W

hen the balled-up soccer babe landed in my room, I went to the window in time to see Eva sprinting away in a sundress and thought maybe enough was enough. Maybe it was finally time to talk to Coach or my parents to turn her in. Maybe I had no choice. She’d been harassing me for months, and I wasn’t sure I could take it any longer.

But for some reason, I couldn’t—not when I thought about her running away in that dress. There was something so pathetic about it, so desperate. It reminded me of late August, which was the last time I saw her running away. She was trying to hurt me that evening, I knew, because I had hurt her back then.

 . . .

Our sixth game of the season is away at Woodvine. We play them twice a year, and they’re a way better team at home. Some teams are like that—as if you’re getting two different teams depending on where you play them.

Woodvine’s stadium is actually really cool. It’s set into a hillside and feels like you’re playing inside a bowl. It also feels like Woodvine’s fans are sitting way closer than fans at our stadium. All their chants are way louder. Way meaner too.

Woodvine’s athletic director must have lost the memo about student conduct because the fans are ruthless today. Boos rain down on us during the entire game. So do insults—many of them pretty creative. When Dayton Frey fails to control a pass and turns it over to Woodvine, the fans chant, “club foot!” and keep chanting it anytime Dayton touches the ball. When Coach subs out Elise Heisel, one of our weaker players, the fans chant, “Forced retirement!”

I feel sorry for Elise, but the truth is that this is really fun. Nothing fires me up more than opposing fans. Besides, it’s hard to dwell on Eva’s constant comments when I can hardly hear them—and when the Woodvine fans’ comments are way more brutal.

With only a few minutes left against Woodvine, I’m pretty sure that not turning Eva in was the right decision. I can handle her antics as long as I get to play in games like this.

Especially when she plays this well. We’re winning 1–0, and we have Eva to thank for the lead. She’s been racing around all over the place.

We’re in the closing minutes when Woodvine invades our side of the field for the last time. The ball is to my right and glued to a Woodvine forward’s foot.

“Mark her, Faith!” yells Alyssa, our goalie, and Faith Patel moves in to do just that. Except before she gets there, she stumbles, and all of a sudden, there’s no one between the Woodvine forward and the goal box. She pushes the ball ahead of her, and Alyssa has to make a decision to back up or come out of the goal in a hurry. As always, Alyssa’s decisive—she bursts out of the goal and pounces on the forward. She’s too late though. The forward has just enough time to chip the ball over her outstretched hands.

I watch the shot floating toward the goal, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m too far away. In less than a second, Woodvine will be celebrating a game-winning goal.

But then, out of nowhere, Eva swoops in and heads the ball out of harm’s way.

It’s a great play—but Woodvine has a corner kick coming up.

So, it’s my time to make a great play of my own. I take my station in the corner of the goalie box and think, C’mon, Woodvine. Kick the ball nice and high.

Which is exactly what happens.

I watch the ball arc through the air as I get ready to launch off my feet. That’s when I feel someone’s hand tugging at my jersey. This is nothing new—opponents try to keep me grounded by grabbing my jersey all the time. Without taking my eyes off the airborne ball, I make my hand into a fist and hack away at the player’s arm. Usually, doing this is enough to get free of someone’s grasp.

But not this time.

The hand still has my jersey in its clutches, and I don’t have any more time to free myself. The ball has arrived, and I jump up as high as possible with somebody trying to pull me down.

Luckily, it’s high enough. I get my forehead on the ball and redirect it away from the goal. Madison Wong, who has dropped back to help out, gets to the ball and clears it across midfield.

We’ve dodged a bullet. I breathe a sigh of relief as I turn to see the opponent who grabbed me.

But the player behind me isn’t an opponent.

It’s Eva.