The next two weeks follow the same pattern every fall has for as long as I can remember. The official season starts, and everything but soccer fades. I barely attend class, I stop attending parties, and I definitely don’t
answer any phone calls from a German number.
But I do answer calls from my father. Ever since the wedding, he’s rung once a week. We muddle through few mundane topics: the weather (different in Connecticut than Georgia, shockingly), hometown news (nothing’s changed), and how I am (busy). Despite the less than scintillating conversation, he keeps calling. And I keep answering.
Which, repetitive as it might be, is more than I can say has ever happened before. Our most recent conversation, however, ended a bit differently. I tried not to think about my dad’s mention of attending one of my games, mostly because I didn’t want to get my hopes up. But he ended our last phone call with a tentative mention that he and Sandra were planning to come to our next home game this coming weekend. I didn’t miss that it meant he actually took the time to look up my soccer schedule.
They made the puzzling decision to make the fifteen-hour drive rather than fly and were supposed to arrive an hour ago. I sit in the locker room, listening to the chatter of my teammates around me. Anne is not-so-subtly looking at me out of the corner of her eye.
“You really need to work on your surreptitious looks,” I inform her, spinning around on the bench to face my locker and lace up my cleats.
“I wasn’t looking!” “Anne.”
“I was just making sure you’re okay. Normally you’re more hyper before games.”
“My dad is here,” I admit.
Anne fumbles for words. “Your—your dad? I didn’t, I mean… you’ve never…”
“Yeah, I know. We’re not close.” “Wow. If you need to talk…”
“Nope, I’m good. I need to play.” I stand, stretch, and yank my jersey on over my sports bra.
Most of the team has already huddled around Coach Taylor. There’s no pep talk. We had a three-hour strategy session yesterday afternoon, and everyone knows what is expected of them. This is just another game. Old hat by now. It’s not a championship, or even a playoff game.
No one wants to risk our perfect record, but even playing at the highest level of collegiate athletics feels mundane after a certain point. I couldn’t have even told you what day we were playing Northampton back when our season’s schedule was announced. Now, I’m focused on nothing but dominating them.
Coach Taylor finishes explaining our warm-up drills, and players file out onto the field one by one.
After attending my first football game at Lancaster, I convinced the guy who announces the football players as they run out of the tunnel to do the same for us. And not just the starters—the entire team.
It was a genius move, if I do say so myself. Not only because it excites the crowd, but because it’s fantastic for team morale. I mean, who doesn’t want to run out on the field as their name is announced on a loudspeaker?
No athlete I’ve met.
Coach tugs at my sleeve as I pass her. “You good, Scott? You look a bit like you’re headed into a cage match.”
“To win it, right?”
Coach gives me a rare smile. “Give ’em hell.”
“That’s the plan.” I head down the tunnel after Emma.
“Did you get laid last night? You’re in a weirdly good mood,” she asks as I stop beside her.
“I’m always in a good mood.”
Emma snorts loudly. “Uh-huh, sure.”
“Number twelve, Emmmaaa Waattkkkiinnnssss!”
“That’s my cue.” She grins and jogs out of the tunnel.
“And last, but certainly not least, we have our captain. Lancaster’s leading scorer. Number twenty-two, Saayyyllloooorrr Scccccoooottttttt!”
I sprint out into a wall of noise. The stands are full, and I don’t bother to scan them. It’s a perfect fall day, warm with a crisp edge. The game is supposed to start at three, and the sun is bright but not blinding.
The sound of voices and the smell of concession stand snacks mingle, but I don’t stop to take in the atmosphere. I’m laser-focused: on lunges, toe touches, and scoring sprees. Warm-ups end, and I call heads. We win the coin toss, opting to take the kickoff.
I’m addicted to this moment. Some players love the euphoria of scoring a goal or the thrill of being ahead when extra minutes end.
For me, it’s the start of the game, when anticipation’s built to a breaking point.
I love scoring and I love winning. But in those moments, I already know what I’ve accomplished.
I know the ending.
Right now, I have a chance to determine it.
I’m in motion as soon as the ball leaves Emma’s foot, sprinting upward with the other forwards. I challenge the Northampton player who has possession, a sharp jab of her elbow letting me know she doesn’t appreciate the crowding. The motion also provides me an opening. I spin, taking the ball with me, and start running in the opposite direction from where she was headed, back toward Northampton’s goal.
Cassidy Jones is waiting for me. She may have been a confidant at CFOC, but she’s nothing but a barrier now. I pass to Natalie, and she passes to Emma. After years of playing together, we’re in perfect sync. Emma sends the ball back to me before I enter the penalty arc just before I send it flying, taking advantage of the split second of confusion Emma’s pass bought me. It also buys me the first goal and a whole lot of appreciation from the crowd.
Northampton doubles down after that, barely letting us past the center line. The only upside is they’re so focused on keeping us from scoring they’re unable to press themselves.
The scoreboard is still displaying 0-1 when we leave the field for halftime. I take a seat on the bench and take slow sips of water. Coach Taylor’s got her whiteboard out, going through suggestions of plays. I
watch her marker slash, circle, and squiggle across the snowy surface until it’s time to resume play.
We obviously weren’t the only team discussing strategy, because Northampton opts for a very different approach in the second half. They’re more aggressive, pushing toward the end of the field they were formerly protecting.
Anne and our other three defenders have their first real tests of the game as I try to slow Northampton’s offense along with the rest of the midfielders. The girl I’m marking passes to a teammate, and Emma is too far away to stop the ball. The Northampton player sends it flying toward the net, but Cressida is ready. She snags the ball midair, and I let out a long sigh of relief.
I turn to head back to the center line. It takes a while for everyone else to follow, and I frown as Emma falls into position beside me for the kickoff. We’ve still got a half hour of play left, but the close call seems to have sent fresh vigor through my teammates.
Suddenly, it feels like we are playing in a championship. That extra gear I find as I near the end of a game, like a shark moving in for the kill? I’m not the only one shifting, and Northampton is entirely unprepared for us to all start sprinting faster and pressing harder. It’s an onslaught that earns us two more goals: a header from Natalie and a half-field kick from Anne.
When the final whistle blows, I’m expecting the team to flock around Cressida, who managed a shutout, or Anne, who scored the most recent goal. But they don’t. They throng around me.
Once we finally disentangle for handshakes, Natalie falls into step beside me. “Three zip against Northampton? They might as well inscribe the championship cup already.”
I laugh. “If everyone keeps playing as well as they did today?
Definitely.”
“Not much we wouldn’t do for you, Captain.” “What do you mean?”
“Anne said today was a big deal to you after their failed goal. That your dad is here?”
An unexpected lump appears in my throat as Natalie looks at me curiously. There’s no worship in her eyes right now, just friendship. “Yeah, he is,” I finally manage as we fall into line.
Cassidy is the last one in Northampton’s line. “Better luck next time,” I say with a smile.
“All’s fair on the field, Scott,” she replies, pulling me into a quick hug. “You know where else?” She mouths the answer with a wink before heading for the guest team’s tunnel. “Looking forward to a rematch,” she calls over her shoulder.
I head back to Lancaster’s bench to grab my gear and then make my way over to Anne, who’s grabbing her own stuff. She looks a little nervous as I approach, so I pair the “Thank you” I was already planning on with a hug.
“Anything for you, Scott,” she replies with a smile. I pretend to wipe tears away from my eyes, and she shoves my shoulder. “I take it back.”
I’m grinning as I head into the tunnel. The locker room is exultant. Northampton is normally one of our toughest opponents. We just destroyed them. It bodes pretty fucking well for our championship chances.
I shower and change into jeans and a t-shirt. My instructions to my father this morning included where to meet me after the game, and he’s right by the oak tree I described, just to the left of the field’s exit.
Cressida, Anne, and Emma all trail behind me. I definitely didn’t buy Cressida retying her sneakers twice in an effort to delay leaving until I did, but I can’t blame them for being curious. I’ve met all their families. I even spent a week with Emma’s two summers ago when my own family thought I was still at the U20 team training camp.
Most of the crowd has cleared by now, but there are still a few streams of students leaving. We’re stopped several times, which only increases my anxiety. I’d rather get this over with.
We finally reach the shade of the oak. “Hi, Dad. Hey, Sandra.” “Saylor!” Sandra speaks first. “What a fantastic game!”
“Thank you,” I reply, but my gaze bounces back to my father. He doesn’t say anything. “Uh, these are my teammates and housemates: Emma, Cressida, and Anne.”
“It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Scott… uh, Mrs. Scott,” Emma says. The last two words are a bit of a question, and yeah… I probably should have provided a bit of context. They know nothing about my mom leaving, about the family trip three weeks ago actually being my father’s wedding.
“Nice to meet you two.” Cressida jumps in, smoothing over the awkward moment, and Anne echoes the sentiment.
“Lovely to meet you all. And my goodness, you’re all so gorgeous!” Sandra comments.
“So kind of you to say that,” Emma replies. “It’s really hard on our egos, being friends with the Saylor Scott.”
I roll my eyes. “The trip here was okay?” I finally address my dad directly.
“Yup. Quick and easy,” he replies. I don’t know how you could categorize a fifteen-hour drive as “quick,” but I don’t challenge him on it.
“That’s good.” Silence falls over our little group.
“Are you free for dinner?” my dad finally asks. “Your friends are all welcome to come, of course.”
It’s just past five, which is awfully early for dinner, but I’m starving, so I nod. “You guys want to come?” I ask them. They all stare at me, obviously trying to suss out whether or not I mean the offer. I nod again.
“Yeah, we’d love to!” Emma answers for all three of them. “Tony’s?” she suggests, referring to the local pizzeria just on the edge of campus.
“Are you good with pizza?” I ask Dad and Sandra.
“Sure,” Sandra replies, looking overly thrilled at the prospect. Her enthusiasm carries us through the walk to the restaurant. It’s mostly filled with her eager questions about Lancaster. I only answer the ones posed at me directly, letting my friends pick up the slack in the conversation.
Tony’s is bustling with activity. The jovial atmosphere is welcoming, but I didn’t think through how many students would be here, fresh from the game. Normally, I’d bask in the attention, but in front of my dad and Sandra, it’s embarrassing.
Jason Williams leaps up from a table filled with his fraternity brothers to give me a bear hug. “Scott! Way to kick some ass! You better come to Kappa tonight to celebrate. I even got gin and—”
“Jason, this is my dad,” I interrupt, raising my eyebrows meaningfully as I nod at my father.
“Oh. Hi, Mr. Scott. Nice to meet you.” Jason switches from party boy to polite with a charming grin.
“And this my stepmother, Sandra,” I add. It’s the first time I’ve called her that, and it feels weird.
“Are you two… dating?” Sandra asks, eyes on the arm Jason has slung over my shoulder.
Jason snorts. “Plead my case, Mrs. Scott. I’ve been trying since freshman year, along with every other male on campus.”
I twist out of his grip. “Go eat your pizza, Williams.”
I keep my tone light but am incredibly uncomfortable. Jason may have been speaking teasingly, but I know he’s actually serious. He has been asking me out since freshman year. It’s why he’s one of the few hot, popular guys at Lancaster I’ve never hooked up with. Because he’s made it clear it would mean something to him, and it wouldn’t to me.
Because it never means anything. Or, it never used to.
Sandra continues to ask most of the questions as we eat the steaming pizza. People stop by our table periodically, and each time someone does, I experience a flash of annoyance and appreciation.
Annoyance because it’s one more person who’s made a mention of my performance today aside from my father, who supposedly drove over a thousand miles to see it. Appreciation because the surprised expression on his face every time someone does makes it pretty clear he had no semblance of an idea this is what my life here is like.
I know part of it is my appearance and my identity outside of athletics, but I’m also a damn good soccer player. It feels good to have student after student say that to me in front of my father.
We finish our early dinner and then start walking back to the soccer field’s parking lot. We’ve just reached the edge of campus when my father finally addresses me directly.
“Saylor, could I talk to you for a moment?”
Proficient in social cues, all three of my friends keep walking toward the parking lot.
“Sure.” I halt, noticing Sandra has hung back to read the plaque on the side of the English building.
“I…” He clears his throat, and I drag my gaze up from the leaves beginning to coat the brick pathway to his face. “I just wanted to tell you how fantastic you were today. Truly. I can’t believe—I can’t believe I’d never seen you play before. I’ve never been so proud in my entire life.”
There was a time—a very recent time—when I would have lashed out in response to that admission, because there wasn’t anything keeping him from attending one of the hundreds of games I’ve played in the past fifteen years.
He hasn’t recently returned from an overseas deployment. He wasn’t working three jobs to support Hallie and me.
I’m bitter about it. Maybe I always will be.
But looking at his hopeful, tentative expression, I can’t say any of that. “Thanks, Dad.” I scuff the toe of my sneaker against some dead leaves,
causing them to crinkle. “And, uh, thanks for coming.” “Of course,” he replies.
There’s no ‘of course’ about it, but I don’t say that.
Sandra comes up and smiles at the two of us. “It’s such a beautiful campus. You must love it here, Saylor.”
“Yeah, it’s nice,” I respond. “I should…” I jerk my thumb in the direction of the parking lot, where my friends are waiting for me. “Are you guys staying for long?”
All my conversations with my father were about arrival logistics. I never asked when they were leaving. “No,” Sandra answers. “I’ve got school on Monday.” She’s a teacher, I recently learned. “We’ll drive back tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, okay,” I respond. The roundtrip drive will last longer than the time they’ve spent here.
“We can stop by in the morning before we leave?” my father suggests. “Hallie gave me your address.”
Of course she did. “Yeah, that’s fine,” I reply. “I’ll be up early for practice anyway.”
“Okay,” my father says. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then.” “Okay,” I repeat. “Night.”
I turn and stride the rest of way to the parking lot. No one says anything as I climb into the car. Emma starts driving around the sports complex then turns onto one of the side roads that leads back to our house.
“Your dad seems nice,” Anne says as we hit our street. “Yeah,” I say flatly.
We return to silence. My feelings about my father are all over the place right now, and I let them churn inside me until we reach our house. I head upstairs as soon as I walk through the front door, changing into my comfiest set of pajamas. I debate flopping down on my bed with the new murder mystery book I downloaded last night but decide to head back downstairs instead.
Emma’s standing at the counter, mixing one of her infamous cocktails. She studies the peach-patterned cotton I’m wearing. Hallie bought them for me as a joke, but they’re so soft I wear them more than I planned to. “Guess you’re staying in tonight?”
“Uh-huh,” I say, getting a glass of water and then climbing up on the kitchen counter to lean my head back against the upper cabinet.
“Jason will be disappointed.” “He’ll get over it,” I tell the ceiling.
Cressida enters the kitchen in sweats and a face mask. “Wait—you’re not going out either?” Emma exclaims.
I straighten my head to see Cressida shrug. “Not in the mood.” She comes over to the cabinet next to me to grab the flour. I know what’s coming next, so I slide off the counter so she can grab the sugar from behind me, relocating to one of the stools.
Emma huffs as she measures out tequila. Then squeezes two lemons.
Then adds some orange juice.
I turn my attention to Cressida as Emma returns the ingredients to the fridge. “What are you making?”
She eyes me apprehensively. “Sandra’s brownie recipe.” “Oh.”
“Did someone drink the tomato juice?” Emma inquires with her head inside the fridge.
“Please tell me you’re not putting tomato juice in that,” I reply, nodding to the cocktail shaker.
“What? It’s fruit,” Emma says as she closes the fridge door, heaving out a disappointed sigh that suggests she didn’t find the tomato juice. I’m almost certain it’s on the top shelf, but I keep that to myself.
“Emma, no.” Cressida backs me up. “That’s disgusting.”
“Fine.” She sighs again, grabbing some ice from the freezer and shaking the mixer. She snags a glass and pours some out.
I drain the rest of my water. “I’ll try some.” I hold my cup out. “It’s tequila, not gin,” Emma cautions.
“I know, I saw you pour it.”
“Since when do you drink tequila?” Cressida questions as she measures flour.
“I’m trying new things,” I say as I take a long sip. It’s better than I expect, although it’s probably because I know it could have been so much
worse.
“Like sharing?” Emma asks slyly.
I sigh. “Is this about Adler Beck again?”
Anne enters the kitchen. “Aha! She does acknowledge it happened!” “I’m not denying it happened. It was a fling. It’s over now. And no, I’m
not giving you dick details.”
“Ugh, fine.” Emma takes a sip of her concoction.
“I did call him drunk a few weeks ago,” I admit, and my left arm is sprayed with tequila. “Emma!” I grab a napkin.
“Back the fuck up. You drunk-dialed Adler Beck? You have his
number?” Emma shouts.
Anne and Cressida look equally stunned. “Yup,” I confirm.
“He gave it to you?”
“Well, he stole mine and then texted me, technically.” “What? Why?”
“To hook up, mostly.” I take another sip of my cocktail. “Didn’t think I’d need to explain that part.”
“Well, maybe it has something to do with the fact that you haven’t provided any details at all, but I was kind of assuming you met him at a club and had a quickie.”
“Yeah. The first time.”
“The first time? How many times did you have sex?” Cressida asks.
What is it with people asking me that? Do I have an expression that reads Ask me how many times I slept with Adler Beck? “I didn’t keep a tally.”
“Ballpark, then,” Emma presses. “I don’t know. More than fifty?”
Silence. Stunned silence greets that admission. I probably should have lied, but I’m sick of lying. Sick of pretending Beck was just sex when I admitted to myself he wasn’t a long time ago.
“Holy fuck. You dated Adler Beck,” Cressida murmurs breathlessly. “No, I did not. It was a fling,” I reiterate.
“Fifty times is not a fling, Saylor,” Emma informs me. “A fling is whatever I think it is,” I retort.
“Were you guys exclusive?” Anne asks. “I don’t know. We never talked about it.”
“Were you sleeping with other guys?” Emma questions. “No,” I admit.
“I overheard Mackenzie Howard telling one of the other clinic leaders he would barely talk to her,” Anne contributes.
I shrug off the satisfaction. “It doesn’t matter. We’re done. I only called him at my dad’s wedding because I was drunk.”
“Your dad’s wedding?” Cressida questions.
I drain my glass. “Yeah. He and Sandra only got married a few weeks ago.”
“That’s why you went home,” Emma realizes, refilling my glass in what I’m sure is a ploy to loosen my lips more.
“Yeah,” I confirm.
“What about your mom?” Anne inquires quietly. “She’s not around,” I say briskly.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly.
“Thanks,” I mumble, taking another long sip of my drink.
“Brownies are in the oven,” Cressida announces, breaking the heavy moment and gaining my eternal devotion as a result. “I’m going to watch a rom com.”
“Ooooh! Can we watch Sweet Home Alabama?” Anne asks eagerly. “You said you were going to Kappa, Anne!” Emma protests.
“We haven’t had a girl’s night in forever,” Anne replies. “I’m going to change.” She dashes up the stairs.
Emma measures out more tequila then hands me the mixer. “Shake this.”
“Where are you going?” I ask as she exits the kitchen.
“To put on pajamas!” she calls back. Cressida smirks at me.
Ten minutes later, we’re all sprawled across the living room, brownies in one hand and tequila in the other, watching Sweet Home Alabama.
I laugh so hard my sides hurt. Emma squeezes my hand when Melanie makes jam with her mother. Anne ruins all the best lines by saying them a few seconds too early.
And it’s probably my favorite night in college.
