10 Things I hate About Her (10 Things #1)

16. The Devil's Hands

The opposite team's strikers formed an arrow and rushed our defensive setup. I pumped my arms, pushing my limits to join the defenders before tragedy stuck. If we lost this game, we wouldn't make it to the semi- finals, everything came down to this moment. Delilah tried to block, managing to steal the ball.

Unfortunately, that was all she was good for.

She passed the ball to a member of the opposing team by accident, a slip of her mind, no doubt. The opposing player jumped and launched the ball towards the net with a strong knee. It flew fast and powerful, brushed our goalie's fingers and swooshed passed the goal line. Loud cheers erupted in the small section of the bleachers where the visiting team's family and friends gathered. 

I wiped the sweat off my face with the lower end of my jersey. The timer struck zero, the scoreboard showing in block red letters; 'guest-2', 'home-1 '. Dana jogged over from the left side, breathing heavy. I stayed silent, allowing her to regain some energy. The last few minutes had been a rush to the finish. Dana and I had relentlessly attacked our opponents' goal; I had gained a single point, then everything came crashing down. Notre Dame's forwards had torn through the offensive line-up like cavalry storming the battlefield, feet pounding the earth into mush. They had passed Dana and me and attacked our flailing defense. At that moment, we had lost the game. Delilah and her friends were useless.

The ball sat in the grass behind the goal line, a reminder of our defeat.

I looked up at our schoolmates, friends and families in the bleachers, their disappointment mirroring my own. I bit my lower lip going over where we went wrong, wondering if there was anything Dana and I could have done to change the course of events.

We lined up in the center at the blow of a whistle and shook hands with our adversaries. The opposing women had an imposing build. They were tall and buff, making Dana look like a pathetic ant. Despite their rough appearance, they were pleasant, greeting us with smiles and clipped 'good jobs'. Once I shook the final hand, my coach beckoned me over. I glanced at Dana who stood confidently by my side. We walked over to the bench together, supporting each other to the bitter end.

"I want to talk to Val alone," Coach said. My eyes focused on the large mole near the crinkling skin at the bottom of his left nostril as he spoke. He really ought to get that thing checked. It was larger than a pencil eraser and slightly raised. 

"Anything you say to her, you can say to me," Dana said.

The goalie, Sammy walked over. She was short in stature. Her hair shaved off in the fashion of a buzz cut to reveal the contours of her scalp. Her olive skin bathed in sweat. She met the Coach's stare with a look of defiance and acknowledged Dana and me with a brief smile. "Sorry I let that last one in, guys."

"It's fine," said Coach, scratching the short red curls atop his head. "You did what you could do- you on the other hand," his gaze settled on me, trying to intimidate in the way men did when they wanted to lord over others.

I pointed to his daughter and her friends laughing up a storm at the end of the bleachers, talking to some boys from the male soccer team. "I hardly think I'm the problem," I told him.

"Where were you during the last goal?" he asked, raising his voice.

"I was on my way back there," I retorted.

"But you weren't there," he said callously.

Dana raised her hand. "Now, hold up, you can't expect her to play both defense and offense at the same time, there's clearly another issue you need to address."

Sammy said, "I second that, Coach. Your daughter sucks: you should have benched her and her friends, and then we might have had a shot at the finals."

The coach stuttered, "D-don't tell me how to do my job." His fat finger jabbed my chest. "And you, if you had worked harder, we wouldn't have had to cut the season short."