Page 57 of Anatomy of Us

The ball comes perfect. I take it with the inside of my foot. A defender steps in. I beat her with a sharp move, like I never missed a whole season.

I hit the edge of the box, lungs burning, no shooting angle.

But I see Iris.

The pass has to be perfect. Too hard and it runs out. Too soft and it gets picked off.

I strike with the inside of my foot, low and fast, through a defender’s legs.

Iris appears.

One touch.

Just one.

And the ball slams the net.

The stadium detonates.

Iris charges me and lifts me off the ground, crushing me in a hug that nearly snaps my ribs.

“Like the old days!” she yells into my ear. “Hell, you’re not that rusty after all.”

1–1.

Thirteen minutes to win a championship or we go to extra time.

The game turns into a war.

They respond, press again, hunt for the goal that puts them back ahead. Minute ninety-five, they blast one from outside the box and our keeper tips it out for a corner. A minute later, a header smashes the post.

We counter when we can. Less and less. Tired legs. Heavy air.

In stoppage time my legs weigh like lead. Cramps start to bite. Jade grabs at her calf. Even Lucía, who plays like a tank, starts to slow.

I jump for a ball, my head cracks against an opponent’s. I hit the turf. Stars burst behind my eyes, but there’s no time to stop.

Final whistle.

1–1.

Extra time.

**

The extra thirty minutes are torture.

My legs don’t answer the way they should. Every sprint is pure will. Jade looks about the same. Lucía limps a little from minute one hundred, but she refuses to come off.

They’re exhausted too. Their focus slips, their touches get loose. The match turns into a trade of mistakes, turnovers, half-chances nobody has the gas to finish.

Second period of extra time. Their striker breaks free. Our keeper charges out. They collide. They hit the ground. The ball rolls toward the goal line, slow but sure.

Jamie gets there by a hair and clears it.

Next play, Iris gets in alone on the keeper. She shoots.

Post.