Page 59 of Spectacular Things
The Draft
“Should we order a bottle of prosecco?” Oliver asks. Seated at a high top, he continues to scan the drink menu while Cricket and Mia roll their eyes in synchronized disdain.
“No, we should not order a bottle of prosecco, ” Cricket hisses with clear irritation.
Mia places her hand on Oliver’s knee. “We should see where Cricket is going to spend the next year of her life,” she translates. “Before we celebrate with prosecco.”
“ If we celebrate,” Cricket corrects.
They have driven more than eight hours, through every type of precipitation, to attend the NWSL draft held in the Philadelphia Convention Center.
The three of them are hangry, nervous, and tired of Cricket’s phone vibrating every five minutes with a text from Yaz, who decided not to come.
Honoring the Lowe mantra of “Be positive,” Yaz admitted to Cricket that she couldn’t trust herself to be supportive if the draft didn’t go the way they hope it will.
But it should go our way, Cricket reminds herself now for the hundredth time, adjusting her feet on the rungs of her barstool.
Because this past fall, the Bruins won the NCAA championship and ESPN made Cricket’s game-winning save their play of the week.
As if that weren’t enough, Teague called her last month to invite her to the National Team’s January Camp.
From every angle, Cricket’s star continues to climb higher.
“Wedding?” the server asks, taking in their formal attire. Cricket and Mia are in rented cocktail dresses, and Oliver wears his navy interview/marriage/only suit.
“The National Women’s Soccer League draft,” Mia says slowly, with unabashed pride, grabbing Cricket by her topknot. “My sister is going to be the first goalkeeper picked.”
“In the fourth or fifth round,” Cricket adds, not out of humility but in mental preparation for the long night ahead. Historically, teams prioritize field players for their first several draft picks.
“Well, that’s exciting!” the server says, swatting Cricket on the shoulder with her order pad. “Your drink is on me, Miss Fourth or Fifth Round. What are you having?”
Cricket laughs, bashful. “Thank you, just water.”
“Even better,” the server jokes. “How about you two?”
Mia orders a glass of red wine but then Oliver orders the same, so they decide to split a bottle before open-mouthed kissing.
“Unnecessary,” Cricket says, flagging their behavior.
Since she arrived home for winter break, they’ve been so handsy.
But whenever Cricket asks Mia what’s going on, Mia says they’re just in a good place, no longer trying to get pregnant and simply enjoying their youth instead.
Cricket is happy for them so long as she never again catches them making out during Jeopardy!
“We should leave here in an hour,” Cricket says, checking the time on her phone and ignoring a slew of texts from Yaz. “There’s a red-carpet thing and then the draft itself and then there’s, like, interviews and stuff if I get picked.”
“ When you get picked,” Oliver says emphatically.
“We’ll see.” Cricket knows the odds are in her favor, but only slightly.
More than four hundred young women have registered for the draft and schlepped to the City of Brotherly Love with their friends and family in tow, hoping to be picked and not publicly humiliated.
Tonight, fewer than 25 percent of them will hear their name announced.
The rest of these big fish will return to their small ponds and put on a brave face as they consider alternative routes forward, both inside and outside the world of professional soccer.
“Be positive,” Mia says. “Mom would tell you that. Be positive: It’s in your blood, this is your destiny, this is what you’ve sacrificed for.”
“But this is like getting picked for gym class in public,” Cricket says. “And on television, with contracts, and sponsorships, and the rest of my life on the line.”
“To draft night!” Oliver intones, raising his glass before remembering the rules. No toasts until Cricket has been selected to a team. “Sorry, I’m just excited,” he says. “Anything can happen.”
Inside the convention center, Cricket, Mia, and Oliver stick close together as they navigate draft hopefuls, camera crews, and famous retired players.
Team owners speak in low tones, emanating the power that comes with deep pockets, while head coaches wear official gear from head to toe.
They look like cartoonish mascots compared to all the young women in six-inch heels and eyelash extensions.
When they are asked to take a seat, Cricket turns her phone off because Yaz keeps texting and she needs to be present.
Onstage, men and women in suits take turns behind the dais to speak about progress and promise and honor, and then the draft itself begins.
Cricket takes a sip of her ice water, then downs the glass and refills from the carafe in the center of the table. She has never been this thirsty.
It’s only the second round when the coach of the Chicago Red Stars announces his team’s pick into the microphone.
“Cricket Lowe,” he says, looking straight at her.
And so Cricket waves to him, curious what he could possibly want to tell her in front of such a huge crowd because it’s way too early for teams to draft goalkeepers, and the Chicago Red Stars are way too middle America— way too not Los Angeles —to pick her.
“Cricket Lowe,” he says again, waving back at her like this was a funny game and not her real life. “The Chicago Red Stars select Cricket Lowe from UCLA.”