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She reached the field just as Moose was flipping the coin. She joined him in the captain’s circle as swiftly as she could without making it glaringly obvious that she was late. A woman in neon yellow sprinting across the field tended to get people’s attention. She apologized under her breath, and Moose flashed her a gentle smile that said, No worries.
As the game got going, she fell into the rhythm of it and started to have fun. In all her rushing, she hadn’t really noticed what a beautiful day it was. Perfect soccer weather. Not too hot, not too cold, not too windy. The air smelled like autumn with that special soccer scent that she was sure didn’t exist anywhere else—the smell of freshly cut grass mixed with raked leaves mixed with sweaty shin guards. With the exception of one overly zealous mother ringing an obnoxiously loud cowbell every time her daughter did something she approved of, the first half was fairly uneventful. She missed a few calls, but she made some good ones too. Her reffing improved with every game, as did her confidence.
Before she knew it, it was halftime, and she jogged over to join Moose in front of the score table.
“Don’t you live in Plainfield?” Moose asked after taking a long haul off his water bottle.
She nodded. He knew that she did. Every ref knew where every other ref lived because of carpooling.
“So then you must have heard about the killing?”
She nodded again.
He waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. She didn’t really know what he wanted her to say, and she wanted to use her mouth to drink her water.
“Are you planning to investigate?”
She laughed, and water almost came out her nose. She coughed and wiped at her mouth. “Investigate?”
He folded his arms over his round belly. “Oh come on, don’t act like you quit snooping once you caught Mike White. I know you’ve turned into some sort of P.I. We all heard about you pulling that guy out of the pond over in the mountains.”
She was a little disappointed that he hadn’t also heard that she’d helped catch the Cat Vac Villain, but she wasn’t going to bring it up. She didn’t want to brag. “I know, Moose, but I don’t do these things on purpose.” At least, she didn’t think she did. Did she? She wasn’t sure. “Well, maybe I do, a little, but I don’t go seeking them out. I just sort of ... stumble onto them.” She purposefully didn’t answer his question. She didn’t want to admit her plans, and she didn’t want to lie.
“I s’pose that could be true. It does seem like we’ve had a lot of murders lately. Too many for rural Maine.”
They finished their waters in silence. Then the buzzer sounded, and Moose started toward the circle. She smiled as she watched him go. She couldn’t believe how many people just assumed she would be getting involved in this case. Her husband, some random deputy, and now Moose? She hoped Joyelle wouldn’t make the same assumption. It would be a lot harder to try to coax information out of her if she knew she was being coaxed.
The second half began much as the first half had ended, and Sandra’s legs grew tired. These two teams were evenly matched, which meant a lot of running. She liked those lopsided games where one team simply pounded on the other team’s goal, and she basically got to stand still.
They’d switched sides, and Moose was now the one running up and down in front of Ms. Cowbell. Sandra didn’t miss her. She’d figured out which child belonged to the overly enthusiastic mom. Number twenty-seven. She was a good player. She was quick, agile, and skilled. But her melodramatic facial expressions kept her play from being admirable. It seemed she was more interested in an Oscar than a soccer trophy. Sandra told herself to be patient, that she was a middle school girl, and it wasn’t easy being a middle school girl—especially a middle school girl with a mom armed with a cowbell. Still, if that girl aimed one of her eye rolls at Sandra, the yellow card was coming out.
Not long after she’d promised herself this little treat, number twenty-seven dribbled into the penalty box. Thinking she was probably going to get a shot off, Sandra sprinted ahead to get a better look. But then, out of nowhere, an equally quick, agile, and skilled defender swept in and stole the ball. It was a beautiful move, and she managed to do it without contorting her face into some farcical expression and without touching her opponent.
Yet number twenty-seven flew forward through the air, her arms outstretched, her perfect little perky blond ponytail flying out behind her and then face-planted at the goalkeeper’s feet.
Moose did not blow the whistle. The skilled sweeper continued to dribble the ball up the field, and Moose followed her.
But number twenty-seven was not happy. She slowly got to her feet, her eyes huge and her mouth open, and she turned to look at her mother, who had gotten to her feet. Uh oh. Sandra’s stomach turned, and she quickly turned away from the spectacle, pretending she wasn’t aware of it. She too followed the sweeper. And Ms. Cowbell started screaming. Sandra sprinted away from them, in part because she was out of position and in part because she was desperate to get away from those two.
She wished the rest of the game would take place on the other end of the field.
And then the cowbell started ringing.
