The locker room smells like someone tried to cover up gym socks with lemon-scented floor cleaner… and failed miserably. I've been warming the bench for two years, perfecting the art of looking interested during strategy talks — so hearing I'm starting this game hits me harder than a linebacker.
As if muttering a questionable Shakespearean monologue, Coach Rivas is pacing in front of the whiteboard. Every few seconds, his gaze darts to me, as if he's checking whether or not I've run off. There's that wild intensity about him — one that either wins us the championships or accidentally sets off the fire alarm.
I give him a thumbs-up.
A huge error.
He looks more intently. "Vargas. You won't let me down, will you?"
"Well, what does 'down' mean?"
My teammates snort. To cover up their laughter, someone, probably Marquez, fakes tying his shoe.
From the distant corner, our left-back Ramos murmurs, "Man, this is déjà vu."
I give him a quick look. "How?"
He shrugs. "You're being put into a match for which you're not prepared? It reminds me of that practice match from last month. Do you remember? The ball struck you in the face even though you jumped the other way.
"I saved that shot," I point out.
"You also bled on the ball," he says.
Coach stops pacing and looks at the squad. "Alright, listen up. We've got ten minutes until kickoff." He starts stabbing his finger at the whiteboard. "Midfield — control the tempo. Forwards — keep the pressure. Defense — don't make any stupid mistakes. And Vargas…"
I know what's coming.
"...try not to die out there."
The room bursts into laughter.
I grab my gloves and head for the door, trying to ignore the butterflies dancing in my stomach. The roar of the crowd already seeps through the walls.
I take a step towards the tunnel... and freeze.
Standing there, blocking the way, is Rico Cruz, our actual keeper. His arm is in a sling from his sudden "pre-match accident" — something about tripping over the Gatorade cooler. I don't believe him.
"Don't mess up, rookie," he says. "The crowd can be… unforgiving."
Behind him, I can hear the announcer hyping up the crowd, his voice booming through the speakers. The air smells like freshly cut grass and popcorn.
Just before I step onto the field, a familiar sensation crosses my mind. I've been here before. This exact hallway. This exact knot in my gut. Even the distant sound of some kid in the stands dropping a soda.
But in that version, things didn't go so well.