“Saylor? Are you okay?” Emma’s voice sounds to my right. I don’t bother looking up from my knees, just press my palms a little more firmly against my eye sockets in an attempt to block the world out.

“I’m fine. I just need a minute.”

More whispers to the right, and I recognize Cressida’s muted tone.

“Can we get you anything? Call anyone?” Anne must be nearby as well, because her voice, although low, sounds clear. Her second question is much more tentative than the first. I’m guessing it’s because, aside from the three of them, they would have no idea who to call.

“No, I’m good.” But unfortunately, I realize there is someone I’d like to talk to right now, someone who understands what it’s like to carry a thousand pounds of expectations. But I can’t call him. Doing so would have the opposite effect of the clean break that was supposed to be my departure from Germany. Reaching out to Beck for reassurance would look more like a messy, splintered fracture.

I peel my hands away from my face and slide off the wooden bench, ignoring the concerned stares of my three best friends. I’m sure they’re all thinking I told her so right now, believing I’ve exhausted myself this past week with extra runs and workouts. If only. Physical fatigue is something I figured out how to fight through a long time ago. Mental angst is my current issue.

Coach Taylor gathers us round for a pep talk I barely listen to a word of. My body knows what’s expected, but my head seriously needs to get in the game. Thankfully, I start to feel some of the brain barriers tumble down as I step out on the field, focusing on the green jerseys of our opponents. I know everyone is going to be looking at me this game.

I went to Scholenberg.

I’m a senior.

The team captain.

This is my year. And considering my past three seasons at Lancaster, that’s saying something.

We lose the coin flip, but it doesn’t matter. As soon as the kickoff takes place, I steal the ball and bolt up the field. Lincoln is taken completely off guard. Green jerseys that were preparing to attack sprint back up the pitch, but they’re too late. Defenders aren’t ready. Even if they were, I know spinning around them would be just as effortless.

I flex the muscles of my thigh and propel my foot forward like the strike of a rattlesnake. The checkerboard sphere spins into a blur of black and white, landing in the back of the net. I lost track of how many goals I’ve scored a long time ago, but that doesn’t make it any less satisfying to add another to the tally. The loudspeaker crackles to life, announcing my unassisted goal forty-seven seconds into play.