I imagine a stream of smoke following me as I sprint down the field. Kluvberg has cleared off the pitch, but a few of them are still loitering along the sidelines. Stretching, drinking water, enjoying the view. Who cares? Not me. I’m focused on nothing aside from sending the sphere I’m dribbling down the field into some white netting. I spin around a defender, feint left, and then I see it: an opening that leads directly to my goal—literally. I’m cleared for full activity. No restrictions. I send the soccer ball flying with every ounce of power my leg can muster.

The black and white ball leaves the protective cradle of my feet and flies. Straight and direct and true. Faster than any of the defenders. Faster than the goalie. I know it will make it as soon as it separates from my foot, but it’s no less gratifying to watch it smash into its destination.

I had something to prove today.

I just did.

I turn, only to be mobbed by yellow pinnies. I accept my teammates’ praise with a grin. This isn’t a pickup game at a barbecue. The women I just sprinted around and scored against? Some of the best athletes in the world.

Not only can I still play, but I’m also still good.

Ellie’s the last one to melt away, following a final squeeze. She’s beaming, and I’m touched by her support. I know it’s exacerbated because of my strange behavior earlier. She thinks this is a triumph over an injury that could have ended my career, and it is. But it’s also a less noble victory.

I was showing off.

For everyone else who scored a coveted Scholenberg invitation.

For Coach Weber.

For Adler Beck, who’s leaning against the advertisement-splashed divider that surrounds the perimeter of the field. Watching our game with an inscrutable expression and crossed arms.

The scrimmage commences again. Time always seems to pass differently when I’m playing, rushing by in measures of kicks and sprints, rather than seconds and minutes. It doesn’t feel like it’s been the appropriate measure of any of those when Coach Weber blows her whistle, signaling the end of the game.

“Nice work, everyone. Get changed, and then we’ve got a team lunch.”

“Team lunch?” I whisper to Ellie as we head back toward the tunnel.

“Forget about lunch. You kicked ass, lady!”

“Well, what did you expect?” I ask her, pulling my pinny over my head as we enter the locker room. “Adler Beck is not the only one who lives up to the hype.”

“Um, speaking of which, I saw him staring at you.”

“Spectators tend to watch the player with the ball,” I reply.

“I’m just saying. You’re totally his type.”

“What type is that?”

“Gorgeous.”