Blindsided

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The goalie always tenses when I approach, which makes me smile because I know I’ll score before I’ve even kicked the ball. She can’t see my eyes, can’t anticipate my moves, and it turns out this makes me an excellent soccer player. I aim for the low right corner—the ball zings by her before she can lunge for it.

“Curse you, Fiona!” She bites back a smile. “If you weren’t on my team, I’d hate you so much.”

“Guess it’s good I am then,” I say as she kicks the ball back to me. Stopping it, I tap it back and forth between my feet like Seth taught me.

One of our defenders joins in the conversation. “We might have a chance at winning this year. It’s so hard to compete when we don’t have enough gifted players to make a whole team.”

“It’ll still be fun, though. All the schools we’re playing have just as few.” I roll the ball onto my foot and pop it into the air, trying to juggle it from knee to knee. It doesn’t work so well. Since I haven’t been playing long, I’m still struggling to visualize where my knees would be between my shorts and shin guards.

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