Broken Beautiful Hearts

3. Striker

After school, I'm the first person on the field for soccer practice. The letter makes me want to get out of here and earn it. I stand in the center of the fields, passing the ball from needed me. This is the place where I feel most at home - the most like me.

It doesn't hurt that soccer reminds me of Dad. He taught me how to play and I love the game from the first kick. Mom says I would have slept with my kids size soccer ball if she had let me.

Dad had dreamed of going pro, too. It turned out he was a better Marine than a soccer player. Losing him made me realize that we can't control everything that happens in life.

The universe has its own plans and we don't get a vote. But soccer has always been the one thing I can control - not whether my team wins or loses the game. That's out of my hands. But the way I play and the effort I put in - that part is my choice.

"I heard somebody on my team was accepted to the University of North Carolina." coach Kim strolls toward me with a bag of ball slang over a shoulder. "You've worked so hard for this, Peyton. I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks. I wasn't sure if it was going to happen."

She pulls the drawstring on the bag and dumps out the balls. "I was sure enough for the both of us."

"It's not a done deal. I still have to maintain my grades, and I'll need a recommendation letter for my coach at the end of the season."

"That might be a problem," she said, teasing me.

"And I have to train harder than ever so I'll be ready to start in my current position for UNC in the fall, or something like that. The letter looks like a contract."

"Thats standard language. Coaches have a limited number of open spots on their teams. They have to make sure they're offering those spots to athletes who will be ready to fill them 9 months from now."

She tosses me a ball, and I head it back to her. "So go warm up."

Lucia is the next person out of the locker room. "You always beat me out here."

"What can I say? You're slow. "

She blows out a pop of air. "Whatever. You wouldn't win as many games without me."

"I can't argue with that." Lucia and I have been playing together on school and select teams since 4th grade. She's the best goalkeeper in our high school division.

I lob the ball across the bottom right corner of the goal. Lucia isn't ready and she almost misses it. But she dives for the ball and makes the save.

"I almost got that one by you."

"Because I wasn't ready." She says, calling me on it.

The rest of our teammates trickle out of the lock room, and coach Kim takes a few minutes to get updates from everyone. Then she splits us into two teams for a scrimmage.

When she blows the whistle, everything except the game fades away. I dribble the ball down the field and I look for an opportunity to pass.

I'm a centered forward - a striker, like Alex Morgan. It's my job to score goals and create opportunities for my teammates to score. It's an offensive position that requires more than just soccer skills.

I hear Dad's voice in the back of my mind. A striker has to have guts and take risks. You have to know when to pass or went to take the shot. There will be shots that look impossible, but they aren't. Sometimes the difference between winning and losing is taking that shot when you get the chance.

"Peyton! On your left," Imani, another forward on my team, shouts. Gwen is coming up next to me on the outside.

Lucia is playing goalkeeper for the other team, and she'll stop any ball within her reach before it hits the net.