Page 92 of Rock Bottom Girl
Jake: You look crazy tense. Chillax. Be encouraging.
I responded with a thumbs-up emoji and took the time to roll out my shoulders, shaking out my arms. He was right. Taking a deep breath, I did my best to relax. I high-fived the midfielder that came out of the game on a substitution and shouted words of encouragement and athletic brand slogans.
Little by little, our offense started to come to life. Natalee mounted our first attack on the Blue Jays’ goal. We came away with a corner kick. Something we’d practiced hundreds of times. But never under the lights during a home game. Never in front of an audience.
Our midfielder paced off the ball, eyeing the goal. My front line had forgotten our practiced formation of starting at the penalty box and running at the goal. Instead, they stood flat-footed and nervous in front of the goal, jockeying with the defense for position.
“MOVE, LADIES!”
“Get your rears in gear!” Vicky echoed.
As if awakening from a trance, the girls backed off the goal.
“We’re going to have to run that drill a million more times,” I grumbled.
“Or give up and drink margaritas after school every day.”
“That plan has merit.”
The whistle blew, and the midfielder booted the ball up, up, up. My line was moving.
“Get a head on it!” I shrieked.
It looked like a clump of Jays were going to come up with it, but then I saw Libby’s dark head moving gracefully through time and space.
Everything went silent in my brain except for the laborious ca-clunk ca-clunk of my heart. I saw forehead meet ball. I saw the goalie jumping, arms outstretched, and then—
“What the fuck just happened?” Vicky screamed.
“I don’t fucking know!” I was screaming, too. So was the rest of the stadium.
“Holy shit! She fucking scored!” Vicky howled.
“Watch your mouth, Coach,” the linesman said as he jogged down the sideline.
“Can’t fucking help it, Clarence,” Vicky squealed.
The players were off the bench and on their feet. Libby was jogging back to midfield blasé AF, like she was just out for a stroll under the lights.
One by one, the girls on the field approached her for dignified high-fives.
It was 1-0, and we werewinning.
She did it again five minutes later. When her left purple cleat sent the ball into the lower corner of the net just inches from the goalie’s gloves, I peeked a look over my shoulder. Steffi Lynn was glowering from her seat in the bleachers. Next to her, Lisabeth brushed her hair over one shoulder and took a duck-lipped selfie and ignored the world around her. Coach Vince looked constipated.
The celebrations were slightly more enthusiastic this time. Slaps on the back and fist pumps ensued.
At half-time, we were tied up 2-2. But it felt like a win to me.
“Sophie G., really nice tackle last quarter. 87 keeps beating you down the field. If you need to, swap coverage with Angela on number 43. Ruby, great job getting open in the middle. Offense, keep an eye out for her. See if you can feed her the ball,” I said, guzzling water for my sore throat. I wasn’t used to forty-five straight minutes of shouting.
They were all looking at me like I’d just ridden up on a unicorn.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re being really coachy,” Phoebe observed.
“Well, you guys are being really teamy. You’re working together.”
