Page 246 of We Shouldn't Be Together
Tabby blows me a kiss, and it feels like my head screws back on. Shaking it off, I make a break for where the ball is in play. The other team has a free kick and I race to mark a player. After the whistle blows, my opponent and I struggle to get in front of each other. When the ball scuttles our way, our feet trample in front of one another.
As I’m wondering if he or I will hit the ground first, Dr. Jones pushes his way into my brain. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, feeling him analyzing my every move.
While I’m stuck in my head, the other player gets the ball. He’s racing up the field, dribbling the ball, and I want to slap myself.
“Nelson!” Coach Lyle calls from the sidelines. “Where are you? Get on the ball!”
I crack my neck from side to side and race to catch up. Paul has gotten control of the ball and I move into a space where he can see me. After I call, “I’m open,” Paul kicks the ball hard in my direction.
Out of nowhere, an opposing player darts across the field and steals the ball.
Not again!
I gain on him, fighting for possession. Adrenaline and frustration boils inside me, and it’s a battle not to shove this guy out of the way. I can’t afford the penalty, the yelling from Coach Lyle, or the disapproval from Dr. Jones.
Ugh. Dr. Jones.
Oof!
The other player charges me and I’m knocked backward onto my butt. Now, staring at the overcast sky, the adrenaline drowns into humiliation.
I’m better than this.
Why am I letting this team beat me?
I roll my head to the side and view Tabitha and her father.
Because of him.
Dang it, because his approval matters.
I’m not letting him find a reason I shouldn’t be with his daughter. I won’t give her up. I won’t let anyone take her away from me. Even if it means not playing my best. I’m not getting injured or putting myself in a dangerous predicament. I’ll do nothing that proves Dr. Jones’s claims that I’m a menace.
Although, maybe playing it safe isn’t worth it. I keep getting my butt whooped.
I pull myself up and dust myself off. Coach is yelling from the sidelines, but he’s garbled, almost like there’s a wall between us. I stretch my arms above my head, twisting, as I watch the gameplay in the goal circle. Tyler is defending the goal, but our defense isn’t backing him up, and the other team sneaks in a goal.
The whistle blows, and I watch the defeat drain life from my teammates. Tyler gains my attention, throwing his arms up with aggravation. Telepathically, I hear him asking, “Where were you?”
As if the words will get back to him, I think, “On my butt.”
We end the first half one-nil to the other team. In our huddle, I do my best to zone out Coach’s bellowing. But some of it sneaks in.
Like when he asks, “Did you hit your head, Nelson?"
Or when he says, “Usually I have to scream at you not to hog the ball. Now, I’m wondering if you’ve grown a phobia."
And Coach's last dig, “What happened to my winning-obsessed stricker? Will you get it together for this second half?”
I tell him yes, but I’m weighed down by the pressure. We start the second half, but it isn’t any better than the first. My head is on the sidelines.
Any opportunity I have to charge another player, I pull back.
My one touches Coach drilled into me are sloppy, becoming two or three touches, and losing my team valuable time.
The other team scores another two times, and then the game is put out of its misery.
I shake hands with the other team, avoiding their lingering smirks of victory. I make it to the sidelines before Tyler can berate me for my less than ideal performance.
