“Are people actually named Marley?” Ayanna could tell by the way Jane said the name that she envisioned it spelled with an -ey. The name was, somehow, even weirder than weird Jane could imagine.

At the field, it became apparent the reason for the team break was Jane. The aforementioned sweeper greeted Jane with an enthusiastic kiss, and they walked together arm in arm to the center of the pitch. While the two led team stretches, there was a mix of conversations that ranged from “They’re cute together” to “These shitheads couldn’t wait even a few weeks to flaunt their relationship.” It became clear Jane had slept with at least two other women on the team.

It didn’t matter. Ayanna stretched her hips and her legs, her eyes automatically looking at how poorly the pitch was maintained. She liked using the proper English terminology; running on the pitch felt like poetry, running on the field felt like being a startled cow. Dips on the sides, areas where the grass was patchy. Together, the team jogged a lap around. The other team mostly appeared to be doing yoga together. All in child’s pose, except for one guy who was juggling, knee, head, foot, knee. Ayanna felt certain he was the only one who cared about winning. Sensing that desire made her want to score six goals. She warmed up, doing trick shots hitting the crossbar and goalposts. It felt good to refuse to let herself put the ball in the net. There were people watching her follow this pattern, but for the first time in a long time, the only things her brain cared about were the ball, the angle at which she hit it with her foot, and the pinging sound whenever she connected.

When Ayanna’s anxiety was truly bad, she walked around listening to guided meditations. One of her favorites was a woman with an indescribable accent saying to imagine your soul was “a tender, little soap bubble floating in the empty majesty of your lungs. Picture the iridescence, purple, green, blue, pink against all the clear. Add layers for the complexity of your life experiences and emotions.” Each person had this tenderness inside them. Listening helped sometimes, sure, although other times even the thought of visualizing her soul felt painful and cruel, but this, Ayanna thought, was what she should have been doing. Here in the repetitive motions was the nothingness she had longed for.

“Take a minute and eat a little more.” Jane tapped Ayanna on the shoulder. There were a bowl of orange slices and water bottles next to a rickety bench. Ayanna ran to them and drank for a long time, squirting water into her open mouth. Even the dribble of it down the front of her shirt was nostalgic. The orange slices tasted extra good. Jane told her they were going to play a 4–5–1.