Page 62 of Full Tilt
How I got my fingertips on that strike will forever remain a mystery to me.
That’s my exact thought as I stand beneath the jet stream of my postgame shower and replay the final three minutes of the last game of the regular season.
Maybe it was good timing on my part? I have a good leap on me, thanks to my obsession with plyometric training, or maybe the Orlando Waves center forward didn’t put as much power as she usually does behind the shot. She could’ve scuffed the ground before she connected with the ball.
Either way, I made the fucking save, and we take home the shield for the first time in our team’s history. It’s seismic, life-changing, and I get to captain a league-winning team next season.
As I squeeze the shampoo from the tips of my hair, it feels like the smile I’m wearing has been absent for way too long.
“Babe, your cell keeps ringing over and over.” Kendra’s bright voice cuts through the billowing steam in my shower stall.
Reaching over the door, I grab my towel and wrap it around my chest.
“It’s Holt,” she confirms when I open the door and step into the changing area. “He wants to be the first to congratulate you.”
Her smile is as wide as my own when she hands me my phone and blows me a kiss before pushing through the door into the locker room.
“All right, superstar.” I don’t know how my brother can tell I’m listening when I put the phone to my ear, and he immediately starts speaking. “That save was wild, and it’s all over social media.”
My stomach churns with a mixture of excitement and nerves. While our sport gets some exposure online, it’s rare for it to trend like Holt is suggesting.
I snag another fluffy white towel from a hook next to the mirrors and begin drying my hair, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder to free up both hands.
“By ‘all over social media,’ I assume you mean it’s been covered by a couple of news outlets, and our former neighbor shared it to his Facebook?” I say, trying to play it cool.
Holt just snorts out a laugh. “You never were good with having the attention on you, Jen. I think it’s fair to say that there are a few more than just a couple of news channels reporting on the game. Orion Hardman just went really bold—claiming your winning save was one of the best of all time.”
I practically choke on my own tongue.
“Umm … come again? You meantheOrion Hardman? The same Orion Hardman who captained London Villa to three separate Champions League titles as well as England to World Cup victory?”
Even though I can’t see him, I know my brother well enough to recognize when he’s smiling, and right now, I have no doubt.
“Yes. That Orion Hardman. The English goalkeeper you still have plastered on your bedroom ceiling back in Mom’s house.”
Immediately, my smile falters. The game wrapped up well over an hour ago, yet still no word from my parents. Dad—I never really expect much from him. I doubt he’d even show to my own wedding. I guess I always hold out some hope that Mom watches my games. She says she does when we speak on occasion, but normally, that’s when I call on her birthday, or vice versa.
Today was the biggest day of my career. Bigger than any World Cup game. Winning the shield has been at the top of my bucket list forever.
“She said she’s going to call you later tonight.”
Like he can read my mind, Holt’s voice pulls me back from a spiral.
Grabbing my shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, I zip them into my wash bag.
“No offense, but I’ve heard that promise from her a few times.”
“She hasn’t been well,” he replies on a breath. “She caught that flu virus that’s been going around and has been out of action for weeks.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I reply. “Still, it doesn’t account for the other twenty-seven years of my life.”
I sound bitter in my retort, and that’s something I’ve always tried not to be—bitter or resentful toward Holt. I know he doesn’t deserve my attitude; it’s not his fault that she calls him weekly. He didn’t ask to be put in this position.
“Why don’t you call her?” he suggests, which does kind of piss me off.
When I push through into the locker room, there’s only our current captain, Hollie Browne, remaining as she packs up her kit bag and silently motions toward the exit.
I give her a thumbs-up, confirming I’ll meet everyone in the players’ lounge before we head out for celebratory drinks.
