Page 55 of Anatomy of Us

Chapter 19

Zoe

The Championship Final in our stadium is pure madness. This year the league picks Seattle as the final site, and for the first time, we play the biggest game at home.

Our people wait for us. Green banners ripple in every section, scarves held high, chants so loud I feel the concrete tremble under my cleats.

I walk toward midfield with my heart hammering so hard I feel it in my temples, my wrists, my skin. Like my body is a drum and the crowd keeps striking it.

Starter.

Hades told me yesterday after practice. No drama. No speech. Just her usual knife-clean delivery. “You start tomorrow. Prove me right.” Then she walks off like she hasn’t just lit a fuse in my chest.

To my left, Jade rolls her hips and stretches. We’re running the same setup we used in the second half in Portland. All week she has avoided my eyes longer thannecessary. She hates playing as the attacking mid, even if she has to admit she crushes it. It isn’t hostility, not quite, but I taste the resentment in the air. She has played my spot all season, and we both know that after today, one of us might not be here anymore.

To my right, Lucía mutters something that could be a prayer or a curse. It’s probably both.

Iris bounces in front of us like she stores too much electricity for one body. Her ponytail whips her back.

“We’re going to win this shit!” she shouts.

Today Tessa stays up in the stands with Wesley. We dress him in a custom club jersey, even bring noise-dampening headphones, though he’ll care more about chewing the new teddy bear Iris gave him last week.

The first twenty minutes are hell.

They’re the surprise team of the season, with a striker who scored twenty goals this year, tied with Iris at the top of the league. And they come at us like they want to finish it before halftime. High press. Mean. Suffocating. Every time we touch the ball, two blue shirts crash in.

I try to connect with Jade in midfield, but there’s no space. Every pass is a fistfight. Every first touch is a gamble.

Minute twelve. Their right winger burns Jamie for speed, drives a low cross into the box, and their striker slips between Lucía and our center back.

She hits it hard. Our keeper stretches. Fingertips skim the ball.

Not enough.

The stands go quiet.

0–1.

Their striker sprints to the corner, slides on her knees, kisses the crest. Her teammates bury her in a long celebration.

“There’s plenty of time,” I tell our team, hands up, calm down, breathe.

The rest of the first half is survival.

Hades shouts from the sideline. We drop back, close gaps, try not to let them cut us again. They keep the ball, but they can’t build another clear chance.

Neither can we.

Iris throws her arms at the bench, at us, at the sky. But we can’t find her with their pressure choking every lane.

Minute forty-one. I win a ball in the center circle. I lift my head. I see Jade break to the right.

My pass comes clean. Thirty yards. Jade cushions it off her chest, turns, searches for Iris.

But Iris is marked by two defenders. No gap.

Jade hesitates. One second. Two.