Page 67 of End Game

“It’s a date,” he says.

My traitorous heart thumps loudly in my chest, so loud I swear he can hear it.

“I should get ready for my game,” I finally tell him.

He blinks. “Right. Duh. Your game. Good luck, Dee. You’re going to do awesome.”

I offer him a winning smile. “Of course I will.”

Shaking his head, he laughs. “Never change, babe.”

Rolling my eyes, I pat him on the chest and turn on my heel, heading for the locker room. Inside, most of my teammates are in the midst of getting changed. Terri and Zoe enter behind me, heading towards their lockers.

Johanna looks up from her locker and narrows her eyes at me. “You’re late.”

“I know.”

“Where were you?”

“I got held up.” I can’t tell her I was with Barrett—I’m not exactly sure what went down between them, just that it didn’t go well, and neither of them are talking.

She scoffs in derision and, on cue, her minions roll their eyes and scoff, too.

Heading to my locker, I lock eyes with Emma, who rolls her eyes—this time at the theatrics, not at my being five minutes late to an optional pre-game warm-up. Technically, it is only recommended that we warm up together as a team before the game—they can’t force us to do it together. I like to prep with a quick yoga session and a sedate jog earlier in the day, before the more earnest warm-up and stretching session immediately before we play.

The dissent in the ranks has only grown more pronounced since I’ve befriended Emma and the defensive squad. Before Johanna could claim that it was only a few of the underclassmen who weren’t cooperating; now it’s more than half of the team that’s visibly fed up with her bullshit.

Coach Larsen is in her office, in theory, keeping an eye on things. In practice, she’s checked out. We haven’t won a game all season, after three consecutive losing seasons. She’s holding onto her job by a thread. It wouldn’t surprise me if she doesn’t last the remainder of the season.

When we take the field for warm ups, there are only a handful of people in the stands: Barrett, his teammates, and a few scattered friends and family members. Less than a dozen people in total. He cheers and waves, and Johanna rolls her eyes again. I’m so done with her. If I never saw her again, it wouldn’t break my heart. But not only is she my team captain, she’s one of my roommates; like it or not, I’m stuck with her, at least until the end of the year.

The game itself is brutal. Bea melts down and trips over her own two feet on what should be an easy goal kick and instead turns into a three on one charge to overpower her and land a shot right in the uppermost left corner, her well documented weak side.

It’s 0-1 with five minutes gone, and it only gets worse from there.

Emma and I stick it out as best we can. I get subbed halfway through the first half, and as I stand on the sidelines and drink my water, I realize something. This isn’t fun anymore. I’m not enjoying this. I still love soccer, don’t get me wrong. But playing for this team, playing for this school, playing with these women… I don’t love it. Maybe we got off to a bad start. Maybe we started on the wrong foot. It’s not getting better. I like Emma and Terri and Zoe and all the girls. On my best days, I can only tolerate Johanna and the minions.

We don’t gel, though. We get along off the field, but when we’re in the middle of a game, it’s like we lose all capability of communicating. We stop being strong, confident, capable women and instead turn into a lackluster team that can’t get our shit together.

It’s almost a relief when the game is over. It shouldn’t be that way. I used to love soccer with all my heart. Now it’s like a lukewarm fondness, more for nostalgia’s sake than any actual emotions left over.

“C’mon,” I say to Emma, throwing my arm around her shoulder. “We’re going out tonight.”

“We are?” We don’t normally go out, especially after such a horrific loss.

“I need pizza. Like, in an IV,” I tell her, and she laughs.

“Yeah, okay.”

Because we’re still in the locker room, and technically the coaching staff could overhear us, I leave out the part about us going drinking—that part is implied.

“My friend is going to meet up with us. He might bring some guys, too.” I look out at the rest of my team. I get a weird thrill of being the person with all the friends, all the connections. This hasn’t happened before.

"Are they hot?” asks Zoe.

“Are they single?” asks Terri.

I laugh. “Two are single, one is basically a monk, and the other guys are in relationships.” I conveniently leave Barrett off the list. Let them think he’s off limits. “But they know people. How’s Sully?”