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Offsides

By Lori Z. Scott

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Chapter One OFFSIDES
M
y heart throbbed in my ears, and my breath came in heavy gasps.
The Cedar Creek High School striker dribbled the ball just out of my reach, her
footwork fast. Still, I pounded after her, my face heating with exertion. My role as a center midfielder required stamina, and I drew deep on my reserves of strength to chase the girl.
Our center back, Erika, jumped into the gap between us, forcing number twenty-two to shield the ball. They battled it out with Erika employing her bulk as a weapon.
“Two minutes left!” Coach Hering boomed from the sidelines, her voice cutting through screams of teammates and fans alike. “Stay on her, Dani!”
When I heard my name, I flicked a glance to Coach. In that millisecond, I registered her pointing at twenty-two with one hand and motioning at me with the other.
My adrenaline rocketed beyond high gear. Muscles tense, I tracked my opponent, ready to spring. Motion surrounded me. Players raced to the attack. Our goalie barked out orders to the remaining defenders. The ref, a blur of yellow jersey with black pinstripes, kept pace.
Every second counted.
If Erika could force twenty-two to move laterally, there’d be an opportunity to steal the ball. Anticipating that, I darted sideways. As our opponent booted the ball toward her wing player, I intercepted the pass.
With short, choppy touches, I gained control of the ball. In my peripheral vision, bodies changed directions, targeting me. Grunting, I kicked the ball upfield to our striker, Reb. She took off, weaving her way around lunging defenders. I charged after her, gulping air.
The screaming from the sidelines rose to a fever pitch. “Shoot it!” My friend Sol’s shrill voice blared over the menagerie of noise.
A defender tripped Rebecca, but she recovered, pivoted, and reversed direction. Spotting an opening, I broke away from my defender and streaked up the middle, waving my hand. With a burst of speed, I pulled ahead.
Reb shot the ball my way. The field spread open before me. My leg made a solid connection, sending the ball arching toward the goal.
The ball zipped past the goalie into the net, and my heart soared. Score!
Screaming, I raced back toward my teammates for high fives. My brother, Nick, used to say nothing beat that feeling—driving hard, battling through sweat and fatigue and obstacles, and then scoring.
Before I took two steps, the whistle blew. The ref pointed at a spot on the field where the assistant referee held a flag out straight. “Offsides,” he said, signaling for the ball. “No goal.”
Offsides. Again? All euphoria drained out of me as the ref positioned the ball on the spot of the foul. I hated that rule. Why should it be a penalty when an offensive player received a pass beyond the last defender? Was it my fault their players were too slow?
“Dani!” Coach Hering folded her arms across her chest.
Her face held a distinct scowl. “Fall back.”
Sucking in air, I tromped to midfield, waiting for the opponents to initiate their indirect free kick.
Reb planted herself nearby. “Pass it back to me next time. I’ll make the shot.”
Next time. As if this time didn’t matter. Here’s a secret—it always mattered.
I nodded, avoiding eye contact. Her words made my stomach drop farther into the ground. Why did I always charge ahead without looking?
Our wingman, Wren, trotted up to me and patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Dani. You just got too excited.”
Too excited? How about I swooped into scoring position like a peregrine falcon while their lame defense reacted like Jell-O on a hot day? You ask me, they ought to strike offsides from the rules.
Still, we had to play by the book. And I knew better.
“My bad,” I said, willing myself to accept Wren’s comment and move on.
Twenty seconds after the ball went into play, the game ended with a disappointing 2–3 loss.
A bitter taste tainted my mouth and I stumbled to a stop. We could have forced overtime if I had held back just a little. If I’d checked myself. Too bad patience was not my superpower.
Dragging my feet, I joined my teammates by the sidelines. Coach Hering frowned, talking into the microphone on her cellphone. That was her way of taking notes about the game, dictating strategies we’d need to discuss and practice later.
“Tough game, girls. Hustle up.” Apparently, she was too intent on plotting the next move to elaborate more. She gave us a dismissive wave toward the bus.
“Coach got that right. Tough game.” Sol flicked a piece of grass off my jersey. “But you played well.”
I grunted, acknowledging the compliment.
Coach hadn’t played Sol at all. She made a better sports magazine model with her spotless jersey and dark hair swept into a crisp ponytail. Even her shin guards looked straight out of the package.
Meanwhile, my jersey was splattered with mud stains and sweat and clung to my skin. My breathing had a hitch too, like a fish out of water. “Thanks.”
I wish I had Erika’s stubborn toughness or radiated confidence like Reb, but expressing myself was another superpower I lacked. Instead, having summed up all I had to say with a simple word of gratitude, I opened my water bottle and gulped three swigs.
No one expects you to talk when you’re drinking.
“I thought for sure we were going to score there at the end,” Sol said, “but that number twenty-two, she was so destructive. I would have called a foul on her just for the way she glared at everyone.” She scowled as if mirroring the girl’s look, then broke into contagious laughter.
I chuckled, content to let the waves of Sol’s perky personality sweep over me.
My best friend and I knew our roles well. She talked. I listened. She made dramatic entrances, and I quietly closed the doors after her. She called people out, and I calmed their ruffled feathers. The balance worked, which made hanging out with Sol easy. I didn’t have to worry about filling awkward pauses, and she had a rapt audience for her stream of verbal material.
Seemingly distracted by Rebecca dumping water on her own head, Sol gave my shoulder a quick squeeze and moved on. I smiled as she worked her way around, high-fiving, commiserating, and joking.
Sol never complained about her lack of playing time. She always claimed to have joined the team for my sake. If I pushed her on it, she’d say, “Dani, we’ve been friends since kindergarten. I’m not letting your soccer addiction get in the way of that. Plus”—and here she’d channel an ’80s vibe—
“guys dig chicks who are in good shape.”
Regardless of her motivation, Sol fit seamlessly with the team. Maybe her expectations for herself were so low, sitting on the bench didn’t bother her. Or maybe she just liked being surrounded by a group of rowdy people that included me. I envied her for that outgoing bent. But whatever the reason, I couldn’t imagine a team complete without Sol.
After changing from my cleats into slides, I grabbed a box of granola bars out of my bag and joined the girls packing up their gear. Without a word, I dangled a snack in front of each one, tossing it to them if they nodded acceptance. I knew how hungry I got after a game, so I always packed extra to share.
Reb held out her hand for one, but a frown creased her face. “Have you seen my towel?”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I retraced her steps in my mind. Final time-out. Rushed drink. Grab the towel off her bag. Face mop. Sloppy toss. The rag fell between duffels and landed …
I fished behind the ball bag and scooped her missing team-colored turquoise rag from the ground. “There you go,” I said, passing it to her.
“Thanks.” Pressing her lips together, she dotted her forehead with the cloth. “You need to shut down those offsides penalties. They’re hurting us.”
“Amen, sister,” Erika said, handing me her bag. I held it while she changed her shoes. “I mean, one more step and you’ve got the score.”
Face heating, I bobbed my head. Was everyone staring at me? Had I let them down?
Reb shrugged into her sweatshirt. “Even if you hadn’t raced ahead, I doubt that defender could have stopped you. And I was open too. I might’ve scored.”
Swallowing hard, I tucked a few empty snack wrappers into the front pouch of my bag. “Yeah. I know.”
“When I played on the U10 team, our coach drilled offsides out of us. Except for those corner kicks.” Erika stretched her arms overhead, probably working out some muscle kinks before reclaiming her bag. “For those, she always told us to get directly to the ball whether there’s someone between you
and the goal or not. Do you know why?”
I did. But my tongue chose that moment to freeze.
Sol came to my rescue. “The refs won’t call offsides unless our legs get tangled. And speaking of tangles—” Sol put her hands on her hips. “Y’all look like a cyclone hit you. Anyone want me to braid their gross, sweaty hair on the way home?” A sea of hands shot into the air.
Sol smirked. “Who’s first?”
“Me!” Our goalie, Sandy, pushed forward. Her short ponytail looked like a firework explosion gone wrong. “My hair is so wigged out. I’ll never get a brush through it.”
“You got it.” Sol pointed at the other five hands that were raised. “Hmm. It looks like I’m going to be popular.”
I winced, knowing what was coming next. Growing up with Sol as a best friend meant I sat through every musical she could get her hands on … and all their soundtracks.
“Please don’t emphasize your point with a song from Wicked,” I murmured.
With a wolfish grin, she did exactly that.
“I’m gonna be pop-u-OO-lar.” Laughing, she hooked arms with our keeper and headed toward the team bus. “This will be fun. Hey, why don’t they let chickens play soccer?” Sol winked at me over her shoulder.
“Do I care?” Sandy groaned and shifted her duffle bag.
“You do,” Sol said, not missing a beat. “You care because if chickens played, there would be too many fowls on the field.” “Boo …” Sandy blew a raspberry.
I let the rest of my teammates surge pass me before falling in line behind them. When it came to the gossip afterwards, the chatter and debriefing time, listening from the shadows suited me just fine. Unlike me, the social spotlight belonged to Sol. Except on the soccer field. There, I was a glorious blaze of light.
At least when I wasn’t offsides.
I had to find some way to get my game back on track and end my senior year strong. A little extra work, a little more effort … I could do it.
“I’ll save you a seat, Dani!” Sol called. She disappeared into the bus, surrounded by teammates.
Sweat beaded on my lip, and I swiped it away with the back of my hand. Maybe I could get my social life back on track too. A little extra work, a little more effort.
A little less like introverted me and a little more like extroverted Sol. She made making friends look easy. I’d rather sprint a thousand shuttle runs being chased by mountain lions than hang out at the mall—surrounded by people but still completely alone.
Maybe this year I could learn to come out of my shell. Blend in with the crowd.
Except the bus doors shut before I reached them, and I had to knock to get on.
So … then again, maybe not.

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