Page 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

BACK TO THE FIELD

EMMA

T here’s a slight chill in the air as I gather up the soccer equipment and load it into my car to take to the field. I’m meeting the team today for the first time, and I’m excited to meet the girls, and see what I’m working with for the next few weeks.

My old kit hangs in my closet, and I pull it out, for the first time in over a year, and run my fingers over the embroidered stars above the logo, one of which I helped my club earn. I held the trophy in my hands and hoisted it above my team. I wore the captain’s armband that season for my club.

I was wearing it that night, for my country.

My first season with the National Team.

“Mitchell!” Alexa calls as the sub board is raised by the fourth official standing on the sideline, her number blaring red as the crowd cheers her off the field. I jog to meet her just before the touchline and she slips the captain’s armband up to the edge of my sleeve and adjusts it so it fits just right. “Go get ‘em, Captain.”

I pull her in for a quick hug before play resumes. My knee is a little tight, and has been getting worse as the game progresses, but there’s just a few minutes left on the clock, I can do it. I can push through for the rest of the match. The ball is passed my way and I get swarmed by defenders all around me, I feign left, and juke right, my knee popping and giving out on me when I do, sending me to the ground clutching my knee, the pain is so intense that it brings tears to my eyes.

The on-field official rushes over as I’m surrounded by my teammates and a few of our opponents as well, completely unable to move my right leg. I’m determined to leave the field under my own power, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to. A hush falls over the crowd and I know the trainers are on their way. Someone kneels by my legs and tries to straighten my right leg, I bite back a scream as they do. Hands feel around my knee and calf, every touch sending a stab of pain right to my knee. I’m not walking off the field on my own.

I slip the armband off and clutch it in my hand.

“Lara,” I shout for my fellow midfielder, and she runs over, bending down beside me. I press the armband into her hand and choke back the tears that threaten.“It’s yours.”

A wave of pain, so strong that it makes me want to vomit, wracks my entire body and my world goes dark. I wake up with fluorescent lights blaring down on me, my leg iced and elevated.

“Emma, you’re going to need an MRI as soon as possible. Is there anyone you’d like us to call?”

My parents are in Boston, it’s past midnight there so I don’t even know if they’ve been watching, but I’d hate for them to see this on the morning sports report tomorrow. I’m not sure where Molly is, but she’s my family member most likely to be awake right now. Someone calls her, but it’s a blur as I’m moved from the training room.

The MRI machine is imposing as the nurse situates me on the table, getting my knee ready to scan. The room is small and absurdly cold. I’m sweating and shivering as the walls seem to close in on me. A panic button is pressed into my hand. “Push this if you need us to stop the scan,” the nurse says. “Don’t make me go into this machine,” my brain responds. But then the nurse is gone, and I’m moving, feet first, into the machine. It stops with the outer edge of the tube right above my eyes.

“Relax,” a disembodied voice tells me.

“Easier said than done,” I respond, my voice drowned out by the sound of the machine.

“Complete tears of the ACL and meniscus.”

“Out for the year.”

“Next year, too, most likely.”

It’s as if I’m not even in the room. Doctors, coaches, training staff, my agent, all in the room with me, talking about me as if I’m not here. Making these decisions for me. I’m too stunned to speak. The physical pain has lessened to a dull roar, but the emotional pain is a different story. That’s a punch to the gut. That’s the worst part of all of this.

Hanging the kit back in my closet, I opt for something with less emotional baggage, like a long sleeve tee shirt from my favorite English club team. I pull the shirt over my head and see the team motto reflected back at me. A reminder of the community and unity that can be found in soccer. A reminder of the game that I love. A reminder that I need today. I lace up my tennis shoes and head out, getting to the field a half hour early to set up for drills and run a few myself.

I take it slow, feeling that familiar tightness in my knee, that tightness that might keep me off the pitch for good. My agent, Scott Sanford, has reached out, a few teammates have as well, asking if I’m “in playing shape” or if I’m “good to go again”, and part of me wants to say yes, but then I can’t do a simple drill without pain in my knee. Without reminders of that night. WIthout reminders of the surgeries and the loneliness that followed as I recovered.

My career ended, and the soccer world went on without me.

My ringing phone pulls me out of my memories. Speak of the devil.

“Emma!” Scott’s voice calls through the phone. “How are you this beautiful morning?”

“I’m great, Scott,” I lie through my teeth and pray he doesn’t realize. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”

“Have you given any more thought to that contract offer from Chicago?” The sound of his fingers flying across his keyboard rings through the line, and I know he’s pulling up the offer and looking it over. Again. Probably forwarding me the email. Again. It’s a good offer. A great offer. I love the thought of getting myself back into the game, but don’t know if it’s possible. I don’t know if I can keep up the way that I used to. My speed and stamina aren’t what they used to be, even with continued physical therapy. Coaching kids is a way for me to get back into the game without putting my own body on the line again and risking reinjury.

“When do they need my answer, Scott?”

“The season starts in February, they need your answer by the end of December.”

“I’m untested, Scott. Is there any opportunity for me to play between now and then? Before I make the decision?”

I hear the click-clack of his keyboard and then, “Yes. There’s a friendly you can be a part of in December. In Los Angeles. I’ll send you the details.”

December.

That gives me about two months to get ready.

Kids and parents start to arrive at the field, parents setting up chairs along the side lines, some of the girls start kicking balls around as they wait for the rest of the team to arrive.

“Scott, I have to go. I’ll let you know what I decide soon, okay?”

“I need to know the first of December, Emma.”

“You got it, Scott.”

Hanging up, I tuck my phone into my bag and gather up my girls to make introductions.

“Good Morning, I’m coach Emma Mitchell, and I’m looking forward to being your coach for the rest of the season.” I raise my voice to get the attention of the gathered girls and their families and I see the moment my name registers with some of the adults gethered; wide-eyed glances, whispers between parents, and a few excited squeals from the girls. “Yes. That Emma Mitchell.”

I move on before anyone can ask any questions.

“Grown ups,” my gaze lands on Jax Hutchinson, Mackenzie in front of him, and what looks like their entire extended family gathered around, along with Mrs. Owens and her husband. Jax gives me a sheepish smile, his hand going to the back of his neck, in a gesture I’m becoming oddly familiar with, “You should have received an email from Coach Hernandez alerting you to this change; she’s had a family emergency and is going to be out of state for the rest of the month dealing with that, so you’re stuck with me.”

The girls take the news just fine, heading onto the field for warm-ups without question, as some of the parents grumble but a familiar voice comes to my defense, quelling their unease with words of assurance. Warmth floods my body at the thought of Jax vouching for me; we’ve had only a handful of interactions, but in that time I’ve come to like Jax, and look forward to the opportunity to see him around more often.

“Dr. Hutchinson is right,” I turn at the sound of Mrs. Owens’ voice, “I have great faith in Ms. Mitchell to coach your girls for the rest of the season. You have nothing to worry about.”

Mrs. Owens gives me a decisive nod, and Jax grins at her as I turn back to the girls waiting for me on the field. The game kicks off and I can tell that I’ve got my work cut out for me with this team. They clearly understand that the point of the game is to kick the ball, but they seem to be struggling with kicking the ball to each other and not their competitors. Mackenzie is clearly a leader on the field, pointing out to her teammates who is open and who has opportunities to score; more often than not she’ll take a pass rather than a shot on goal.

At halftime, I gather the girls around me and as they take their water break, I lay out a game plan on the back of my roster sheet. “Okay girls, we’re going to switch things up and play a three-four-three formation. Mackenzie, I want you Allie, and Nichelle in the front. Kristen, Taylor, and Sarah on the back line. The rest of you in midfield.”

When I look up from my rough sketch, I find eleven pairs of eyes staring back at me with similar expressions of confusion. I divide them into groups: front three to my left, back three to my right, the other four in the middle with our goal keeper.

“I want you three playing closest to their goal. If the ball comes to you, you’ll be in the best position to take a shot. You four,” my midfielders, the position that holds a special place in my heart. “You stay in the middle, between the goals. Your job is to move the ball forward. Can you do that?”

Heads nod. Tentatively and a little hesitant, but they nod.

“Good. You three,” I look to my back line. “Your job is to make sure that Sarah doesn’t have to block a shot. You defend so that the other team can’t score.”

The girls still look confused, but slightly less so, which doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, but when the ref calls us back they take to the field and take a rough approximation of a three-four-three formation. But then the wheels fall off the wagon. My midfields, bless their hearts. They don’t move from midfield, which was not the plan.

“You have to move the ball!” I shout from the sideline, waving them toward the action. “Push it forward!”

By some miracle, the ball finds it’s way to Mackenzie, who passes to Allie, and Allie scores. By the time the game is over, we’ve scored another goal, and the girls walk away with their first win of the season. Several of the parents thank me for stepping in as they gather their kids and leave at the end of the game, with one family still hanging back, ignoring me as Penelope Hutchinson animatedly tells a story nearby.

“Well done, Coach,” Mrs. Owens claps me on the shoulder. “Just a reminder though….they are only ten.”

“Right,” I exhale an almost laugh as heat creeps into my cheeks. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

Mrs. Owens nods and walks away after giving me another supportive pat on the back.

“Coach Mitchell!” Mackenzie jogs over to me, a smile on her face. “We’re going for ice cream to celebrate. Want to come with us?”

I look at her gathered family, prepared to say no, the idea of being on around so many new people is a bit overwhelming. And then Jax looks at me with that way he has, and I find myself saying yes. Mackenzie helps me pick up the cones and soccer balls, carrying them to my car before I walk with the family to the ice cream shop down the street. I hang back with Mackenzie, listening to her chatter to her sister, Alice, about everything she did in the game today and Alice responds by telling Mackenzie about the book she was reading on the sidelines. They remind me so much of me and Molly at that age, that I can’t help but smile as I watch them.

Jax slows his pace as we near the shop, positioning himself beside me as we walk, hands in his pockets as we walk side by side in silence. He stands beside me as we peruse the menu board at the shop, his family going ahead of us and placing their orders before scoping out enough chairs for everyone to sit down. With my double scoop of cookies ‘n cream in hand, I sit down beside Jax, the only person in this group that I actually know. He shifts his chair a bit closer to mine as if sensing my trepidation, tensing – as I do – when the inevitable question is asked.

“When you said ‘ that Emma Mitchell’ tonight, what exactly did you mean?” James, the one I met the day I was nearly killed by a baseball, asks from across the circle of chairs, earning himself a smack on the shoulder from the woman beside him.

“I told you,” she whispers furiously, “that I’d tell you when we get home. Don’t embarrass her.”

“I appreciate that,” I shovel a bite of ice cream into my mouth in part to hide my grin, but mostly to keep my ice cream from melting. “But, I don’t mind. At least not in a smaller group like this.”

Jax stretches a hand in my direction, and for a moment I wish that he’d make contact with me, but he seems to decide against it, resting his arm on the armrest of his chair…and mine. There’s something strangely comforting in that simple touch. It gives me the boost I need.

“I played midfield for Chicago…and for the Women’s National Team. A year ago, I tore my ACL and meniscus in the middle of a game and haven’t played since.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jake Hutchinson meets my gaze as he bounces his daughter on his knee. I know Jake and his wife Penelope, or at least know of them thanks to my crash course in baseball during my recovery. This family is no stranger to career ending injury, which is why the usual pity that I’m met with is absent, and in its place is an empathy I’m entirely un-used to. “I’ve been there. If you ever want to talk about it…”

“You mean that, don’t you?” I ask, earning myself a smile from two of my favorite baseball analysts.

“I do. Any time.”

“Thank you.”

With the “Who is Emma Mitchell?” conversation out of the way, the family erupts into conversation, everyone talking over one another, telling stories and laughing at something Alice says. It’s overwhelming, to say the least. I scoot my chair back the slightest bit, looking for some kind of relief, and Jax, unfortunately, notices my movement.

“You good?” His voice is a rough whisper near my ear.

“Just…” completely overwhelmed by extended social interaction and craving time in my silent house, “tired.”

“Let me walk you back to your car.” Jax stands and holds a hand out to me, offering me an out and making no attempt to convince me to stay. “Please.”

“Thank you,” his hand envelopes mine as I stand, and releases it just as quickly, leaving behind the ghost of his touch as he clenches his hand into a fist.

“How does your knee feel?” He asks when we’re out of earshot of his family, our pace slow to accommodate the ache. “And before you try to downplay it, know that while I spend my days dealing with pregnant women, I spent the first part of my career in combat medicine.”

“Hovering somewhere between six and seven right now.”

“What’s a ten for you?”

“A ten is my ACL and meniscus completely tearing. Or my physical therapist bending and stretching my leg at the end of a really hard session.”

“Are you good to drive yourself home?” He asks as we approach my parked car, concern evident in the pinch of his brows, and slight scowl twisting his lips.

“I should be.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“I suppose telling you that I’ve driven with worse pain isn’t going to help my case, is it?”

“It’s not. In fact, I might have to insist that you let me drive you home. Someone from my family can get the girls home.” He holds out his hand for my keys.

“How will you get home?” I ask, stubbornly clenching my fist around my keys.

“I can walk back to my car.”

Oh. Well then. He’s taken away every argument I can think of. I drop my keys into his waiting hand and he helps me slide into the passenger seat of my car, shutting the door before making his way around to the driver’s side.

“How long has Mackenzie played?” I ask, breaking the silence that hangs between us as he drives.

“This is her first year on a team, but she’s been kicking a soccer ball in our backyard almost since she could walk.”

“Really?” I don’t bother to hide my surprise. “I thought for sure that she had team experience. She was really good tonight, she has incredible skill with the ball.”

“Thank you,” Jax beams with pride. “I’m glad she gets to play this year. My schedule never really allowed for much extra curricular activity for either of the girls, and seeing Mackenzie take to the game the way she has, I’m glad I get to be around to see it.”

“She’s lucky to have you.”

“I’m the lucky one, Coach Mitchell, believe me.”

Once again, Jax helps me up the stairs to my front door, letting me lean most of my weight on him as we slowly climb the steps, but unlike last time, he doesn’t leave right away. His hand goes to the back of his neck, as he watches me, almost as if he wants to ask a question but doesn’t quite know how…until he does.

“Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you before you go?”

“I just need to ice it, that’s all.”

“Let me help. Please.”

All I can do is nod, and that’s all he needs.

Jax guides me into the house, and helps me settle onto my couch, making sure that my knee is elevated, propping it up with the pillows and foam wedge that I keep in my living room for exactly this purpose. Finding my ice packs in the freezer, he wraps them in a tea towel before positioning them on and around my knee with gentle, practiced hands.

“All good?” He asks, making final adjustments to the pillows propping me up.

“All good.”

“See you later, Coach.” He squeezes my shoulder, his hand lingering for a long moment before he makes his way to my front door. “I’m locking the door behind me. Take it easy getting up from the couch, and if you need anything… ”

Silence.

A long pause as he considers his next words.

“Don’t hesitate to ask.”

The door shuts behind him with a soft click and for the first time in a long time, the lonely feeling I’m so used to is nowhere to be found.