of my life, though I still gag if I even smell raspberry vodka.”
The girls giggle.
Mel takes a few steps down the line, to the fifth banner.
“Olivia Mills was captain my sophomore season.” A couple of the older girls hoot and holler. “National Team alternate and goalie of the year, to the surprise of no one, because Livvy had a perfect season, zero points scored against her. Livvy was crazy superstitious. She wouldn’t ever take off her goalie gloves unless she had both feet on the sidelines, she wouldn’t step onto the field until every girl on the Wildcats had tapped the top of her helmet with their stick blades.” Mel scans the crowd, stopping when she sees Ali. “In the locker room after winning the state championship, Livvy presented her gloves to our freshman backup goalie, none other than Ali Park.” A few girls rub Ali’s head. “And right after, Livvy accidentally leaned against the master knob of the locker room showers, where we had apparently been standing, and doused all of us in ice-cold water.”
“Even Coach?” Grace asks, her hands covering her mouth.
Mel nods her head incredulously. “Yup. Even Coach.”
Everyone has a big laugh. Even Kearson. She’d love to see Coach like that—laughing and proud. Hopefully this season.
Mel takes another step, just past the last banner. You can hear a pin drop.
“Rose Tynam-Reed was our captain last year. All-state defensive player of the year, full ride to Danford. I know we had good times last season.…” Mel shrugs. “But I can’t forget the sound of her crying in the locker room after we lost the championship. And how, after Coach told us to get back on the bus, she was the first to walk out. And the rest of us did the same thing, quietly packed up our stuff and left. I don’t remember any of us saying one word to each other.” She shakes her head sadly. “Is it any wonder why we lost? Because that’s not what Wildcats do.” She places a hand on her heart. “This is what Wildcats do.”
The girls all nod.
“Coach may have helped us to remember what it means to be a Wildcat tonight. But now it’s our job to never, ever let ourselves forget. If we can do that, there’ll be another championship banner hanging in this spot next year.”
The Wildcats erupt in screams and claps and hoots and hollers, the gym exploding with sound.
Mel scurries a few feet away, balances her cell phone upright on a stack of exercise mats. The girls grab sticks from the equipment closet and cuddle up against one another, readying their pose.
Ali says, “Did anyone find a ball in there? Might be nice for the picture.”
“I did,” Phoebe says, strutting out from inside the closet. And then, coyly, “The question is, how badly do you want it?”
In a matter of seconds, Phoebe has her loaner stick on the floor and is batting a ball back and forth. Ali jokingly tries to snatch it away with her stick. At first Phoebe deftly pivots and laughs deliciously, swaggering, but Ali stays on her, like a tango, stepping forward with each of Phoebe’s steps back, a Cheshire-cat grin on her face.
“Phoebe, you don’t have your brace on!” Mel cautions.
“Thanks, Mom!”
Indignant, Mel picks up a stick, darts forward, and steals the ball from them both. “I’ve always thought I could play defense,” she says, all bravado.
But then Ali crosses in front of her and steals it back. “You’ll need to be faster than that!” She calls out across the gym, “Grace! Grace!” before chipping her a pass.
And just like that, an impromptu game begins, spreading out from a few girls in the center of the gym to everyone who is here. Sides take shape without much deliberation, and half the girls peel off their shirts, play in just their tanks and sports bras.
First one girl calls for a pass, then another yells for sideline. Sticks slap the floor; sneakers rub the wood with bright squeaks of friction.
It reminds Kearson of how good she used to feel when she played. And she’s both grateful and humbled that this joy hasn’t been completely extinguished.
Mel and Phoebe are completely in sync. Kearson saw them struggling a bit during tryouts this week but they’ve slipped back into a groove. It is all love. Every shot, every play, ends with them hugging each other.
They scrap like this for who knows how long. Kearson’s bra is sticking to her with sweat and the score is tied,