Her teammates looked at her with wide eyes. Thom had never done anything like this before. She always listened, always obeyed, always stayed away from the ball.
Breaking the stillness, a white, opposing jersey thundered toward her, and she had to act, to do something now.
She kicked. The ball connected with the top of her foot with a pop. It soared … past the white shirt across the field, past the midfield line.
The goalie jumped up to catch it, and the ball hit her right in the stomach, forcing an oomph out of her mouth that Thom heard from across the field, before knocking her down completely. But the ball didn’t stop in the goal. It tore clean through the net and kept going until it was out of sight.
2
ALL HEADS TURNED TO THOM. Kathy’s mouth dropped open, eyes wide. Linda took a step back, her hands lifting as if shielding herself. Their expressions filled with horror.
This wasn’t how Thom had expected them to react when she scored. They were supposed to cheer, jump, and slap her back, the way they’d done when Kathy scored earlier.
This was a goal. And they were looking at her like she’d pushed over a puppy learning to walk.
Then Monrovia’s coach knelt over the goalie, still flat on her back.
Thom’s hand moved over her mouth. A hush fell over the girls, the coaches, the referees. The wind stilled, the blades of grass crumpling beneath her shoes, the stillness imitating the body that lay unmoving beneath everyone’s stares. Was the goalie dead? Had Thom killed her?
“Is she okay?” Coach Pendergrass’s voice broke through the silence.
Monrovia’s coach checked the girl’s pulse. “Knocked out cold.” Her blue eyes pierced Thom in place. “That was some kick.”
Thom couldn’t read anything in her flat tone. “Did I kill her?” she whispered.
The coach laughed, but the other girls, even the ones on Monrovia’s team, looked at one another with concerned frowns. They eased away from Thom as if she were going to turn and attack them next.
“You can’t kill someone like that, sweetie,” the coach said. “You’d have to be Superman.”
* * *
The girls remained silent as they trudged back to the lockers. Thom’s teammates glanced at her, turning away sharply whenever she looked back. Their expressions were full of wonder—and something else. The way you look at the new lunch option, not sure if it’s meat or pudding.
“Well,” Coach said as they all twisted the dials on their combination locks. “The good news is, we won the game.”
Usually, this would have been followed by applause and high fives. But no one made a sound. They all shot side-eyes at Thom, who stared at the inside of her dark locker. Her clothes hung on the hook—a black graphic T-shirt, dark jeans, and a hoodie, as usual.
“The bad news is,” Coach continued, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, “the goalie, Cassie Houghton, is in the hospital.”
Cassie. The girl had a name now, not just a jersey number, thirteen—unlucky or lucky depending on how you looked at it, but probably unlucky in this case. Unlucky enough to play against Thom, anyway.
She leaned into the locker, hiding behind the door, but she could feel the eyes on her like pinpricks. If only her locker were big enough to crawl all the way inside. She’d killed the goalie; she must have. Her mouth and throat were dry, and yet she started to salivate at the same time, tasting something bitter and rancid. She knew exactly what this feeling was, and knowing what it was only made it worse. Thom was going to vomit.
“A few cracked ribs.” If Coach felt the tension in the room, she didn’t show it, speaking cheerily as if nothing were wrong. “But nothing that…” She cleared her throat.
Thom peeked from behind the door. Coach had her thumbs hitched in the belt loops of her jeans, her head down.
“Nothing that can’t be fixed.”
“So … No didn’t kill her?” Bethany asked. She’d already changed out of her uniform and into navy-blue-and-gold sweats. Her sleek ponytail made her eyes look sharper as they flashed at Thom. They didn’t linger enough to acknowledge her, just enough to make her know Bethany was watching her, wary of her.
“No. No didn’t kill her.”
Thom let out a breath. She could have melted right onto the floor, joined the puddles created by the swim team, trailed down the cracks, and dripped into the drain. Instead, she sagged against her locker door.
“And, er…” Coach added, still not looking up. “Nice shot, No.”
If anyone else agreed, they didn’t say so. They barely looked at Thom as they finished getting ready. It wasn’t any different from how they usually treated her, but today it was worse. Because she had finally done something right, something that should have made them all like her or, at least, respect her, treat her like she existed. She had scored. Not only that, but it had been the winning goal. They’d won! The first game of the season, and they’d won. Because of her.
But it felt wrong. Of course it did; she had knocked a girl out. She had broken her ribs. Who did that? Not anyone normal.
Thom hovered at Coach’s office door, the last one to leave the locker room. The drip of a faucet echoed behind her, the lingering traces of chlorine from the swim team stinging her nostrils.
“What’s wrong, No?” Coach asked, peeking out behind an overflowing box of shin guards. The fluorescent lighting above flickered, casting ominous shadows over her face. The others were gone; even the assistant coach, Martha, had left.
“I was just wondering … is the Monrovia goalie … is Cassie really going to be okay?”
Coach heard the crack in Thom’s voice. “Oh yeah, sweetie, she’s fine. She’s in stable condition. They just called me.” She tapped her phone and then paused. Thom knew she was doing that thing grown-ups do, trying to find the stupidest way to say something—like that was the only way kids would understand. “The ball probably hit her at a weird angle and she landed awkwardly, that’s all. Come on. Tiny thing like you—couldn’t have been all your fault.” She had the kind of laugh that involved her whole body, every wiggly bit that could wiggle wiggled. “Don’t worry about it, No. You did good today. You scored!”
Thom’s smile felt odd on her face, the stiff muscles around her mouth not used to the movement.
“You should have seen yourself. Practically flying across the field! I want to see the same enthusiasm out of you tomorrow.” She picked up her clipboard and pretended to slap Thom on the back with it. “Now get out of here before your mom threatens to sue me for keeping you late.”
Thom smiled, waved, and left feeling lighter. She wasn’t in trouble after all. They hadn’t found out. Or, well, they hadn’t believed it was really her fault, that she was capable of kicking the ball that hard. And even if it was her fault, it was an accident. She hadn’t meant to hurt Cassie.
It was going to be okay. She’d make up for it. Maybe Ma could send Cassie flowers at the hospital.
She spun around to ask, but Coach was busy rummaging through the box of shin guards. Thom thought better of it and slowly turned away.