks his truck and follows me into the gas station. I head straight to the slushie machine and grab two large cups, handing one to him. He’s looking over all the flavors intently, and I elbow him in the side. “Please tell me you’ve been here for a slushie before.”

He gives me a fake grimace. “Only once freshman year. What flavor is better? Cherry Limeade or Blue Raspberry?”

I give an exaggerated sigh. “There’s only one correct way to do this.” I pull his arm over to the pop machine. “First, you have to get a splash of Vanilla Coke, just enough to give the hint of vanilla,” I say as I demonstrate how much.

Heading back over to the slushie machine, I put my cup under the Coke nozzle and begin filling. “Then, you fill it up with Coke slush. No mixing flavors. This right here is perfection.” I pop on the lid and stick in a straw.

Mateo looks at me and deadpans, “You know this is the literal opposite of hydration, right?”

“But it’s oh-so-good, especially after exercising out in the sun,” I say as I take a long sip. “Ahhh, so good.”

“Okay, but can I mix in cherry instead of vanilla? I’ve never really liked Vanilla Coke,” Mateo asks as he holds his cup under the Cherry slushie nozzle.

I bat his cup away and say with gravity. “No. Mixing. Slushie. Flavors.” He smirks at me, and I make an I’m-watching-you gesture with my fingers. “If you must have cherry instead, at least get a splash of Cherry Coke. I’ll try not to take it personally that you don’t like vanilla.”

“I surrender,” he says with a grin, and follows my instructions. We head up to the register to pay, but he stops to grab two cold water bottles first. “At least promise to drink water along with your caffeinated dehydration beverage.”

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