Page 73 of Spectacular Things
“And this wall is calling your name.”
They put their legs up, just as they did when they were sixteen.
“It’s like I finally get everything I wanted—or at least I’m on track to get everything I wanted—no offense—and I’ve never been more alone.” Cricket turns her head, looks at Sloane’s profile, backlit by the hotel lamp behind her. “Was it always this lonely for you?”
“I guess,” Sloane says, keeping her eyes on the ceiling as she thinks through her answer. “But we’re goalkeepers—we’re lone wolves by design.”
“But what’s the point if she’s not here?”
“Maybe there isn’t one,” Sloane says, rolling her right ankle clockwise, and then counterclockwise. “Or maybe—and I’ve thought about this a lot since getting hurt—but maybe soccer—or I guess sports in general—is just a relatively healthy coping mechanism.”
“For what?”
“Being human.”
Cricket huffs at the sentiment but Sloane continues. “Like, in a game, the only way to play well is to be totally, completely grounded in the moment. But if you’re—maybe you’ve given all you can—”
Cricket shakes her head. “I know I haven’t.”
“Yeah.” Sloane agrees. “Then maybe you have to decide if the cost of the dream is worth the price of playing.”
“I’m not even sure it is my dream anymore,” Cricket admits. “Mia hates me, and my mom—she’s gone, too.”
Looking over to meet Cricket’s eye, Sloane asks delicately, “But she hasn’t been around for a while, right? Almost ten years?”
Cricket stares into the recessed lights as tears slide off the sides of her face. She shakes her head. “This is probably going to sound so crazy.”
“Then it will sound like every other conversation with you.”
“After she died,” Cricket begins, using the back of her hand to wipe at her tears, “she would show up at my games and hang out by the goalpost. I’ve never told anyone this, not even Mia—”
“It’s okay,” Sloane says. “Tell me.”
Cricket sniffles hard and takes a few deep inhales. “Okay, so, all through high school, all through college, even through that first awful season with the Red Stars, when we couldn’t string two passes together, she was always there.”
“Your mom?”
Cricket nods.
“And then what?”
Cricket starts to answer but suddenly she can’t breathe, not with this anvil in her chest, this shame lodged in her throat.
She takes her legs off the wall and brings them down to Earth, rolls over onto her hands and knees, tries to catch her breath, but the harder she tries to swallow air, the more she craves it in gulps and the harder she cries out in uncontrollable sobs.
Somewhere in the thick of it all, Sloane is there, drawing slow circles between Cricket’s wing bones, counting seconds to inhale and exhale, her voice as steady as her hand on Cricket’s back.
“She disappeared,” Cricket manages. “She disappeared and she hasn’t come back since I left Mia in the hospital, even though this is what we all agreed to, this was everybody’s dream for me.”
“Yeah, but Cricket,” Sloane says, gazing at the carpet, processing, “dreams can change.”
“Not this one.” She feels another wave of agony beginning to crest and doubles over.
“Yes, it can.” Sloane pauses mid-circle, her hand still on Cricket’s back as she points out the obvious: “Because circumstances change.”
“But this is who I am,” Cricket argues. “This is all I am.”
Sloane sucks in her breath, as if this level of armchair therapy is above her pay grade. “Okay, so, two things right off the bat. One, you are not just a goalkeeper. And two, priorities shift. That’s okay. Dreams can change. You just have to be brave enough to step off your line—”
Cricket’s laugh interrupts Sloane’s pep talk. “Are you really throwing out a goalkeeper metaphor right now?”
“I thought it was pretty apt, but fine, let me ask you this instead.” Sloane sits up so she can make clear eye contact as she posits: “Are you having fun?”
Cricket stares at her. It feels unfair, and almost irrelevant. Fun isn’t the point.
“When I come back,” Sloane begins, “which is a lot sooner than you’d think, I’ll play from a place of joy.”
“But this is what I’m good at,” Cricket insists, whispering it like a confession. “It’s the one thing, and Steve Prefontaine said that to give anything less than your best is to—”
“—sacrifice the gift. I know, I know,” Sloane says, speaking over her. “But maybe Steve didn’t have a sister like Mia? And maybe your gift isn’t what you think it is.”
Cricket twists her head to look Sloane in the eye. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to inspire me or sabotage me.”
Sloane keeps her focus on the ceiling, as if the truth hovers up there, under the paint, between the cracks, where heat gathers first. Without looking at Cricket, Sloane reaches for her hand.
It surprises Cricket—the action itself and also how sweaty Sloane’s palm is.
“I’m not trying to do either,” Sloane says earnestly.
“But I know that winning a World Cup in two years—assuming we win, which is a big assumption—but winning a World Cup will not bring you peace.” Sloane shudders, as if reliving a bad memory, and lets go of Cricket’s hand.
“Think about it: You already have an Olympic gold medal, and that isn’t enough.
Waiting for the next World Cup will only make you want more, because there’s always another cup, and another lump of prize money, and more endorsement deals. ”
Cricket watches Sloane stand up and brush the pumpkin seed dust off her hands. “You have to accept wanting more. We all do. I’m probably the most guilty when it comes to that, the greediest little piggy of all.”
“How so?”
Sloane crushes the empty pumpkin seed bag into a ball, takes a fadeaway jump shot. Behind her, Cricket hears the elegant swish as the bag hits the bottom of the trash can. Nothing but net.
“That’s for another time,” Sloane says. “The point is, ambitious witches always want more. But right now, you need to get some sleep, so you can give everything you’ve got tomorrow.”
“And then what?” Cricket asks.
“And then you need to reach out to Mia.”