Falling into Place(24)

The whistle blew.

Usually, soccer allowed her to forget. She fell in love with the sport because of the way it consumed her, swallowed her whole, grabbed all her attention and stored it in a sphere that they chased and kicked and passed between them like a secret. She obsessed over the unpredictability. She was wholly addicted to the adrenaline.

Once, a yearbook reporter had asked Liz to describe her favorite part of soccer. What came to her mind was this: the moment when her foot connected with the ball at the perfect angle, with exactly enough force and just the right timing. It was a rare thing, and it was from those exceedingly rare moments that her weird zeal for soccer took root and grew into something immense. She got this feeling of rightness after every beautiful pass, every soaring shot. She could never exactly describe it, but it reminded her of snapping the last piece of a puzzle into place or pushing a key into a lock, of being utterly certain, somehow, that this was it. In those moments, the world held its breath and everything fit, and she stood in the middle of it all, knowing.

During the interview, however, what she said was this: “Winning.”

In this game, neither happened.

They were righteously slaughtered. The first half was downright embarrassing. When they went back to the locker room at halftime, the scoreboard flashed 4-0 at their backs.

They were getting desperate by the time they gave up another goal five minutes into the second half, Liz especially. She had wanted today to be the one to change her mind. She had hoped to have one of those connecting moments, to look around and remember that the world made sense, that some things fell apart so better things could fall together.

But her passes were messy and all of her shots went wide.

Within the first ten minutes of the second half, the team had received six yellow cards. Ellen Baseny got a red card for telling the referee to f*ck himself, and two fans were ejected for mooning.

Liz went in for a goal. They were down 5-1 now with two minutes left, and she knew it was a lost cause. Who cared? She was a lost cause, and she was trying, wasn’t she?

One of the defenders from the other team muttered, “Don’t miss again, skank.”

Then she laughed.

And Liz aimed for her instead.

Had the defender been familiar with Liz Emerson’s reputation, she would have kept her mouth shut. Not just Liz’s reputation as a person, but also her reputation of having the hardest kick in the state.

The defender was rushed to the emergency room.

Liz was given a yellow card. The referee decided that Liz hadn’t meant to do it—she had been trying to score, after all, and the defender had been in the way.

And Liz Emerson got away with one more thing.

The final whistle sounded, but she stayed on the field for a while. She looked around the fluorescent dome, at the cleat marks on the grass, and she didn’t want to move. She was so tired. She didn’t want to move ever again.

Eventually, though, she went to the locker room to peel off her sweaty jersey, prepared to go home and maybe dig around in her mother’s wine cabinet and take a few shots on the white couch. But when she got there, everyone was laughing.

“Damn, Liz, you freaking pegged her. Dude, that was amazing.”

“Surgery. The bitch has to get surgery.”

“Hell, yeah. She deserves it.”

It made her sick. Liz closed her eyes for a moment as she shoved everything back into her bag. God. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t even remember. It had been plain stupid, and not just that, it had been cruel. The other girl would have to pay for surgery, physical therapy, and she’d definitely be sitting out the season.

Liz imagined the situation being reversed. She imagined missing the entire season, not even having soccer to take her mind off things—

Liz walked out of the sports club and stood in the frigid air. She felt a bead of sweat freeze as it made its way down her spine, and she tilted her head back to look at the sky and asked, Why?

Then she got into her car, and on her way home, it struck her that she hadn’t signed up as an organ donor. She hadn’t wanted to when she got her license—her body was hers. She slammed her brakes and turned sharply, flipped off the guy who beeped, and headed for the local clinic.

Five minutes later, the clipboard of paperwork lay in her lap. Her fingers were wrapped tightly around the pen, and her eyes were closed. In her head, she made a list. It was titled Things I’ve Done Right, and this was the first item.

In a week, she thought, I will have two.