Kate Christie (14 page)

She nodded, and we looked at each other. Then she leaned on one crutch and held a hand out. “Consider yourself forgiven,”

she said, and even smiled a little. “I’m Kelly, by the way.”

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“Cam.” I shook her hand. I was pretty sure she was gay. Not bad looking either.

We ended up walking back to the gym together talking about soccer and our college experiences. Members of both teams passed us, eyeing us strangely. No one expected to see the two of us making friends. But that was sport. If our positions had been reversed, if she had injured me and I believed it was unintentional, I would have accepted her apology too. Maybe not right away, but it had been five weeks. In fact, Kelly said, she was getting her cast off soon. Which was good because her foot itched like crazy.

At the gym, we stopped and slapped hands.

“Good luck with rehab and everything,” I said.

“Thanks. Good luck with nationals. I hope you guys kick butt. It’ll make us look good,” she added, smiling.

“We’ll do our best. See you next year?” She was a junior, like me.“Definitely.”

I jogged away, feeling like a weight had been lifted. One fewer person who hated me, I thought, rolling my eyes at my own insecurity. I could be such a dork sometimes. But just then, I was a happy dork.

Two days later, we won our last regular season game, finishing up with an overall record of nineteen wins and two losses, the latter both to teams ranked in the top twenty nationally. The conference tournament started that weekend. We took a charter bus up to San Francisco on Friday night, rolled over CSU-Pomona in the semifinals Saturday, and met Fullerton State in the finals on Sunday for the second year in a row. To cement our nationals bid, we needed a win. We got it in emphatic fashion, 3-0.That night, when we got back to SDU, Coach called a team meeting in the downstairs lounge at the athletic building. He stood with Terry and Mark, his two grad assistants, up near the chalkboard while the team, still clad in dress clothes, sprawled on 102 Kate Christie

the couches and chairs strewn about the lounge. Coach was a tall man, in his mid-forties, with a wife who had once been a beach volleyball star and two cute, tow-headed little kids who came to most of our home games. As he stood before us in shirt sleeves and a loose tie, I could sense the tension in the room. While the rest of us had been eating dinner at a Mexican restaurant near L.A. a couple of hours earlier, he’d been on the phone with his NCAA committee contact.

“Athletes,” he began, his face and voice unreadable, “I learned earlier tonight that the NCAA Division II coaches’ poll was announced this afternoon.” He paused, and we all looked at each other, wondering what the news would be.

“It came as no surprise to us,” he said, waving toward his assistants, “that we’re currently ranked number six in the nation.

On Thursday we play Texas State College here at home in the regional finals. If we win, we go to nationals in Seattle next weekend. Congratulations, athletes! You should be proud of yourselves tonight. I know I am.”

We erupted into cheers, hugging each other and exchanging high fives. It was what we had expected, of course, but there was always room for politics and favoritism when it came to the coaches’ poll. The teams who deserved home field advantage in regionals didn’t always get it. That was just part of the game.

Coach held up his hand. “Hold on, there’s more.” We quieted down. “The All-Regional team was also announced today.

We have three members: Congratulations to Jamie Betz, Sara Alexander and Cam Wallace, all first team.”

More applause sounded. Cool, I thought, grinning.

Holly elbowed me in the ribs. “Way to go, dude,” she said in my ear. We were sitting together on one of the couches.

Coach held his hand up again. “One more thing. The national committee also voted on All-American honors today. We have among us two All-Americans.” He paused, and my smile faded a little. No doubt he had plugged Jamie and Sara, his favorites.

“Let’s give it up for second time All-American Jamie Betz, first team, and our own first timer, Cam Wallace, second team All-American!” And he smiled broadly at me.

Coach had come through, after all. I couldn’t believe it.

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Judging from Sara’s forced smile, she couldn’t either. She was a senior; this season had been her last shot at All-American. But I didn’t have time to feel sorry for her. I grinned and slapped hands with my teammates and coaches, only too happy to accept their congratulations. I had done it—I was an All-American.

And as a junior, no less. Now all we had to do was win nationals and life would be downright perfect. I couldn’t wait to call my parents in the morning, and Nate up in the wilds of Alaska. Even my mom, the non-sports fan, would be impressed by the honor conveyed in the award.

The meeting wound down after Coach announced he was giving us the next day’s practice off. We lingered a little after the coaches took off, all of us reluctant to leave the air of achievement permeating the lounge. There’s a reason people like to win. It feels awesome. But it was already after ten on a Sunday night, and several people on the team had early classes in the morning.

At last we filed out of the athletic building and piled into our cars. I dropped off a trio of freshmen who all insisted on giving me hugs, even a particularly straight girl who sometimes seemed leery of me in the locker room. As if, I’d always wanted to tell her—it wasn’t like she was all that and a bag of chips, to tell the truth.

Drop-offs complete, I parked in a nearly full student lot, and Holly and I headed toward our dorms. She threw an arm across my shoulders as we walked.

“Congrats, buddy. I totally knew you could do it.”

“Thanks, Holl.” For a moment I wondered if I caught a glimpse of envy in her eyes. “But you know it’s all political.”

She punched me. “Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay. Goodnight, Holl.”

“G’night, Cam.”

Goodnight, John Boy, I thought, trying to gauge how many times Holly had been the last person I talked to at night, the first person I talked to in the morning. And here I was getting all of these honors while she had to play in the shadow of Jamie Betz, senior all-star and queen bitch. Next year, I thought, everyone 104 Kate Christie

would see that Jamie wasn’t the only quality striker in the SDU

program.

Twenty minutes later I lay under my sheets, smiling away and trying to sleep. I was so happy I was almost scared. Something had to give, right? No one could have it this good. I closed my eyes, but I wasn’t sleepy in the least. I was physically exhausted but my mind was executing cartwheels. I glanced at the clock: eleven p.m. I reached for the phone, dialed in the dark, hoped I had hit the right buttons.

Jess picked up on the second ring. I could hear the sound of the TV in the background.

“What’re you doing?” I sat up and leaned against the wall.

“Just trying to write a paper for tomorrow.”

“Is that why the TV’s on?”

She laughed. “I was taking a break to see if the local news had anything about you guys. How’d it go? Did you win?”

“Yep.” I grinned in the darkness, remembering the winner’s ceremony that afternoon when we’d been presented with the Big Eight trophy for the third year in a row. “We beat Fullerton 3-0.

It was awesome.”

“Congratulations! You guys rock.”

“There’s more,” I added, trying not to brag. But I couldn’t keep the pride out of my voice as I told her about the coaches’ poll and our upcoming home match against Texas State College.

“That’s great, Cam! Way to go!”

“But wait, there’s more.” I heard her laugh and continued.

“Jamie and Sara and I got All-Region first team. And Jamie got All-American first team and I got All-American second team!

Can you believe it?”

“Of course I can.” Her voice was warm. “That is so great.

Congrats, girl. I wish I was there to give you a hug.”

“Me, too.” I smiled into the phone. “I’m glad you’re still awake. I couldn’t wait to tell you.”

“I’m glad too.”

We talked a little while longer. I told her about the two games, and that Holly, Sara, Jamie and I had also gotten all-conference. Holly was the second leading scorer in Big Eights behind Jamie. Next year, I said, she was going to kick some Beautiful Game 105

butt. When I finally piped down, Jess rehashed her match from the day before, the last in the fall season. Nationals in tennis weren’t until spring. Jess had lost a match earlier in October against the top seed from a Division I team. Her new winning streak finished at ten.

“It’s strange the season’s already over,” she said, “but in tennis the season’s never really over. I’m ready for a break, though.”

“I know what you mean.”

Time was doing what it does, inexorably dragging us forward into the recent future. In a week, my junior season would be over, one way or another. Then I would only have one more season left in my college soccer career.

We wound down, finally. Since neither of us had practice the next day, we agreed to meet early for dinner, at my place for once. Then we could figure out where to go from there.

After I hung up, I lay in the dark staring up at the ceiling.

Thoughts skipped through my mind, fragments of ideas and emotions and memories chasing each other in circles. I’d made All-American. Did it feel like I’d expected? I thought about the coming days when I would walk across campus, this new title appended behind my name for all my professors, fellow students and student-athletes to see. Yes, I decided, grinning in the dark.

It felt pretty damn amazing.

Was this how Jess always felt? For some reason, I doubted the recognition she’d received for her tennis abilities meant as much to her as this meant to me. Maybe that proved I was shallow.

Narcissistic, even. If so, there were worse things to be, I told myself, planning the phone calls I would make to relatives and friends in the morning.

For national quarterfinals, regional finals, at home on Thursday, a huge crowd took over the hillside. Jess was there, I knew, along with half the school it seemed. Starting lineups were announced, the national anthem blared over the loudspeaker, both teams took the field. We were playing Texas State College, who we’d beaten my sophomore year 2-0 on a road trip through the Lone Star State. We were confident as we kicked off—in ninety minutes, we would surely be Seattle-bound.

But perhaps too confident, too certain of ourselves and our destiny. TSC was the underdog; they had nothing to lose, while we were already thinking of Seattle. I was looking forward to playing in front of my parents, my aunt and uncle and younger cousins, friends from high school. Looking beyond the game we would have to win to punch our ticket to the Emerald City.

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Ten minutes in, TSC stole the ball in the midfield and caught us napping. They popped it over the top to their right wing, who dribbled past Jodie, one of our outside defenders. I shifted over to cover, but the TSC striker unexpectedly took a quick shot from twenty-five yards out. It was a lucky shot—lucky for TSC, anyway. The ball curved upward, heading unerringly for the far upper corner of the goal. Mel, caught off her line, backpedaled furiously. At the last moment she dove into the air and tipped the ball up and over the crossbar. Whew—a save.

But we weren’t out of danger yet: a corner kick for TSC. Both teams lined up, eighteen players within the eighteen-yard box.

The kick, a scramble inside the six, a shot, and a hand snaked out to make another save. Only it wasn’t Mel’s hand this time. It was Jeni’s, ungloved, uniform sleeve pushed up her forearm, Jeni who had knocked away a certain goal. Screech of the whistle, moment of silence, moment of stillness.

Then time speeded up again. The referee pulled a red card from his pocket and motioned Jeni toward the sideline—

rightfully so, we knew, even as Jamie, our captain, argued with him. An intentional handball in the box is an automatic red card. Jeni knew this too, and stumbled from the field crying.

Meanwhile, a penalty kick had been awarded to TSC, a free shot from twelve yards out with only the keeper to beat. Coach Eliot stepped onto the field, shouting at the ref. Coach Eliot was shown a yellow card. Coach Eliot was pulled back to the bench by one of his assistants while the rest of us gathered helplessly at the edge of the penalty box, hoping, praying for a miss, a rebound, a save. The whistle blew again, the TSC center midfielder took the penalty kick—and scored.

Fifteen minutes into the game and we were down both a goal and a player—because of Jeni’s red card, we would have to play ten versus eleven the rest of the game. Under pressure, our nationals trip suddenly at risk, we floundered. Our passes missed their targets, our runs were ill-timed, our confidence nonexistent. We couldn’t seem to trap or head a ball to save our lives. The crowd on the hill was eerily quiet, our stunned spectators as unsure as we were how to react.

The whistle at halftime came as a relief. Maybe now we 10 Kate Christie

could take a breath and regroup, I thought, heading with the rest of the team for the goal nearest the home bench for our traditional team talk. But our captains seemed to have a different objective in mind. Midway down the field, Jamie and Sara caught up to Jeni.

“What were you thinking?” Jamie demanded. “Were you trying to lose this game? You just fucked it up for the entire team!”

She and Sara were seniors. If we lost this game, their soccer careers would be over.

Coach Eliot was deep in conference with his assistants and didn’t appear to notice the captains’ sneak attack on Jeni, who was rubbing the back of her hand against her nose, head down.