Page 29 of Hotshot

Sloane’s skin flared hot as her friend stepped into the centre of the team circle, and Lucy stepped back. Sloane couldn’t think of anyone better to do this. Ella was a scholar of the game, and she was wise beyond her years. She was also calm. She made Sloane calm. She had the same effect on everyone she met.

“I want to tell you a story.” Ella cast her gaze around the circle. As her rich, hazel eyes met Sloane’s, she stopped for a millisecond, but then carried on.

Sloane took a breath. She appreciated that extra attention, no matter how small. Sloane’s radar wanted Ella on it every chance she got.

“You know me as your performance coach. A mentor. But in my past life, I was a footballer, just like you. A good one, too. Creative midfield was my position, just like Welshy and Layla.” She pointed at Rovers’ numbers seven and eight, the engine room of the team. Millie Welsh gave her a grin in return.

“But when I was 19, I was playing a match and went in for a 50-50 tackle. Just as I had a thousand times before. Only on this day, my knee wobbled, something popped, and I went down writhing in pain. I knew it was bad, but I didn’t know how bad. I’d torn my ACL.” Ella took a moment to let her words sink in.

Sloane’s breath stalled. How did she not know this? Maybe she hadn’t been a very good friend so far, after all. She made a note to ask for more details.

“Back then, we had little to no support for the women’s team. I had the NHS for treatment, but that was it. There were no specialists on hand, no club doctor to consult. The women’s teams didn’t have physios or facilities to rehab like you have today. I went in for the operation, but it didn’t go well. In fact, I had to go back in a couple of months later. Then, I had to rehab solo.” She waved a hand around the dressing room. “I was left to my own devices. Because of the botched operation, my knee didn’t recover in the projected time period, and I was let go by Rushton City.”

There was an intake of breath around the dressing room from everyone. Including Sloane. What a nightmare for Ella. Did she still feel robbed of her career? Sloane knew she might.

“But I wasn’t giving up. I worked on my fitness, got a job in a call centre to pay the rent, and signed for East Hampton. I had high hopes. I’d been an England prospect before my injury. I was determined to get back there.

“However, my knee had other ideas. It never felt right. I worked my way back into the reserves, played a few games for the senior team, but always as a sub. Plus, I knew I was playing with nerves. Not with the same bravery and gusto I once had.

“Halfway through the season, my knee gave way, and I had to stop playing. When I went back to the hospital, they told me I’d damaged my tendons and ligaments around the ACL again, and the knee would always be weak and injury-prone. They recommended I not play professional sport again. My next injury—and there would be one—would be worse, and the one after that even more so. I could still kick a ball and train, but professional-level sport was not in my future anymore.”

Sloane couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Ella had everyone’s attention for what came next.

“I’m telling you this not to gain your sympathy. Injuries happen. Medical fuck-ups happen. I’ve got a great alternative career now, plus I understand what it takes to be a footballer. The sacrifices you make. The work you put in. But it can be taken away in a second. Yes, you have better facilities these days, full-time coaches for the physical and the mental aspects of your game, but bodies haven’t changed. Especially female bodies when it comes to ACL injuries.

“My point? Live every moment like it’s your last. Chase every ball. Close down every player. Run the extra metre, bust a gut to get that cross in. Because tomorrow, you might not play again. This holds especially true when you play in a local derby. Go out there and play this game as if you’re never going to play again. Leave it all out there on the pitch. Win this fucking game for the fans, but most of all, for yourselves. Are you ready?”

Ella didn’t wait for an answer.

“Then let’s fucking go and win!”

A roar from the whole group and everyone clapped their hands and stamped their feet. Ella’s words were perfect and had provided the necessary motivation.

“Let’s do it for Ella!” Sloane shouted, and the whole team clapped again.

Ella, cheeks flushed from her speech, caught her gaze and gave Sloane the softest of smiles. One she’d never given her before. The effect worked its way from the tips of Sloane’s fingers to the studs of her boots. She hoped she hadn’t blushed fire-truck-red, too.

“Thank you,” Ella mouthed.

“Thankyou,” Sloane mouthed back.

* * *

Sloane could feelthe energy crackling off the surface of the field, as well as from the crowd. After winning the Euros in the summer, the initial excitement around women’s soccer had endured. Plus, with Salchester Rovers contesting the top spot in the league, their attendances were promising. Both stands either side of the field were stacked with strong numbers of red home shirts as well as Rovers’ blue, and the biggest noise came from the stalwart fans behind the goal, roaring their teams on as they ran out. They’d sold over 20,000 tickets for this local derby, which was impressive. Even more reason to win this for the fans.

Their rivals stood, hands on hips, breathing frosty fumes into the sharp November air. Sloane barely registered the temperature. On game days, she was impervious. She glanced over to the sidelines, where Ella gave Welshy a thumbs-up. Sloane wanted to win this for the fans, for herself, but most of all for Ella, and for all the Ellas before and after her.

The whistle sounded and they were off.

The first ten minutes flew by in a wave of hard-fought tackles, the ball mainly sticking in the centre of the field. Sloane only had a few touches, with the opposition nailing their game plan, not willing to let her and Nat have any space in their final third.

Right now, the ball was out on the right wing, and Sloane stood close to her marker, a tall woman named Katy Dempsey who she’d never met before, but who didn’t seem at all intimidated by her. Sloane was impressed. Dempsey couldn’t have been more than 21. If the shoe was on the other foot, Sloane wasn’t sure she’d be the same.

All of a sudden, Welshy had the ball and broke from her marker with a burst of speed. She had that in her game. Sloane jinked one way, then the other, then back again to get Dempsey in the mood. She did it once, twice, three times. Then just when Dempsey thought she was going to do it again, she went the other way and turned on the after-burners, imagining she was Roadrunner in the cartoon.Beep Beep!As she ran, she glanced over her right shoulder, hoping Welshy had spotted her run. She had.

In seconds, the ball sailed over Sloane’s right shoulder, and bounced into her path with the perfect weight. Welshy could thread a ball as good as the best. Sloane heard her marker’s boots thunder on the grass somewhere near her, but she took the ball in her stride, trapped it, then looked up to assess her options. Just outside the penalty area. Nat to her right. Goalkeeper closing down her angles. She had a split second to decide what to do.

As the goalkeeper advanced, Sloane hit the ball with the outside of her right boot into Nat’s path, then darted left just in case there was anything to mop up. She saw the whites of the keeper’s eyes and heard the expletive that left her lips as she lunged left to grab the ball from Nat’s feet, but it was too late. Nat drew back her right foot, and the sweet sound of her boot connecting with the ball filled Sloane’s ears. When she looked ahead, the net billowed, and she threw both hands in the air as the stands all around erupted in cheers. Sloane was the first player Nat reached, and she jumped into her arms.

---