Page 48 of Spectacular Things
Mighty Bruins
After saying goodbye to Mia at the airport, Cricket had to change her shirt twice on the plane because she couldn’t stop crying.
And then between the brutal three-a-day training sessions and sprawling campus, Cricket wondered if she could survive the West Coast without her sister’s support.
But during that first week of separation and despite the three-hour time difference, Mia picked up the phone whenever Cricket called and always offered a positive spin lifted directly from their mother’s playbook.
“No pain, no gain,” Mia reminded her in every conversation. “You’ve got this, I promise.”
And now, after only a week on campus, Cricket understands on a molecular level that she is where she is meant to be.
As usual, her sister was right. With her feet firmly planted on the Pacific plate, Cricket’s clear blue eyes not only reflect rows of palm trees but are also focused on what’s next.
Today, it’s learning the UCLA Eight-Clap.
While Cricket feels as self-conscious as everyone else in her orientation group—half-heartedly fist-pumping and chanting, “ Fight! Fight! Fight! ”—she appreciates the major advantage of being a fall athlete.
Arriving to campus early and landing in the open, sweaty arms of her teammates means she’s already earned a sense of belonging.
Thanks to the returning players who have taken her under their wing, Cricket knows the shorthand for different academic buildings and the shortcut between her dorm and the gym.
She knows BPlate offers the healthiest meal options, which is why she eats there every day, except Sunday, which is her cheat day along with everyone else’s on the team.
Conveniently, it’s also the one day of the week that they’re most likely hungover and craving BLTs.
“Obviously we’re committed to college soccer,” one of Cricket’s captains told her between shots of beer during the team’s Saturday-night power hour.
“But we’re equally committed to the college experience. ”
“Fight! Fight! Fight!”
When the enthusiastic orientation leader insists they practice the Eight-Clap one more time, Cricket’s phone vibrates with a text.
She isn’t surprised to see it’s her teammate asking for professor recommendations in the Geology Department.
On the second day of preseason, Cricket’s soccer captains established a text thread to communicate meetups, but it’s quickly devolved into an open forum.
Even as a first year, Cricket feels comfortable seeking advice about classes and asking to tag along on Sunday sojourns to The Grove.
And every time Cricket enters a packed lecture hall full of stone-faced strangers, the hyperactive text thread feels like a pack of sisters in her pocket, constantly abuzz with party invites, hot takes on pop culture, and comically predictable weather updates: 70 and sunny @4p—another perfect day for footie!
When Cricket’s phone vibrates on her walk to practice in early September, she assumes it’s another team text but it’s Sloane calling.
She picks up with the standard greeting of any Gen Zer answering the phone: “Is everything okay?”
“You tell me,” Sloane singsongs. “Aren’t you supposed to be at practice right now?”
“I’m walking there,” Cricket says, basking in the autumn sun. “How’s league life?”
Sloane sighs, and Cricket stops walking to make sure she hears what comes next.
“Honestly? It’s so weird,” Sloane admits. “Being an eighteen-year-old in the workforce is a dream but, like, the most intense dream ever, especially with playoffs coming up, which is why I wanted to call you.”
“For advice?”
“Something like that,” Sloane says, smiling through the receiver. Cricket can imagine Sloane’s left dimple in full effect as she says, “I just needed to hear a joke, so I thought of you.”
“I don’t know any jokes.”
“No, you are the joke.”
“Oh! Then you’re welcome!” Cricket says, because in her new SoCal bubble, Sloane is no longer a threat to Cricket’s career but a funny sidebar, a goofy rival Cricket relies on for banter and constructive criticism after games. They still speak every Sunday.
Waving to her teammates up ahead on the path, Cricket quickly whispers to Sloane what no one else yet knows: “I’m starting this weekend,” she gloats. “And I’ve got to go, but good luck with playoffs!”
After practice and recovery and team dinner, Cricket thinks of Sloane as she swipes her fob to get into her dorm.
Now that she’s here and immersed in Bruins life, she’s not sure how Sloane ever decided to skip college.
Passing through the common area, Cricket smiles at a group of sophomores drinking wine out of mason jars while working on a massive three-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle , and enters her own suite to discover that Mathilda has left a plate of chocolate chip cookies in the shared kitchen with a note begging Cricket and Ayo to eat them.
Separated from everyone and everything she knows, Cricket has never felt more independent. She’s learning so much, off and on the field, from her teammates and professors and even from herself, being out on her own without Mia helping her manage every little thing.
And as smart as her sister is, Cricket believes Mia, like Sloane, was a fool to forgo this opportunity. She was a martyr to leave Yale and move home for Cricket, but she was a fool not to even apply to UCLA this time around.
Sometimes, after texting with Sloane or reading up on Sloane’s performance for the Washington Spirit, Cricket will have a fleeting thought about how Sloane gets paid an actual salary to play soccer in the NWSL right now.
And occasionally, as Cricket shoves a protein bar into her mouth before an early class, she’ll picture Mia baking her famous banana nut bread and offering Oliver a slice, still warm from the oven.
But even as she envisions the Sloane and Mia highlights, Cricket knows there’s nowhere in the world she would rather be than exactly where she is.
It’s never been easier to stay focused on playing sharper and smarter soccer.
On game days, Cricket dresses up for class and feels the eyes of other students looking at her with respect.
She enjoys the local celebrity, appreciates how her classmates often show up at her matches holding signs with her name in gold bubble letters, and greet her at the next lecture with a congratulatory fist bump.
In the locker room, Cricket dives headfirst into her own pregame routines—listening to her mom’s high school warm-up playlist, dressing her left leg first, rolling out the perfect piece of prewrap.
She tucks a lucky red ribbon inside her cleat.
And most importantly, when Cricket prepares to take her place between those pipes, she knows who will be there waiting for her.
Siberian blue eyes shining with pride and a lipstick heart drawn on her cheek.
No one else can see Liz Lowe standing by the goalpost, but whenever Cricket takes the field, her mother is impossible to miss.