Paula Stokes - The Art of Lainey

I channel it. It will make me run faster, kick harder.

It will make me invincible—for the next hour anyway.

When the refs call for captains, Jason and I break away from the team for the coin toss. The Yellow Jackets send two girls to midfield.

“You call it,” Jason says.

“Me? Really?” Jay has never let me call a coin toss before.

“Yeah, you really.” He looks me up and down. My heart flip-flops in my chest. I can’t believe The Art of War plan suddenly seems to be working. I can’t believe I might come from behind and pull off a victory.

I call heads. We win the toss.

The refs look expectantly at Jason, but again he defers to me. “What do you think? Ball or direction?”

“We’ll take the ball first,” I say. It’s an aggressive strategy. Usually Coach Halstead wants to give away the ball so we can start with it in the second half, but I’m ready to attack.

The rest of the team take their places. Jason and I stand together at midfield, waiting for the ref to blow the whistle. He grins at me. “This is where you belong,” he says.

He’s right. I’m just glad he finally realized it.

The whistle sounds. I pass the ball to Jay. He passes it out wide to Jaime Martinez and I take off running down the field.

The next fifteen minutes are a blur of shouting and colors, the sound of my heart pounding and my breath exhaling hard into their air. Twice I end up on the ground when a Yellow Jacket tries to steal the ball. The second time I am awarded a free kick. Running as fast as I can, I launch the ball toward the goal. Jason races up the field. He dodges a defender. His left foot connects with the ball and it rockets into the back of the net. 1–0.

I scream and run toward him to celebrate. Everyone is patting him on the back. He picks me up and spins me in a circle. I squeal with laughter.

“Put me down.” I flail my arms and pretend to be struggling.

“Not until you say we make a good team.”

I touch the dimple in his left cheek. “I’ve always thought that.”

But then I see our crowd of onlookers in the stands behind Jason. Alexandra isn’t there, but it’s easy to pick out Micah in his black-on-black outfit. He’s sitting all alone. I lift one hand in a greeting and he waves back.

Jason puts me down.

A girl with a dark brown ponytail comes in to relieve me. I grab my water bottle and take a seat on the bench, blotting my sweat with the back of my hand. My left knee is dirty and skinned from where I fell. I pour some water over it and wince. Spots of blood bloom like tiny flowers in the torn flesh.

“Hey.” Micah is winding his way through the small, sparse crowd that is spread out on the bleachers. He hops down to the grass. I meet him at the edge of the bench, my water bottle still clutched in my hand. “Nice kick,” he says.

“Thanks.” My smile feels almost big enough to split my face in two. “But Jason did the hard work.”

Micah rubs at the scar on his temple. “That was some celebration you two had. Let me guess. The old ‘We make a good team’ line?”

“How did you know?”

He glances at the field. It’s almost halftime, and Jason hasn’t taken a single break. As we watch, he steals the ball from a girl in yellow, dribbles down the field, and launches a rocket at the upper-left corner of the net. The Yellow Jacket goalie just barely gets a hand on it, blocking it back over the crossbar. Jason looks over at the bench before he jogs out to take the corner kick.

“Maybe he’s using the same playbook,” Micah says.

“Jay’s not the type to read ancient Chinese literature,” I say. “Or any literature. Besides, we do make a good team, on the field at least. I almost forgot how good.”

But is that enough? Five minutes ago I was thrilled at the thought of diving back into Jason’s arms, but now Micah is here warning me and his words make sense. And there’s something else. Getting back together with Jay would mean not hanging out with Micah anymore, and that thought makes me . . . sad.

“Just don’t let him beat you at your own game, okay? I’d keep playing it cool. Keep the upper hand.”

“Right.” I hold my hand out and Micah gives me a high five. “It’s better to be the one at the top of the mountain,” I murmur.

At least I think it is.

I sub back into the game a few minutes later and stay through the end of the half. It’s still 1–0. The Yellow Jackets tie it up on a breakaway goal in the second half. At this point, I’m running from one end of the field to the other, playing more defense than any striker forward ought to be playing. I can’t help it. It feels so good to be in the game.

Matt Clifton saves a shot on goal and drop-kicks the ball in my direction. I dribble up the field, outmaneuvering two of the other team’s defenders. I pass the ball to Jason who sends it across to our right wing forward. The defense kicks the ball out of bounds and we get a corner kick. Jason goes to take it. I position myself in front of the goal, dancing back and forth as I vie for position with one of the Yellow Jacket fullbacks.

It’s a beautiful kick—high and strong, and it’s coming right at me. The other players, the shouting, the movement, they all fade into the background as I keep my eyes locked on the ball. Angling my body just slightly, I propel all five feet and eight inches of myself into the air at exactly the right moment—I think, I hope—and the crown of my head connects squarely with the ball. The players around me all turn to watch as it arcs through the air, just missing the tips of the goalie’s right glove before landing in the back of the net.

The Yellow Jackets deflate as I shriek with joy, their chins dropping low, some of them giving their goalie a disgusted look. The Red Flyers run toward me as a group. I get bombarded with hugs and high fives.

Jason is all hands and chest and sandy-blond hair as he picks me up and spins me in a circle again. “You are a champion,” he says. “You’re going to be our MVP for that header.”

“I couldn’t have done it without your perfect kick,” I say. “That was even better than Kendall.”

“Heh.” Jason’s eyes gleam. “Don’t let her hear you say that.”

We head back to the midfield circle where the other team’s strikers are ready to put the ball in play. Frustrated, they seem to have abandoned strategy in favor of just kicking the ball toward our goal as hard and often as possible. Our midfielders and defenders easily intercept the ball repeatedly, sending it back toward the Yellow Jacket goal in smooth, calculated attacks. It makes me think of The Art of War, and I can totally see how sports teams could use the book to develop strategy.

When the final whistle blows, I am so giddy I turn an impromptu cartwheel on the midfield line. I glance over toward the stands. Micah gives me a thumbs-up. The Red Flyers line up to slap hands with the Yellow Jackets and say “good game.” Some of the players sound like they mean it more than the others. Afterward Jason stops to talk to a couple of the guys about next week’s game. I turn back toward the stands where Micah is waiting for me.

I jog over to him, grinning like an idiot. I am sweaty and dirty and slightly bloody, but I don’t care. Almost nothing feels better than playing my heart out and winning a soccer game. We stand face-to-face, eye-to-eye.

“Nice job,” he says. “You didn’t tell me how good you were.”

“You think I’m good?” Okay, whatever, I know I’m good, but it still feels awesome to have other people verify it.

“Well, I don’t know jack about soccer, but you looked good to me.” Micah tugs on one of my braids. “These are cute, by the way.”

“Thanks.” I blush. “Sorry if it was boring for you.”

He steps closer to me, so close we’re almost touching. “It wasn’t boring for me at all.” Gently he pushes my braids back over my shoulders. His hands feel warm, even on my flushed skin. His fingertips linger on my jawbone.

“Micah?” I say.

“Wait.” He’s not looking at me. He’s focused on something over my shoulder, something off in the distance.

“What are you looking at?” I start to turn.

His hands drop to my waist. I can feel his individual fingertips through the thin fabric of my jersey. A tremor moves through me. “Don’t turn around,” he says. His lips quirk into a smile. With no warning at all he leans in and kisses me. Quick and light, like a leaf falling from a tree. But definitely a kiss.

On the lips.

It happens so fast I don’t even have time to close my eyes. The ground wobbles beneath my feet and I can feel the blood rushing to my face. I reach out for his arm to steady myself.

And then—perhaps because I didn’t punch him—he kisses me again, just a tiny bit longer, and this time I do close my eyes. It’s like going down one of those big twisty slides—a little bit of fear, a little bit of dizziness, over way too quickly. When we break apart, my lips still pulse with Micah’s heat. I resist the urge to lift a hand to my mouth. Thankfully I am already red from all of the running.

“Um. Why?” I have been reduced to single syllables.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I think maybe this is your ‘fall like a thunderbolt’ moment. My turn to break the rules.”

“So I’ll talk to you later,” Micah says loudly.

“Wait. What?” My brain is still short circuiting. Around me, time is moving forward but I’m living thirty seconds in the past. Micah kissed me. On the lips.