5 - Seventeen

5

Seventeen

I f the past few days showed me anything, it was that when faced with the unexpected, I was not as steadfast as I hoped. Thankfully, today was game day. And that field, under stadium lights or the sun, was the one place I never wavered.

Once my feet hit the grass, everything else fell away.

The locker room before practice was always animated, but the locker room before a game is one of my favorite places in the world. Everyone becomes the best version of themselves. Pre-game post-warm-up rituals are frantic yet composed. Still professional. There's always an undercurrent of adrenaline in the room. It's chaos, but it's chaos that could only be created by women who all absolutely love what they get to do for a living and who all absolutely love each other. Not to say we're perfect…but on game day, it feels like we are.

Aside from practice, I haven't spoken to Viv or Maazina since all the drama. We and Sylvia don't usually go a day without talking in our chaotic group chat, aptly named the Idiot Brigade. But that doesn't mean they don't show up for me anyway. And I for them.

Sylvia, as always, is eating her pregame snack of her sour snakes and sour Skittles, while Viv sits behind her, pulling her long, black hair into a braid. Viv's already done mine, pulled the front hair into two braids and back into a curly ponytail. Maazina sits next to me re-wrapping her ankle. We've already been on the field, put touches on the ball, and seen the crowd begin to enter the stadium—now it's just a waiting game until we're in formation on the field.

When Maazina finishes, she pulls out the soft pretzel from her bag and splits it in half, handing me my section. I blow her a kiss, trying not to smile and failing when she makes a huge deal of trying to catch it.

"You're an idiot."

Maazina smiles, the freckles that dust the entirety of her face spreading as she does. "Yes, but I am your idiot."

"You're the entire team's idiot," Vivian deadpans. The best part about Viv is the nonchalant way she says almost everything—so only the people closest to her know if she's joking or serious. Lucky for us, we are those people.

"Yes—but I am specifically Ro's idiot first."

I wrap my arm around her neck and pull her in tight. "True. She is mine before the rest of the team's."

Vivian smiles as she finishes up Sylvia's braid, stealing herself a gummy in return. The locker room doors open. Coach Teller, Coach Laurel, and my dad enter, all eyes on them. It takes a moment, but the emotion finally shows on Coach Teller's face, her eyes lighting up as she claps against the clipboard in her hand until it echoes as she steps into the room.

"Captains."

Thalia and I stand up. "Yes, Coach?"

Her eyes flicker between us both until a confident smile pulls at her lips. "Ready to lead this team to ten wins?"

It doesn't sound like much, but women's soccer only has on average a twenty-two-game season. We've only lost two. And we currently have an eight-game win streak. The best in the league.

"Yes, Coach."

The room bustles with adrenaline.

"And all this talk of Philly sports getting so close only to lose. Getting halfway only to falter. This is the most attention this team—a women's soccer team—has gotten from its own city. Well…" Coach Teller turns, eyes landing on every one of us. "Let's go out there and give them something to keep talking about, huh?"

Teller strides back to the door, her speech kept short and sweet, and takes another look. "Shirts tucked in. Heads on straight. Eyes on the prize. I want a championship. And I know you do, too. This is one step closer. Let's get it done."

She pulls open the locker room door, and wordlessly, we exit, falling into formation in the cool darkness of the tunnel. Light streams into the dark corridor as we approach the entrance. Sadly, we might never get the roar of a crowd that men's teams do—unless it's the World Cup or the Olympics—but the claps we do get are still exciting, and seeing people in the stands will never get old. Especially little girls all dressed up in their garb, holding the hands of their parents who brought them here.

Everything from exiting the tunnel to the first whistle always passes in a blur. Lining up, playing the anthem, and getting into one last huddle, it's all just the lead-up. More time for the adrenaline to build. On game days, I swear the world is brighter. It always feels like playing for the first time.

Everyone has their favorite type of game day.

Maazina is a sun goddess. It doesn't matter how hot it is or how cold it is, all that girl wants is the sun. Sylvia likes playing in the pouring rain, but only if we're playing on grass and not turf. While I do love playing in the mud as much as any soccer player, my favorite days are the cloudy days when the sun is fighting to peek through the clouds but falling just short. Even more so, a cloudy day in the fall or the winter. The breeze, the chill in the air reminding us to stay warm—there's just something about it.

Anyway, the point is, everyone has a perfect game day. Even if someone says they don't, it's a lie. Doesn't matter what sport, doesn't matter if it's inside or out, every athlete has a favorite. Maybe for some, it's a feeling, and for others, it's the weather. But the best part, even when it's not the perfect day, some part of it is still perfect because we all get to do what we love for a living. It's not easy, and it's not always great, but it's what we love.

Taking a glance around the circle, it's nice to be surrounded by people who love the same thing I do. We all got here in different ways, we all chose the sport for different reasons and fell in love with it in our own ways, but we all got here.

Our hands come into the huddle, landing on each other in harmony. "One, two, three, Royals!"

Like a well-oiled machine, we fall into step as we jog onto the field, the other team already in position. The burnt-orange away jerseys they're wearing are speckled over the green, jarring in opposition while the sun reflects off our white home uniforms, making the deep purple accents shimmer. I take my position at the head of the defensive diamond, Sylvia on my left, Viv behind me, having my back like always, and Maazina on the right. My right-hand man.

She glances over at me, a smile on her face—as always. "Hey, your butt looks good." Then, with a swift glance to the coaches, she sticks her tongue out at me.

A laugh bubbles out, a lightness washing over me. "Yeah, I know it does." Maazina wiggles her eyebrows. "Only ‘cause you tell me all the time."

She rolls her shoulders. "Somebody ought to. Love you," she sings.

"Yeah, love you, too." With a shake of my head, I turn forward, eyes on the ball being placed on the midline. I rock onto my tiptoes, the adrenaline flowing strong and steady.

The whistle is shrill, but it fades quickly as we take control of the ball. The other team is quick to follow, but right now, we're in charge. Malia, our star forward, swipes it out from under the foot of the opponent, calmly passing it to center field, landing at Kendall's feet. We control the pace. Slow and steady at first. I receive the ball and dribble it up, using the outer curve of my foot with perfect control. Kendall falls back to my position as Stella, the right mid, and I make our way up the field.

"Switch!" I shout, and we weave into each other's positions, one of this team's strengths. We all have our spots. But we've trained for moments like this—when the opportunity is presented, we won't miss it for the simple fact that we couldn't step into a position that isn't "ours."

The energy shifts, and we're past the midline. Moments like these are my favorite, when it all comes together and the game becomes second nature. With a quick foot, I send the ball to Malia, who's in perfect position, and fall back to my position. Malia and Kendall weave between the defenders, and with a sure foot, Malia strikes the ball to the back corner of the net. Boom. 1-0.

Yeah, we've got probably sixty-five minutes left to play. But…we got this.

As we line up, I let my eyes fall on the crowd.

"Jesus Christ," I mumble to myself.

Not only is Drew there in the seat I was able to get him tickets for, but not far from him or my family is Isaiah. Wearing my jersey—number 17. Exactly as he used to in high school like nothing has changed. As if years haven't passed.

With a single glance, my heart aches seeing him there.

It's almost painful dragging my eyes away and focusing on the game in front of me. The ball sits on the midline again, waiting for the ref to blow the whistle, and my thoughts spin in that singular moment before I have to play again.

Does my family know he's here? Will he talk to them? Will he try to talk to me again?

The whistle sounds, and all those thoughts fall to the wayside, but not like usual. Usually, during a game, any other thoughts are stuffed into a tiny little compartment, and I'm unaware they even exist. But this time, though my focus is on the game, I'm painfully aware of them lurking in the background.

The game helps. It always does. But it's different. Most of my smiles are forced. I fight to glance to the stands. My only distraction is the team opposite of us—putting up a good fight, giving me little time to stand still or to think. Or to do anything but play. Which is the thing I'm best at. It is the only thing that I am "the best" at. Not meaning that I'm the best player in the world—God, no—just that this is the one thing I know without a sliver of a doubt that I'm good at. And today, I'm so fucking grateful for the other team kicking it into gear and giving us a good game.

Ironically, it is one of the best games I've had. I'm unstoppable, the defense is unstoppable, and the entire team doesn't let up for one single second. After a few slow plays right after our first goal, everything kicked up a notch. The game was constant. Every touch, every pass—it was all spot on. By halftime, we're up 2-0.

Coach Teller gives us a quick recap of what we've done good and what can be improved. More goals, more talking—because if there is one thing about Coach Teller, she wants us to talk—and points out the weaknesses of the other team we can further exploit. Their left-wing defender is weaker than the rest, their center-mids aren't communicating. All things to get us this win.

Even my dad gave me a simple nod before going around and checking on the other girls. Sometimes it hurts hearing him compliment the others on a play they made or a touch when I get nothing. I know it can't be easy; he obviously doesn't want to show favoritism, but it would be nice. Just once in a while…it would be nice.

Today, like most days, I take what I can get.

When we exit back to the field, I keep my eyes on the ground and my girls, not letting them stray to the stands. I'll deal with that later.

Maazina runs up beside me, kicking up her foot to hit my butt. "Is it wrong that all I am thinking about is my post-game cheesesteak?"

Vivian, who's on my left, snorts. "Bold of you to think we think you or Sylvia have any thoughts other than food."

"Hey!" Sylvia exclaims. "I didn't even eat any candy at halftime."

"A miracle." I raise a brow. "Not that I can say much. Kian is cooking tonight, saving me from hell."

"Yeah, you in the kitchen is hell," Maazina says, smartly choosing that moment to run ahead of me.

Vivian and Sylvia laugh next to me. I give them a playful glare. "One day, when you find bugs in your cleats, don't be surprised." I blow a kiss over my shoulder as we head to our spots.

I dance on my toes, the energy coming back in full swing. For an instant, the moment of silence before the whistle blows and the second half starts washes me clean of anything else. All I know is the tingling in my fingertips and the blood pumping through my veins.

It doesn't last long, but I enjoy every damn second of it.

Until the game ends and I have to face some twisted reality, at that moment, it feels normal.

"Great game, girls. You did exactly as I asked today. As you have this entire season so far." Coach Teller surveys the locker room, a proud gleam in her eyes after ending the game with a score of 4-0. "I expect this streak to continue. Understood?"

A resounding yes echoes against the metal.

"Recovery tomorrow. I'll see you for film and conditioning Tuesday."

I stand, stretching my arms overhead, thankful to be showered and in clean clothes. Albeit it's a pair of soccer shorts and a T-shirt, but still. The coaches head into the office, closing the door behind them as the team gets ready to disperse.

The four of us always walk out together, and we're waiting on Sylvia. Around us, the rest of the team exits. We exchange words as they go, along with friendly jabs or pats on the back. Everyone has the people they're closest with—that's a given—but we're still a team, and that's what's important.

Sylvia slips on her shoe and grabs her back. "Okay, ready."

"Fucking slowpoke," Maazina says, her dimple popping as Sylvia just whacks her on the head.

With no cleats on, our footsteps don't echo on the cement floor but are quiet, sometimes shuffled, steps. Vivian nudges my shoulder. "I saw Drew out there."

I grip the strap of my bag. "Yeah, he wanted to come see. I was able to score him a ticket."

"The real question is, who was the one wearing your jersey?" Maazina tucks her hair behind her ear, eyeing me. "He's pretty."

I huff. Not in annoyance at her, but in annoyance because it's true. "That's Isaiah."

All steps stop besides my own. They know who he is; they're the only ones on the team that do.

"Guys, please. Can we do this another time? It's not a big deal."

Sylvia, my sweet gentle Sylvia, stares at me. Unblinking. "Did you hear that, guys? The boy she grew up with and hasn't seen in what—six years—is back, wearing her jersey at her game, and it isn't a big deal?"

I'm not the only one shocked at the tough love because Viv and Maazina share a confused glance at Sylvia before looking between me and her before shaking their heads. "Wasn't expecting that from you, but," Vivian looks sheepish, which doesn't happen often, "she's right."

Sylvia smiles, like she didn't say anything at all, and grips my hand. The skin prickles, but I don't let go. "It came out harsher than I meant, but Ro, come on."

I throw my head back, staring at the ceiling to avoid their eyes.

"Yeah, I mean, he's here, in your jersey. That would mess me up, too," Vivian says.

"If I admit it bothers me, can we drop this conversation and get out there so I can deal with it and go home? Please."

"We'll drop it for now, but that doesn't mean we're dropping it forever." Sylvia kicks my shoe, bringing my eyes back down.

I hold my hands up in surrender. "Fine. Deal."

Sun shines through the window at the end of the tunnel for our exit, and my heartbeat pounds the closer we get. Chatter from family and friends fill my ears when we push the door open, and I beeline for my family first, very aware of Drew off to the left and Isaiah on the right.

"Two boys waiting for you—how exciting," Kian mumbles, but his eyes are soft.

I kiss Zaza and Joey on the cheek, smiling at their jerseys and face paint.

Sophia pinches her husband before I can. "Stop it, you doofus."

"Did anyone talk to him?" I murmur, bending down to pull Zaza in my arms, grounding myself before I deal with this nonsense.

"I did."

Not sure why, but Kian wasn't who I was expecting. "And?"

"It was short—about his move and preparing for his job. I didn't want to fraternize with the enemy too long," Kian says, though he avoids my eyes. It bothers me but not enough for me to care at this moment.

"He's not the enemy; you are so annoying." Sophia backhands him on the chest before turning to me. "Just go talk to him. Get it over with."

"Okay, well, is it rude if I talk to him before Drew? Or do I talk to Drew first?"

"Who is Frew?" Joey babbles, easing the situation without even noticing.

Sophia smiles and bends down to me and the kids, but it's Mom who speaks. "Do whichever is easier for you. We can't tell you; only you know how each option might make you feel."

With an exhale, I stand up and head to Drew first. He smiles, his loose brown curls golden in the sun. "Hi, thanks for coming."

He places a quick kiss on my cheek, and my stomach flips. Though I can't tell if it's because of the kiss or because I know Isaiah saw it. "You played great—at least, from my limited knowledge."

I chuckle, ignoring the warmth on my cheeks at the compliment. "Thank you. It was a good game for everyone."

"Do you have plans after this?" Drew meets my eyes, and I twist my fingers out of his sight.

"I do. My brother-in-law is cooking dinner for all of us. I know my schedule is crazy, but give me a call later. If you want? I should be free this week if you still—"

"Aurora, I do. You don't have to feel bad," Drew says gently. Under the sun, he looks golden, and so far, he's been nothing but kind and patient, and I so desperately want it to work. "I still want to keep exploring this at whatever pace you are comfortable with."

The same conversation on a different day. I feel awful. But I keep trying, keep hoping the spark will show up. "Okay, good. Then yeah, give me a call tonight."

"Will do." Drew kisses my cheek again before turning and heading away from the stadium. And as I watch him go, I'm all too aware of who's still standing behind me.

The one with whom the spark has never died, no matter how much I wish it would. Turning, my eyes find him in an instant.

I ignore the tattoos trailing over his body and the sun shining off his deep brown skin. I ignore the flips my stomach does from seeing him in my jersey number again. 17. I picked that number because of us. Little me always wanted to be number one, always wanted to be the best, so, of course, one was my favorite number. Seven was his. So we combined them, and it's stuck ever since.

I stride over, stopping with at least two feet of distance between us. "What are you doing here?"

"I told you, I got a job."

"Don't be an ass, Isaiah. What are you doing here? At the stadium. In that jersey."

My favorite shade of brown shines in the sun when his eyes lift with amusement. "It's your jersey."

My grip tightens on my bag. "Stop being dense and answer."

He steps forward, two feet of distance down to one. "I did answer. I gave you the short version. You want the long one?" Isaiah doesn't give me a chance to respond. "I got a job here because you're here. I'm at this stadium because it's where you play, and I'm in this jersey because it's yours. And I regret every year I didn't wear it."

I swallow the lump in my throat as I try to grapple with it all. All the painful yearning mixes with hot anger. Anger that he thinks I would welcome him back with open arms like he didn't break my heart when he left. Like he didn't let it shatter into pieces on the floor and leave me the broom to sweep them up.

It's not even the leaving that pisses me off. If he told me, if he came to me, I would've given him space. I would've done whatever he needed of me. But he left and then didn't speak to me. Like I didn't exist.

"Fuck you." It's venomous. More so than I intended. "You haven't been here in six years. I've learned how to live life without you." A lie. "So, wear the jersey, show up. It doesn't matter. It won't change anything."

Isaiah remains calm, like always. The one who saw through all my shit and never let it phase him. "Believe that all you want, but I don't. I never learned how to live without you. Still haven't, never will. And I don't believe that you have either." My heart pounds, and I hate it. And I wish I could hate him. "When you're ready to talk and listen, I will be here."

He steps back, eyes glancing behind me to my family that I'm sure is watching—maybe even some of the team—before landing back on me. I see everything in those eyes, like a flashback film reel playing our history, so I look away.

"I'll be here, Aurora. I mean it."

I shake my head and wait for his footsteps to recede. Even though he's gone, his words linger in the air, settling over my skin like dew. So easily, Isaiah takes up any space that's weak enough to let him in. Which is most of me. The truth is, if he pushes hard enough, I know I'll forgive him. I know that having him back will erase the six years without him.

I hate it. I hate how much I hope that he means it. That he'll show up, that he'll be here.

That he still might be my Isaiah.