Page 145 of With the Assist

I love her, and it’s over.

I love her, and she doesn’t love me.

39

Wesley

By the end of the week, everyone at camp has learned my routine.

I’m early to the locker room and last to leave the field. I take extra laps when the sun is already sinking and ice baths that do nothing to dull the ache that’s carved far deeper than my muscles. I watch game film twice if the schedule allows and stretch until my legs shake. I don’t need to do any of it; they’re already working us hard enough, but stopping feels worse.

It’s easier when my body hurts, when the tiredness runs so bone deep that I have no choice but to fall asleep the second I lie down. Better that than staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’ve made a mistake.

The locker room hums with pre-scrimmage energy. It’s our last chance to impress the coaches, and I plan to do exactly that.

Someone’s speaker is playing the same hype playlist we’ve all heard since college. The air smells like grass and sweat as everyone slides on the gear that’s been practically glued to us all week.

I sit on the bench and thread my laces through my cleats, slow and methodical. Right foot first. Pull tight. Loop. Cross. My eyes stay down because looking around means seeing faces that still laugh, joke, and have space in their lives for things that aren’t soccer.

I don’t.

Jess drops onto the bench next to me. Her ponytail is already damp even though we haven’t stepped outside yet. She’s good, and I’m relieved we’re not competing for the same position. She’s fast and smart; the kind of player who makes herself useful everywhere. The kind of player the National Team likes.

“You ready?” she asks, braiding her pony without looking.

I nod. “Always.”

“After the scrimmage, a bunch of us are going out. It’ll be low-key, just some dinner and maybe a drink. You should come.”

I pull my left lace tight, harder than necessary. “I’m good.”

Jess tilts her head. “You sure? It’s our last night. It might be good to blow off some steam.”

She’s offered all week. Other players have too, but after consistently turning them down, most got the hint. Jess, though, offers persistently every day anyway.

“I’m sure. I need to stretch and get some rest. It’s a long plane ride back tomorrow.”

She laughs softly, tilting her head as if studying me. “You’re intense, you know that?”

I look up, meet her eyes, and give her something that probably resembles a smile. “That’s why I’m here.”

She shrugs, standing up off the bench. “Suit yourself, but the offer stands.”

Staying focused is a choice I make every morning. It’s discipline. You wake up and decide what matters, then you build your day around that decision so there’s no room for anything else to sneak in.

I have spent my life perfecting this, until him. But I’ve since course-corrected and won’t be letting myself slip again.

Training is twice a day instead of once. Gym sessions after dinner instead of team outings. My phone is off whenever I can manage. My lights are out early. If there’s a version of me that existed outside of soccer, she is archived, put away where she can’t interfere.

The coaches love it.

They call me reliable and consistent. This version of me is the one who makes it to the World Cup. This is the version that provides financially for my family. There is no room for a different version, not anymore.

I jog out onto the field with the rest of the group, the Florida heat already pressing down on my shoulders. The grass is immaculate, cut short enough to be fast. If I’ve learned anything this past week, it’s that everything about this camp is designed to make you sharper, faster, and better.

I’m thriving. I’ve played the best soccer of my life this week. It should make me happy.

This scrimmage is the last real evaluation. Ninety minutes of full-out play, nothing held back. I line up at midfield and bounce lightly on my toes, the familiar pregame buzz settling into my bones. Once the whistle blows, the world narrows.