I reminded myself of the conditioning experiment we’d learned about in psychology: the rat who discovers that when he pushes the lever, he gets food. I was like that rat, pushing the lever over and over and over again, but instead of food, all I wanted was for Ruby to smile. But every time I thought I’d figured out what worked, it stopped working. Ruby only sighed and checked her phone.
“I better go,” she said.
“Me too.” The parking lot and the locker room lay in opposite directions, so Ruby gave me a quick kiss and a wave. I stood there, counting to ten. At four, she turned around. My eyes flew to the ceiling, and I whistled, pretending I got caught. When I let my eyes drop, I saw she was smiling. Success.
* * *
—
By the time we got out to the field, the rain had slowed to a mist, too fine to see but not to feel. The mostly triumphant mood of that morning had dimmed, but rather than being comforted by my teammates’ shared misery, I found it patronizing. They were going to Stanford and Florida State and Saint Mary’s, or they were going to D-II schools and were thrilled about it. It didn’t have to matter to them if this one game was miserable, because they knew this wasn’t the end. I, meanwhile, had panic-sent another email to UCLA, asking if they were still finalizing the lineup, and I hadn’t heard back yet.
“I need us to win,” I muttered to Ronni, seated next to me on the bleacher.
“That’s generally the goal,” said Ronni.
“No,” I said. “I need to win.”
We were playing Torrey Pines, and this year they were good for the first time since I’d known them. They got ahead early with a 1-0 lead, and when the ball sailed past Halle’s hand I threw up my hands and groaned like everyone else on my team. But secretly, my chest burned with excitement. I loved come-from-behind victories, and I especially loved leading them. There were girls on my team who got down on themselves at the first sign of trouble, playing badly and getting upset and playing even worse as a result. But I thrived under duress. I loved imagining the spectators underestimating me, assuming the game was over, and then watching, stunned, as I proved them all wrong.
So that’s what I did. With seconds left in the first quarter, I landed a header in the bottom left corner of the goal, thanks to a perfect pass from Ronni. We clasped hands and hugged like we’d just won the game, which probably annoyed the Torrey Pines girls, but I didn’t care. Ronni was so visibly proud of me. And then I scored again, barely a minute into the second quarter, and the whole team rushed me as I threw out my arms in the Pinoe power pose. I knew that they knew from this morning’s anticlimactic T-shirt reveal that I needed this, and instead of letting myself feel pitied, I decided to feel grateful. I didn’t know if I’d ever matter to another team the way I mattered to this one, and I wanted to live inside every second of it.
The final score was 3-2, Torrey Pines tying us shortly before a truly spectacular shot by Ronni, suspended almost horizontally in midair. Our crowd, though smaller than usual due to the weather, erupted, and our teammates boosted Ronni and me onto their shoulders like kings. Coach grabbed us each by a shoulder in her trademark death-grip congratulations, oblivious to our wincing. “Great game,” she said. “That’s what I like to see. Great, great work.” Ronni and I beamed. When Coach was overcome with pride there were only about six words she could come up with, and she leaned on them heavily.
I grabbed my water bottle and took a big gulp as I scanned the crowd for Jamie and Alexis. I found them near the top of the bleachers, still talking intently, but then my eyes were drawn elsewhere. A woman I recognized but couldn’t place was briskly working her way down the bleachers, and when she saw me looking, she waved.
“Quinn!” she called. She reached me and extended her hand. I shook it