It was a genius move, if I do say so myself. Not only because it excites the crowd, but because it’s fantastic for team morale. I mean, who doesn’t want to run out on the field as their name is announced on a loudspeaker?

No athlete I’ve met.

Coach tugs at my sleeve as I pass her. “You good, Scott? You look a bit like you’re headed into a cage match.”

“To win it, right?”

Coach gives me a rare smile. “Give ’em hell.”

“That’s the plan.” I head down the tunnel after Emma.

“Did you get laid last night? You’re in a weirdly good mood,” she asks as I stop beside her.

“I’m always in a good mood.”

Emma snorts loudly. “Uh-huh, sure.”

“Number twelve, Emmmaaa Waattkkkiinnnssss!”

“That’s my cue.” She grins and jogs out of the tunnel.

“And last, but certainly not least, we have our captain. Lancaster’s leading scorer. Number twenty-two, Saayyyllloooorrr Scccccoooottttttt!”

I sprint out into a wall of noise. The stands are full, and I don’t bother to scan them. It’s a perfect fall day, warm with a crisp edge. The game is supposed to start at three, and the sun is bright but not blinding.

The sound of voices and the smell of concession stand snacks mingle, but I don’t stop to take in the atmosphere. I’m laser-focused: on lunges, toe touches, and scoring sprees. Warm-ups end, and I call heads. We win the coin toss, opting to take the kickoff.

I’m addicted to this moment. Some players love the euphoria of scoring a goal or the thrill of being ahead when extra minutes end.

For me, it’s the start of the game, when anticipation’s built to a breaking point.

I love scoring and I love winning. But in those moments, I already know what I’ve accomplished.

I know the ending.

Right now, I have a chance to determine it.

I’m in motion as soon as the ball leaves Emma’s foot, sprinting upward with the other forwards. I challenge the Northampton player who has possession, a sharp jab of her elbow letting me know she doesn’t appreciate the crowding. The motion also provides me an opening. I spin, taking the ball with me, and start running in the opposite direction from where she was headed, back toward Northampton’s goal.

Cassidy Jones is waiting for me. She may have been a confidant at CFOC, but she’s nothing but a barrier now. I pass to Natalie, and she passes to Emma. After years of playing together, we’re in perfect sync. Emma sends the ball back to me before I enter the penalty arc just before I send it flying, taking advantage of the split second of confusion Emma’s pass bought me. It also buys me the first goal and a whole lot of appreciation from the crowd.