Tales From the Field: 12 Stories, 1 Championship

Addison in Love?

What happens when you fall out of love?

It's the first official day of practice for the Central High women's soccer team, and I'm out for the entire season with a broken ankle. As I watch the other girls take the field, I should be sad, maybe angry. But I'm not. All I feel is relief. I'm perfectly happy on the sidelines, catching up on my summer reading.

I shift, uncomfortable in the portable chair my mom uses, casted leg propped up on a cooler. It's only 8:00 a.m. but the muggy, late summer air is already causing sweat to drip down my back.

Sadie, my best friend, waves to me from the field, a slight look of pity on her face. I haven't told anyone about my secret relief at being injured, so Sadie—like everyone else—thinks I'm upset about not being able to play. I wave back and give her a thumbs-up for encouragement; she's hoping to start varsity this year. Then my eyes glaze over as warm-ups begin.

Soccer was my first love. Some of my oldest memories are watching my older brother play and wanting so badly to be on the field. I started playing organized ball when I was five—and by organized, I mean a group of kids chasing around the soccer ball in one big group and the only way you knew there were teams was the different colored jerseys.

By the time I got to middle school, I was on a competitive travel team. I'm not gonna lie, I wasn't the best player, but I was one of the best players. And I loved playing. I played fall ball, indoor winter ball, spring ball, and went to camp in the summer.

Then puberty hit, and I got boobs. And hips. And cramps once a month. I was still in love with soccer, but it felt harder somehow. It used to be I'd hit the field and play my heart out, the fatigue never fazing me until after the game was over. Lately, though, my cleats have felt like they're made of concrete, weighing me down. And it takes forever for my lungs to recover after a quick sprint.

In my head I still love the game, but my heart's been falling out of love for awhile. The problem is I don't know how to quit. Soccer has been such a big part of my life for so long. What would I do instead? Band, one of those community service clubs, the school newspaper? I don't think so. None of those are really my scene.

I blow my bangs out of my face and try to concentrate on my book, which I should have read a month ago. School starts in two days and I'm supposed to have five journal entries about this book for English class. I have exactly zero.

"Grendel, huh," says a deep voice from behind me. "A gripping tale of the antihero told from the perspective of the monster."

I crane my neck to glare at Mr. Smartypants, who turns out to be Malcolm Hill, captain of the men's team. His practice clothes hug his taut muscles. A bandanna in our school colors of light blue and white holds his dreadlocks out of his face.

"Hey, Hunter," he says, using my last name as everyone I know from soccer does. He gestures at the book. "It's actually not that bad once you get into it. Better than Beowulf."

I'm not sure what I'm more surprised about: the fact that he knows my name or that he knows so much about epic poetry. My heart skips a beat, and I realize how sweaty my ankle is underneath the cast. I hope it doesn't smell.

He sits on the grass next to my chair. I stare at him, not single word coming to mind. I must look like an idiot. Finally I manage, "You can call me Addison. I only use Hunter on the field."

"Okay, Addison," he says. "Our practice starts in an hour on the turf field." What can I say to that? The guys always get the better field, while we're stuck on the old, uneven grass one. He keeps trying. "Sucks about your ankle."

I'm about to give my standard "yeah" response when the truth pops out. "I'm kind of relieved."

He squints up at me, the morning sun directly in his face. "What do you mean?"

Now that he asks, I'm not sure I know how to explain. "I'm not relieved about being hurt. You're right, that sucks. I guess I kind of needed...a break. And I guess I literally got one."

He actually laughs. "I get it, the whole 'it's not you, it's me' kind of thing."

I shrug and stare back at the team—my team; I'm still a part of it even though I'm hurt. "I guess."

He stands and places a hand on my shoulder. "Maybe the time off will give you a chance to fall back in love with the game."

My mouth pops open, and again I can't think of anything to say. It's like he's figured out exactly how I'm feeling despite my inadequate explanation.

"I gotta go. Practice starts soon," he says and smiles. "And hey, even if you don't decide to play anymore, don't be stranger around here.

"Yeah. I'll be around."

It's only as he's walking away that I think of a million other more intelligent things I could have said. I glance one more time at the team, now in the middle of drills, and then open the book with renewed enthusiasm. I'm not sure if I'll come back to play senior year. But I'm pretty sure I'll fall in love again, just maybe not with soccer.