Page 66 of Spectacular Things
Full Circle
The rest of the defenders reply in unison, “It ain’t no country club, either.”
And then everyone on the field, grinning in their lateral squat or backward lunge, shouts the next line together, “This is L.A.!”
“I’m so confused,” Teague says from the sideline, taking off her sunglasses to clean them. “That song came out before any of you were born.”
“It’s a classic,” Sloane says. “Give us a little credit, Coach!”
“Pretty sure I give you plenty,” Teague says without meeting Sloane’s eye. “Okay, keepers are with Anders, everyone else down here.”
Sloane glances at Cricket because what was that?
“She’s just wound tight for tomorrow,” Cricket reassures her as they grab their gloves from the bench and begin their jog to the far goal.
“All Teague will have to do at the game is stand on the sideline and yell,” Sloane huffs.
“I could say the same thing about you,” Cricket teases, but Sloane doesn’t laugh.
Competition between them has been fierce all week and what neither of them has said is that Cricket is playing better and more consistently.
Despite Sloane’s history as the starting goalkeeper, Teague has been explicit that tomorrow’s lineup is still fluid, still dependent on daily performance.
“Now I have that song stuck in my head,” Sloane whines.
“It’s not such a bad one,” Cricket argues before singing the next line. “ All I wanna do is have a little fun before I die seems like a good thing to remember the day before we become Olympians, don’t you think? Play with joy, et cetera?”
“You’re annoying when you’re happy,” Sloane says, stopping abruptly to pull up her socks. Ahead of them, Anders waits with orange cones and a flexing jaw as he works over a fresh piece of electric-blue gum.
Cricket smiles because Sloane is right—she is happy.
She’s here. Against all odds and after so many detours, she’s finally made it to the Olympics.
Just like Oliver pointed out over winter break, this is her opportunity, and she’s grateful for it.
Also, not that she would risk jinxing it by saying it aloud, or even texting it to Mia, but she is pretty sure that Teague is going to start her tomorrow.
Halfway through the first drill, Liz appears by the goalpost. “Do you smell that?” she asks, wrinkling her nose. Cricket doesn’t smell anything except her own body odor cutting through her coconut-scented sunscreen.
“It’s the sweet, sweet smell of victory!” Liz shouts, raising her fists like she’s Rocky Balboa. “You’re going to start every game, and we’re going to win gold! Be positive, baby!”
“Nice heart,” Cricket says, noting the lipstick on her mom’s cheek.
“A quality throwback,” Liz says, beaming.
“Just like Sheryl Crow.” It was, in fact, Liz who first sang “All I Wanna Do” when Cricket arrived in Los Angeles the previous week.
The pop song became a team-wide earworm within twenty-four hours, and now it is bugging Sloane, who is already in her own head about tomorrow, which delights Liz to no end.
“It’s not that I’m rooting against her, I’m just cheering for you,” she says. “Play well today, and that starting spot is yours tomorrow.”
That night at dinner, the team is so mired in their own anxieties that, in the silence, Trinity wonders aloud when they all became such noisy chewers.
“It’s true,” Soph agrees, slicing up a pear. “Please, somebody say something.”
But it’s hard to come up with fresh material after a week of living and training with the same group. The pressure is intense and only mounting. Tomorrow, they begin their quest to win back-to-back Olympic gold medals in front of millions of viewers.
“Who is Teague meeting with first tonight?” Mal asks, and everyone looks around because that is an interesting question.
“Number one,” Sloane says from the end of the table. “By which I obviously mean me.” Maybe it’s in Cricket’s head, but it seems like more than a few teammates sneak glances at Cricket in response to Sloane, like reporters shifting their attention to the next big story.
As she does the night before every major international tournament, Teague conferences with each player after dinner to discuss their role for their opening match and, more explicitly, to tell them whether they’re starters or game changers.
She meets with the players in one of the hotel’s larger suites that the staff has converted to suit the team’s needs.
Her office is the bedroom, and what was once a cavernous living room has now become the 24/7 snack room.
Players can grab fruit, granola bars, yogurt, bottled water, and hydration tablets at their convenience.
Just after ten p.m., a single banana—perfect in its slightly green pre-ripeness—tempts Cricket from an otherwise empty fruit bowl as she makes her way to Teague’s office.
She heard that more than three million bananas were consumed by athletes during the 2024 Paris Olympics.
She can believe it. But Cricket walks by the fruit bowl because now is not the time for bananas.
“Come on in, Cricket,” Teague calls through the open door. “Take a seat. How are you doing?”
“Great,” Cricket answers, because she’s never been entirely sure what she’s supposed to say when someone asks how she’s doing, and because, all things considered, she’s truly feeling pretty great.
“Excellent, as you should be,” Teague says, looking down at the open binder in front of her and scanning for something.
She closes it and folds her hands, looks Cricket in the eye.
“To be honest with you, I’ve wrestled with this decision quite a bit, but we’re starting Sloane tomorrow, which means I’ll need you to—”
Teague goes on about the role of a game changer, how integral they are to the success of a team.
But Cricket isn’t listening. Cricket is wondering how this can be, after the last seven months, when everyone from Gogo and Lindsey to Sam and Foxy have said that she’s been incredible.
Everyone has looked at her and all but told her that she earned the starting spot tomorrow.
It doesn’t make any sense.
“Sloane has significantly more experience—” Teague is in the middle of saying, and Cricket wants to flip her desk over and throw that binder out the window, because how is Cricket ever supposed to gain experience if she isn’t given an opportunity to stand in the goal and gain some fucking experience?
She waits for the dismissal and when it arrives, Cricket says, “Thanks, Coach,” before getting out of that office as quickly as possible, grabbing that perfect banana out of the fruit bowl, and throwing it in the trash.
Cricket returns to her room, body shaking, mind reeling. As she starts to run water for her bath, she tries to decide whether to text Mia when it’s already past midnight on the East Coast or if she should just get in the tub and try to reset on her own.
But Cricket doesn’t do either because someone knocks on the door.
“Hey, it’s me,” says a familiar voice. “Open up.”
Cricket rolls her eyes but lets Sloane in, already aware this is a bad idea.
“Sorry,” Sloane says, stepping past Cricket and into the room. “But also, obviously, not sorry?” She spins on her toes, a tone-deaf grin on her face, and Cricket realizes too late that Sloane is not even going to attempt sympathy, or diplomacy, or discretion. She came here to gloat.
“I’ve got to say, I’m a little stunned,” Sloane admits.
“Congratulations,” Cricket says, bending over and stretching her hamstrings to avoid eye contact. “But I need space.”
“Totally,” Sloane agrees emphatically. “It’s just, I was thinking, these hotel sheets are pretty subpar, so could I get those nice ones? That I mailed to you?”
When Cricket doesn’t respond, Sloane looks over at her. “What?” she asks.
“Are you serious?”
“This is all part of our friendship, Cricket,” Sloane says, her smile faltering. “We compete to make each other better.”
“But I’m better!” Cricket shouts suddenly, surprising Sloane with the boom of her voice and, if she’s being honest, surprising herself, too. “I’ve been outplaying you! Everyone knows it! I don’t know who your parents paid, but there—”
“My parents ?” Sloane repeats, her face falling, then clouding over into game mode. “This is the Olympics and I have far more experience than you,” she says. “Remember when you were at UCLA and constantly telling me that going pro after high school was shortsighted?”
“So?” Cricket says, aware that she is yelling and that the walls are thin but unable to stop. “Who cares what I said?”
“I do!” Sloane says with a derisive laugh.
“I do, because every time we talked, you scared the shit out of me that I’d made the wrong decision and that you were having the best time ever, but now”—she lets out an exhausted sigh—“it’s times like tonight where it seems like taking that risk paid off. ”
“Oh please,” Cricket scoffs. “It was hardly a risk when you’d always have your parents backing you up and bailing you out.”
“Bailing me out? Since when do you hate my parents?” Sloane asks, her voice high.
“I’ve been playing better than you,” Cricket says, ignoring the question, because the answer is she loves Sloane’s parents, she just hates how present they are, how supportive and rich and alive they are. “I should be starting tomorrow,” Cricket states plainly. “According to literally everyone.”
“Except Teague,” Sloane points out.
“Which is bullshit!” Cricket shouts. She wants to throw something. She needs to punch something. If she kicked the wall as hard as she wants to, she’d shatter all the bones in her foot, so instead she bellows, “You don’t deserve the start and you don’t need it!”
“And you do?” Sloane asks, fuming. “You need it? Are you serious right now?”
“I’ve earned it—you know I have!”
“You’ve had a few good days of training,” Sloane concedes, bringing each word to a simmer. “But years of experience trumps a few good days—”
“Months!” Cricket corrects her. “I’ve had the edge since January!”