Page 132 of Play For Me

But my brain doesn't seem to care.

I overthink my first run, keeping the ball when I had room to pass. Now the defender is up in my face and she smirks widely as she gets possession. I sprint after her, shouldering her harder than necessary when I catch up.

The whistle blows.

"Seriously?" I snap, throwing my hands up. The referee points the other way. My first foul of the game.

Coach catches my eye from the sideline. She presses her hands down, a clear signal.Calm down.

Easy for her to say.

Five minutes later, I misjudge a cross that should have been an easy finish. Instead, my shot sails harmlessly over the bar. Groans ripple through the crowd but I don’t look up. I don’t want to see my family’s reaction. I don’t want to see my teammates’ expressions, so I keep my head down as I jog into position.

My chest feels tight. It’s everything I can do to keep from panicking, and I don’t even know why. I’ve been desperate to get back to playing after the last few weeks sitting out. I freaking live for tournament soccer, the excitement, the stakes, the pressure. But today, those things aren’t spurring me on. They’re choking me.

The next time their outside back gets the ball, I chase her down, determined to get back into this. She taps it past me and for one stupid second all I can think about is how everyone is watching. Watching me play like crap. Watching me hesitate.

Everyone except for Solomon, because he couldn’t even be bothered to be here.

I stick out a leg.

It’s not enough to hurt her. Just enough to make her stumble a little. Get some of this raging aggression out of my body.

The ref feels differently. There’s another whistle. That’s foul number two.

The defender flashes me a grin as she gets up. “Having a rough day, superstar?”

I tell her exactly where she can shove that comment. And because that’s the kind of day I’m having, the referee is close enough to hear it.

"That's enough,” she says. “You need to watch it, Ransome.”

I nod like I understand, but a ball of frustration is lodged in my chest and I have no idea how to push it down.

The rest of the half goes on like that. I play messy, alternating between too timid and way too aggressive. Every time I get that flash of fear—don’t step wrong, don’t twist, careful of your knee!— I retaliate by going too hard, too reckless.

It happens right before the end of the half. A loose ball near midfield with a defender closing in fast. I should pull up, get into better position to fight for possession. Instead, I barrel in late, clipping an opponent's ankle after she's already played the ball away.

The whistle comes instantly and my stomach drops. The yellow card flashes in front of my face and I feel like I’m going to throw up. For a moment the entire stadium seems to go quiet, but I’m pretty sure that’s only because my ears are ringing so loudly.

"CeCe," Helen hisses from behind me. "Get it together."

I want to tell her that I'm trying, that I don’t know what’s wrong with me or how to fix it. That my nerves feel stretched tight, like I might snap at any moment, andstillthere’s that stupid little voice in my head telling me to watch my knee.

And Solomon isn’t here.

Maybe that’s for the best. At least he doesn’t know how much of a mess I am right now. How after all his hard work getting me ready to play, I’m now one bad decision away from a red card. One bad decision away from leaving this game with nothing to show for it.

“I need a minute,”I tell Coach Carla as I pass her on my way to the locker room at the half. I know she’ll be wanting to pull me aside and lay into me, but I honestly might lose it if I can’t be by myself for a minute.

She nods, her expression grim. “Take a breath. Try to get it together.”

I find an empty equipment room, thank God, and no one follows me in. I give into the urge to slam the door behind me as hard as I can. When that does nothing to ease the pressure in my chest, I grab a random cone and throw it hard against the wall, letting out a curse.

Then I slump onto a low cabinet, breathing hard, and put my head in my hands.

When I hear the door click open, I’m tempted to start yelling. I don’t need a pep talk from one of my teammates, I don’t need a lecture, I don’t need?—

“Cecelia.”