epilogue

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Emma Hayes paced her small, bland hotel room. In front of her was a clipboard filled up with information: club teams, colleges, ages, numbers, names, and promise.

As the reigning head coach she had the final say in the roster. She determined who sat on that bench. But why was it so hard for the 47 year-old? She had the first seventeen chosen, filled with Naehers, Lavelles, and everything Hayes should be grateful she has.

There was a void on it. It was as obvious as the fact Emma should be at home right now, taking care of her son. She should be on it.

"Fuck it."

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