Page 146 of With the Assist

Every touch feels intentional. I find space before it’s open, sending balls through seams that most people hesitate to even look at. My legs burn from tracking back hard, pressing when I need to, and finishing anytime the chance comes. At one point, I catch Coach Folley’s eye as he gives me the smallest nod, like he’d been hoping I’d play like this.

By the time the scrimmage ends, my lungs burn, and sweat has soaked my hair through. Regardless, I jog off the field, refusing to show how tired I am.

In the locker room, the energy is looser now. Everyone is thrumming with the adrenaline that comes after laying it all out on the line and knowing there is nothing left we can do.

Jess catches my eye across the room and lifts her brows in a silent question. I shake my head once. She rolls her eyes but waves as she leaves.

I peel off my socks so that I can slide my shin guards off, forearms resting on my thighs. My phone buzzes in my bag, but I don’t check it. It’s probably Avery pestering me about how the scrimmage went or Harper asking me how I’m doing. I don’t feel like dealing with anyof it, because it always leads to more questions. Questions that I don’t want to answer.

When the room starts to clear, I sit on the bench contemplating my evening. It’s only seven, and there’s too much day left to go sit in my hotel room. I retape my ankle, fingers moving automatically. The joint aches, but it’s a clean pain. Earned. I pull my cleats back on instead of putting them in my bag, grab my water bottle, and head back out.

The field looks different when it’s empty.

The sun has dipped enough that the light is golden, stretching long across the field. I jog the perimeter slowly at first. A cool down to keep my muscles loose, while I reminisce on the past week.

This is it.

This is everything I ever wanted.

Futures Camp. The National Team. The success I’ve always dreamed of.

I jog another lap. Another lap in, and I’m still waiting for the excitement to hit. When it doesn’t, my pace picks up. My strides lengthen, breathing growing more ragged. I cut across the field and push harder, legs burning as I break into a run, then faster, chasing something I can’t quite name.

The ache is still there.

I sprint until my lungs scream and my vision blurs. Moving until there’s nothing left in my head but the sound of my own breathing and the thud of my feet. When I finally slow, it’s at midfield. I bend over, hands on my knees, sweat dripping onto the white line.

It doesn’t go away.

My legs give out, and I drop onto my back, arms spread, staring up at the sky. The grass is warm beneath me. I stretch my calves and hamstrings on autopilot. This is what I’ve always dreamed of.

I keep repeating it, thinking that if I do it enough, it won’t feel so empty.

A door slams somewhere behind me.

I sit up as Coach Folley comes onto the field with his hands in his pockets. His posture is relaxed, but somehow, he’s still intimidating.He stops a few feet away, eyes scanning me with the quiet assessment I’ve come to recognize.

“You were excellent today,” he says.

“Thank you, sir.”

“This is who I expected to meet at that one-on-one.”

My stomach tightens. “I’m sorry about that. Again. I know apologies don’t fix it, but…”

He lifts a hand. “Not needed.” His mouth curves slightly. “You’ve more than proved yourself this week. I’m glad it was only a mistake.”

I swallow.

Mistake.

The word settles uncomfortably in my chest. My gaze drifts back up to the sky, clouds barely moving. It’s like I’m bleeding out slowly from a self-inflicted wound.

Because it didn’t feel like a mistake.

It still doesn’t.

That night, I felt alive in a way that even this doesn’t touch. Happy in a way that isn’t earned or ranked. There was no pressure, just wanting and something real enough to hold on to.