Page 59 of Broken Secrets
The stadium lightscast long shadows across the field as our team huddles one final time. Coach Martinez’s voice cuts through the pre-game noise, sharp and focused like it always gets before the big matches.
“This is it, ladies. League championship. Everything we’ve worked for this season comes down to the next ninety minutes.” Her weathered hands grip the clipboard tighter. “Kline, I want you on every corner kick. Lance, keep that goal locked down tight. The rest of you, play like you mean it.”
I adjust my shin guards and glance toward the packed bleachers. Two days ago, I was sitting in our kitchen watching my mom cry herself raw. Now I’m about to play the most important game of my high school career, and somehow the family chaos feels manageable instead of overwhelming.
Maybe it’s because Mom finally stopped lying. Maybe it’s because I know where I stand now, not just with her, but with the whole complicated mess of my biological father and half sister. Either way, my head feels clearer than it has in months.
“You ready for this?” Derek appears beside me, pulling on his goalkeeper gloves with practiced efficiency. The green jersey makes his eyes look darker, more intense.
“Born ready.” I bump his shoulder with mine. “Just don’t let any goals past you in the first half. I need time to figure out their defense.”
“When have I ever let you down?”
“Do you want the chronological list or the alphabetical one?”
He grins and pulls me closer for a quick kiss on the forehead. “Save some of that attitude for the other team.”
The whistle blows, and we take our positions. The opposing team looks confident; they should be, considering they beat us two-one earlier this season. But that was before my heart condition got diagnosed and managed. Before I stopped worrying about collapsing on the field. Before everything in my life shifted into focus.
I catch sight of Mom and Robert in the parent section, and Mom is wearing my number twelve jersey over her cardigan. She looks nervous but proud, the way she always does at my games. Robert has his camera ready, positioned to capture whatever happens next.
The game starts fast. Their midfielder makes it clear she remembers me from our last meeting, staying close enough that I can smell her mint gum every time we go for the ball.
“Olivia!” Maya’s voice carries from the student section, where half my class has shown up in blue and gold face paint. “Show them what you’ve got!”
Twenty minutes in, their striker breaks through our defensive line. I watch Derek track the ball, positioning himself perfectly as the shot comes low and hard to his right. He dives, fingertips connecting with the ball just enough to push it wide of the post.
“Nice save!” I call out as he springs back to his feet.
“Just doing my job!”
The first half ends scoreless, both teams playing tight defense and looking for that perfect opportunity. In the locker room,Coach Martinez adjusts our formation slightly, moving me to a more central position where I can create plays for our forward.
“They’re expecting you to stay wide,” she tells me. “Use that. Draw their defense out of position, then find the open space.”
The crowd noise builds with every near miss, every dangerous cross, every save Derek makes that keeps us in the game. I can feel the momentum shifting in small ways, a loose ball here, a favorable referee call there.
Then, in the sixty-third minute, everything changes.
Their center back misjudges a clearance, sending the ball directly to my feet about thirty yards from goal. I don’t think, just react, driving forward with the ball at my feet while their defense scrambles to recover. The goalkeeper comes off her line, cutting down my angle, but I see the far post calling my name.
The shot feels perfect when it leaves my foot, low and hard, curling just inside the post while the keeper dives the wrong way. The net bulges, the crowd erupts, and my teammates mob me like I’ve just won the World Cup.
“That’s my girl!” Derek’s voice carries from his goal, and I can see him pumping his fist in celebration.
But their team isn’t finished. With twenty minutes left, they push forward desperately, throwing numbers into attack and forcing Derek to make save after save. My legs are burning from tracking back to help defend, but the adrenaline keeps me moving.
In the eighty-seventh minute, disaster strikes. A miscommunication between our center backs leaves their striker one-on-one with Derek. I sprint back toward goal, lungs screaming, knowing I won’t get there in time to help.
Derek comes off his line, making himself big, forcing the striker to make a decision quickly. The shot comes low to his left, and for a heart-stopping moment I think it’s in. But Derek getsdown fast, smothering the ball against his chest and holding on despite the striker’s attempt to poke it loose.
“Derek!” I reach him first, helping him to his feet while he clutches the ball. “That was incredible.”
“Had to keep you from giving me grief for the rest of my life.”
The referee checks his watch. Three minutes of stoppage time. Three minutes to hold onto our lead and win the league championship.
Those three minutes feel like three hours. They throw everything forward, winning corner kick after corner kick, forcing Derek to deal with cross after dangerous cross. I find myself defending in our own penalty box, heading away balls that seem destined for the back of our net.
