That’s my true legacy. Cole.
When the final whistle blows, the score is 4–0. Hartsville is a terrible team, but I didn’t think they were that terrible. My first two goals came so quickly, and even though the third one didn’t come until eight minutes left, it came. Like we all hoped it would.
We line up, say our good games and slap hands. Then my girls are all around me, hugging my shoulders, patting my back, yanking my braids. They don’t dump water over my head—too cold—and they don’t tackle me because, yes, we won, but we still won’t make the playoffs. This is my moment. It’s hard to get too excited about another person’s moment. It definitely doesn’t inspire my teammates to pile on top of each other like we won states or something.
When the congratulations die down and everyone is putting on their jackets and warm-up pants, Coach Murphy walks me out to midfield. She hands me the game ball.
“Don’t worry. There will be the awards at the last game and the banquet after that, but I want you to have this now,” she says.
“Thank you,” I reply. I tuck the ball under my arm. The crowd on the hill is thinning out. No sight of Grayson up there, but he rarely comes to games. Dad is still in his beach chair, and when he notices I’m looking his way, he pumps a fist. Mom is standing, hugging Meeka and whispering something to her. They smile at each other and then Meeka turns to walk away. She doesn’t wave—or I don’t see her wave—but I bet a text is coming soon. She usually texts after games. Often slightly vulgar, overly dramatic videos declaring her adoration. My phone is still in my bag, preparing for the onslaught.
“I’m sorry,” Coach Murphy says.
I blink and turn back to her. “For what?”
“That we couldn’t give you a better run.”
“We’ll win the last one.”
“Sure, we’ll give it our best, but 7–9–2 is not the way I wanted you to go out. You’ve carried us. You’ve done so much. More than I could’ve ever asked.”
She’s right, of course. I’ve scored most of our goals this year. Assisted on most of the others. There was a game where I scored five and we still lost, which is basically impossible in soccer. There’s nothing I can do to bring us above mediocre.
“Everyone did great this season,” I say.
Coach Murphy rolls her eyes. It’s a total mean girl gesture, probably part of her repertoire since she was in high school, but I appreciate it. Obviously, not everyone did great. But what’s the point of saying that out loud? The season is pretty much over.
She leans in and hugs me. She doesn’t speak. She holds on to me for a long time. Eventually, she has to let me go. In every way. One more game and then I’m done with this.
Someone starts turning off the field lights, so we go our separate ways. Coach Murphy heads to the hill to greet the remaining crowd and I find my bag and have a moment to myself. I sit on the bench, peel off my cleats, and wipe them down with a small towel from my duffel. Then I slip on sneakers and lace them loosely. I close my eyes. I take a deep breath and resist the urge to scream.
About ten minutes later, my parents are talking to Coach Murphy at the top of the hill while I’m in the parking lot waiting for them. The lights are dim here, so I don’t see Riley approach until she’s almost next to me. She’s holding her phone up, taking a blast of pics. I have no idea why.
“I’m so sweaty right now,” I say, covering my face. The sweat is freezing, and I must look hideous.
“But you’re a star,” Riley says.
“Yes, Vermont’s most famous girls’ high school soccer player.” I open the hatchback on Dad’s car and toss my bag in. “You do realize we’re the second-smallest state? Population-wise, that is.”
“Who’s the smallest?”
“I don’t know,” I say, because this wasn’t something I’d actually researched, only something I’d heard. “A Dakota maybe?”
“Well, you’re bigger than Vermont and the Dakotas combined,” Riley says as she holds up her phone. “You’re internationally renowned.”
“I doubt that. Some girl will break the record next year—”
“I’m not talking about soccer,” Riley hoots. “You’re a meme!”
Then she shoves her phone in my face and there’s a picture filling the screen. I grab it to get a closer look because what the fuck? What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK?
I drop the phone on the pavement. The screen shatters and so does my entire world.
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 6
EIGHT DAYS AFTER
GRAYSON
MY PHONE IS BUZZING and it wakes me at nine a.m., way too early for a Sunday. What the hell is wrong with people? Notifications keep coming and coming. Not a huge surprise because the thing was dead all night and I only plugged it in when I got home at . . . three, maybe? Who knows? I haven’t had a curfew since last year and I never keep track of time when I’m out drinking with Larson and those guys.
Bzzzzz.
Come on!
I can’t read most of the notifications without my contacts, so I stumble to the bathroom, splash some water on my face, and slide them in. I feel the throb behind my eyes and think, “Shit, that was a lotta Jäger, wasn’t it?” And like every other weekend morning, I vow to never drink again. Exactly like I did yesterday morning, when I was hungover from Becca’s party. Ha.
I’m noticing a lot of stuff from Meeka. Mostly question marks and links. I follow one and it takes me to a Facebook post with a ton of likes and comments. It’s a picture of me, Meeka, Holly, and Logan with our faces in a circle, looking straight at the camera. Even with my head aching and my eyes still blurry, I know what this is from.
Our fucking confession.
I tap it, but it’s not a video. It’s a still. A fuzzy one, so probably a screenshot. Our four faces are all twisted up in four stupid expressions like we’re in pain or constipated or, I don’t know, a bunch of mouth-breathers. There’s writing on it, those big white letters with black outlines that people slap on old-school memes.
THE MEETING OF THE DERP COUNCIL HAS BEEN ADJ . . .
. . . DERP
It would be kinda funny if I didn’t know where the pic came from. But I do. So it isn’t.
I message Meeka.
WTF!
You see it? she answers.
How?
Come over. Now.
I’m wondering if I should get in touch with Logan or Holly and then I realize that it might’ve been one of them who leaked the pic, and even if I don’t understand why they would’ve, I should figure out how they could’ve first.