Tales From the Field: Olivia's Camp Fail by Katie L. Carroll

Sometimes the hardest person to forgive is yourself.

The table sags under heaping containers of salad, pasta, and rolls at our pregame party the night before the big match against our cross-town rivals Valley High. But all it takes for me to lose my appetite is one comment from team captain Megan.

“We don’t want a repeat of camp finals.”

The low rumble of conversation and the smack of full mouths immediately ceases as nearly every player on the Central High women’s soccer team looks at me. I lock my gaze on the fat meatball atop a pile of spaghetti covered with tomato sauce, which I’m sure matches the color of my face right now.

“What happened at camp?” asks Brooke. An innocent enough question, if you don’t know what happened this summer—which she doesn’t because freshmen don’t attend camp—but a terribly taboo one if you do know what happened.

Sadie comes to my rescue. “We lost in extra time to those stuck-up Valley girls, but it wasn’t Olivia’s fault.”

Finding the courage to look up from my plate, I smile at Sadie. She’s best friends with Addison Hunter, but we’ve grown a lot tighter since Hunter got hurt during preseason.

“It was my fault.” I’m the first to admit that.

I set my plate down on a TV tray and take in the eyes of all the girls in Denise’s living room. Most of them have looked away by now, but I meet Paloma’s dark brown ones, full with curiosity. She’s a sophomore, but didn’t attend camp because she’s new to the team after moving here from Spain.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she says in a soft accent.

“No, you and Brooke should know…” Heat rises up my neck to my face, and beads of sweat form under my sports bra. “It’s just embarrassing, that’s all.”

I take a deep breath and prepare to face not only the worst moment in my soccer career but probably my love life as well. It all started on the first day of our weeklong co-ed camp at the state university campus. As both of Central High’s varsity teams piled off the school bus, I noticed Valley’s bus was right in front of ours. And one of their players was staring right at me.

He had dark brown hair, shiny with gel, and a tan face. A flash of a smile exposed a chipped top tooth, and I remember running my tongue over my own straight, smooth teeth. He wore a jersey of the Italian national team, baggy soccer shorts, and blue socks with white stripes at the top pulled all the way up to his knees. A duffel bag was slung loose over one shoulder.

He looked more like a model trying to be a soccer player than an actual player. You could tell his teammates worshipped him by the way they surrounded him. Most of them had tried to copy his style but none quite pulled it off the way he did. Everything about him screamed arrogance; not my type at all.

Busy with training sessions in the morning and scrimmages in the afternoon, I didn’t really think about him most of the week. But every once in a while in the cafeteria or at the water station, I’d catch him staring at me. I kept hearing his teammates yelling his name across the fields. “Marco, I’m open!” “Marco, check this out!” “Marco! Marco! Marco!”

He was Valley High’s star player and leading goal scorer with an ego the size of Italy—his favorite team, of course. Absolutely not my type. Yet I was fascinated by him, and his seeming fascination of me.

None of this I told Brooke and Paloma. They just needed to know the facts. So I started the story on our last night of camp. We had the evening off in preparation for finals the next morning. The competition had been fierce over the week, but our team and Valley High’s team had risen to the top in the women’s bracket. We would face off with them after the men’s final game, and the whole camp would gather to watch both matches.

Valley’s men’s team had also made it to the finals, largely thanks to spectacular play by none other than Mr. Spectacular Himself Marco. Our men’s team would sadly be watching from the sidelines after losing in the quarterfinals.

Megan called a team strategy session that droned on for forever. When we were finally released, a bunch of us had decided to hang out in the common area of the college.

It was pretty crowded, but Sadie, Hunter, and I managed to find a free love seat by the TV to squeeze into together. We were watching Bend it Like Beckham when Marco and his entourage barreled into the common room. It seemed the whole room paused to take in His Magnificence. I spared him a glance before turning back to the movie.

Like a bee to honey, he zoomed right to the three of us. He perched himself on the arm of the love seat, forcing me to move my arm. I groaned, but he didn’t seem to hear it. An assault of cologne made my eyes water.

“You’re a goalie, right?” he asked.

“Yup.” I kept my gaze glued on the screen.

“Tough bunch, you goalies.” He pinched my arm. “Wanna go for a walk? We could trade victory stories.”

I grabbed my arm and glared up at him. Oh my God, who did this guy think he was? He smiled, showing off the chipped tooth like a badge of honor. Sadie and Hunter exchanged a look and giggled. Hunter, who was closet to me, elbowed me and mouthed, “Go.”

“No way,” I mouthed back.

They collectively pushed me up and out of my spot, practically into Marco’s lap. He took my hand in his, which I was surprised to find was a little sweaty, looked me right in the eyes, and said, “Please.”

I glanced back at my good-for-nothing teammates to find they had spread out to fill in my seat. Sadie raised an eyebrow at me and flicked her hand toward the door. Warmth spread across my face and I figured the fresh air would do me good.

I pulled my hand from Marco’s and muttered, “Fine,” as I headed toward the exit. He followed close behind. We walked around campus in silence for awhile. Finally we ended up on one of the grass practice fields.

Marco tried to take my hand again, but I tucked them under my armpits. He walked to the goal line, bent down, and kissed the white line. Then he lay on his back with his feet in the goal and his head on the field.

He extended his neck to look at me and a patted the goal line next to him before tucking his hands behind his head. “Come on. I'm  not going to kick you. Though I've done that to my fair share of goalies.”

Reluctantly I sat down next to him. There was no way I was laying down next to this guy.

“Being a goal scorer isn’t much different than being a goalie.” His eyes were closed as he quietly talked. “We both spend a lot of time thinking about this line we’re on. You want to keep the ball from crossing it, and I want to push it past. We take lots of risks in our positions. Our teams depend on us. We can make or break a game—a season—with one heroic move…or one mistake.” He stared up at me. “It’s a lot of pressure, isn’t it?”

I shrugged, unnerved by his intense honesty. “I guess.” When I play, I try not to think of the pressure, stay in the moment.

“I admire goalies,” he said. “I admire you, the way you play. You’re confident, but not in a showy way. I don’t know how to be like that. If I don’t strut my stuff on and off the field, I don’t have it…the confidence.”

My mouth suddenly turned very dry and I swallowed. “You’re a star with or without the strut.”

He sat and scooted right next to me, shoulder-to-shoulder. We were facing opposite directions but our mouths were lined up perfectly.

“I wish I could be more like you with your natural confidence.” I felt his breath on my lips as he talked. The cologne wasn’t so assaulting out there in the open. He leaned in. Just as our lips touched, a hissing sound filled my ears, and then we were getting soaked. The sprinklers had turned on!

I jumped to my feet and squealed. Marco let out a booming laugh. He took my hand and we ran around the field, jumping in the water like little kids. He walked me back to my dorm. I shivered in the night air and he rubbed the goose bumps off my arms.

Acting like a gentleman, he gave me peck on the cheek. I turned into his lips and grabbed the back of his head, pulling him in for a real kiss. After, he smiled, and for the first time, I found his chipped tooth enduring instead of irritating.

“Good luck tomorrow,” he said.

“You too.” I squeezed his hand and headed back to my room.

All of these memories come to me in a moment, but all I say to the girls is that Marco and I went for walk and got to know each other.

“They kissed!” Sadie giggles. I throw a pillow at her, almost knocking her plate of food on the floor.

“Lot of good it did me,” I say as my thoughts turn to the next morning. “They won their final game, Marco and Valley High. Then him and his teammates stayed to watch our game. They cheered for the Valley women’s team, naturally.”

Though Marco was more subdued than I had ever seen him. I had forced myself to focus on the game and thought no more of him.

“We were in extra time, tied 1-1. The Valley center midfielder kicked a ball over our defense. I ran out to get it. One of their forwards was racing towards me. Just before I reached the ball, I heard a familiar shout—“ my voice breaks off. My face burns with mortification.

It was Marco, cheering for her, not me. Not that I ever expected him to cheer for me over his school, but it was a shock to hear him rooting for them so exuberantly.

“What happened?” Brooke’s eyes are wide.

All I say is, “We lost.” What happened was I hesitated. The Valley forward got a foot on the ball and scored. The whistle blew. The game was over. 

“And it wasn’t just Olivia’s fault,” says Sadie, and I love her for coming to my defense. “That player and the ball had to get past the rest of us before they got to you.”

Megan cuts in, “Olivia lost her concentration. That’s what happened. But it won’t happen again, right?”

I shake my head. But I’m not convincing anyone, certainly not myself. I haven’t seen Marco since camp. He tried to talk to me as we waited to board the bus, but I huddled into the cocoon of my teammates.

Marco’s urgent voice reached me from behind their shoulders. “I just want a minute to talk.”

Sadie and Hunter shielded me, wouldn’t let him get close. I was able to avoid him then, but tomorrow I’m sure he’ll be at the game. I don’t know how I’ll react when I see him, and I can’t afford to lose my concentration again.

***

Stay tuned next month to find out how Olivia and the Central High women's team fares against cross-town rivals Valley High! Plus, don't miss all the other Tales From the Field. 

Katie L. Carroll is a mother, writer, editor, and soccer player. She began writing at a very sad time in her life after her 16-year-old sister, Kylene, unexpectedly passed away. Since then writing has taken her to many wonderful places, real and imagined. She wrote her YA fantasy ELIXIR BOUND so Kylene could live on in the pages of a book. Katie is also the author of the picture app THE BEDTIME KNIGHT and a contributor to THE GREAT CT CAPER, a serialized mystery for young readers. She lives not too far from the beach in a small Connecticut city with her husband and sons. For more about Katie, visit her website at www.katielcarroll.com.

Does Magic Exist?

Continued from THE CUBE...What happens when the numbers fall into place and Bethany holds a multi-million dollar winning ticket.

Unbelievable.

I checked and rechecked the numbers for the millionth time. At least once for every dollar the ticket might, no, would win. Even if there were several lucky winners the numbers meant I could donate millions to my favourite charity. Anonymously of course, and there I stumbled on another problem.

Not that holding the winning ticket to a mammoth lotto win was a problem. No. My problem stemmed from the undermining of my faith in the world where I lived.

Magic didn’t exist here. Fair enough, there were magicians. Clever illusionists. I give them credit for their skills, but that’s not the magic I refer to. Nor were the ‘miracles’ performed by saints what I considered ‘magic’, though they ,too, left me wondering and hoping they were real.

If I credited my choice of winning numbers to the strange cube given to me by a total stranger, then I must by default, admit to believing in something very similar to magic. Fate? Destiny? They didn’t quite cover the apprehension and fear I saw in the stranger’s dying eyes. Had he been cynical, when he stood at the crossroad on which I now stood? Did disbelief lead him to a lethal miscalculation? Did I believe in coincidence?

If magic didn’t exist and I ignored the stranger’s warnings, the outcome of not following his precise instructions would leave me with a magical figure in my bank account. Would it also leave me to share his fate, fading away with a lethal disease?

At this stage I can’t even rely on following the choice my character might make. Being an author gives me multiple personalities to run ideas through. Only this was too important to leave to a flawed heroine, hero type or villain.

If I carried on with my plan, donating the winning ticket to a charity of my choice without touching a penny of the windfall, my actions would prove I do believe in magic. Do I? Is this my world, where science rules and logic defies even the most wonderful mysteries? Does God exist? Are we alone? Why do I need to debate these deep topics? My life has flowed from one day to the next, without much drama. Life, love, work and recreation, holidays and chillaxing with my peeps. Nothing to complain about. Mundane but exactly as I envisage things. Of course, I am still waiting, dreaming of meeting ‘Mr Right’ but in the meantime I enjoy each relationship I enter into.

I run my fingers over the winning ticket. The paper is cheap, the print will probably fade. Hardly a million dollars’ worth of paper and ink. It could change my life. Don’t think I haven’t lain awake all night spending every dollar, again and again… The things I could do, the people I could help. Would setting up my own charity count as ‘giving’ the money to charity? Or would that break the cube’s rules. Would I dare try to trick the magic? If I believed in it?

I unfolded a printed sheet of paper and re read the wording I had penned. Anonymous donation. There were more rules though. My rules. Listed in point form. I placed the ticket on the paper and refolded the letter with care. Once satisfied the ticket was safe I slipped the paper into an envelope and sealed it. Taking care, I applied a strip of tape over each end and across the seal. For added security. On the front of the envelope I had printed the words ‘Only to be Opened in the Presence of a Quorum of Members’.

I didn’t want the ticket to tempt an over-worked volunteer. The unregistered winning ticket although on cheap paper and printed with poor ink was worth millions to anyone who handed it in. I wanted to ensure it found its way into the coffers of the charity and not the pocket of one person.

I had also printed a covering letter to explain the need to only open the sealed envelope  where enough working members of the charity were gathered. Feeling confident I had taken enough precaution against temptation I closed the brown business envelope, already addressed to the charity in question, and headed to the post office.

The early morning rush crowded the mall. I strode passed the Magic Bean Café, resisting the aroma. My purpose drove me to dodge the scurrying workers. I would join them soon. For now though I had time to spare. I needed it. My hands were sweaty, my knees shaking though I walked determinedly toward the Post office. Joining the queue I needed to remind myself to breathe. I clutched the envelope in one hand, the other strangled the straps of my handbag. Finally, gasping for air as though I had run a marathon I approached the counter.

“How can I help you?” The sales girl addressed me. This was the moment of truth. No return from here.

It took me a moment to calm my racing heart and ask for the envelope to be sent registered mail. Yes, signature required. Yes, tracking. Or should that be ‘no’? I didn’t want the charity to trace the donation back to me. Could I leave a multi-million dollar ticket to find its way through the post?

I chewed my bottom lip, wondering how I could have overlooked researching this aspect of the project. The patient sales attendant became less patient. I dithered and decided.

“Just register the envelope to get to its destination. They don’t need to know it is from me.”

“Seven dollars eighty, thanks.”

She didn’t even raise an eyebrow as she stamped the envelope, initialled the corner and tossed the whole thing behind her into a huge burlap bag.

Done.

I believe in magic. I must, why else would I cast aside a multi-million dollar windfall. I was either the world's most gullible idiot or in line to have a change of luck. Good luck.

I turned from the counter and bumped into one of the scurrying workers.

Blake, the ‘oh so hot’ bachelor who worked upstairs and who my colleagues voted “Mr Most Eligible”, caught my arm and steadied me.

“Sorry…” I muttered, still trying to stop shaking. I wanted him to keep holding me. His hand didn’t shake and his strength helped my heart and head focus on something other than the likelihood magic existed.

“Listen, you look a little flustered. Why don’t we grab a coffee, and I will walk you to work.”

“You? What? We, I mean me… would I?” My tongue refused to be associated with further embarrassment and my mutterings faded. I took a deep breath and forced real words into being. “That would be great. I am a little rattled.”

“Great. You aren’t usually in this early. You’re Bethany, right? I have seen you so often yet we haven’t met properly. I’m Blake. I work…”

“Upstairs. I know.” Damn, why couldn’t I say something clever, witty or even keep my mouth shut. Did it sound as if he was a regular topic in our staff room? 

He grinned. “Come on. The Magic Bean Café had a spare table a moment ago. I will shout you a drink this time, but next time it’s your turn, okay?”

Next time… Okay, I needed to sit down and re assess my world. What luck, good luck, to have Blake not only ask me to have coffee with him, but to ensure we met again, for a drink.

Unbelievable. I was beginning to believe in magic. 
***

Rosalie Skinner resides on the east coast of Australia when not totally immersed in the fantasy world of her writing.

Rosalie’s love of the ocean, nature, history and horses has enabled her to give her books an authentic air. Her latest achievement has been to ride through the Australian Snowy mountains and see the wild brumbies run. When not watching the migrating whales pass her doorstep she has more humble pastimes.

Other than being a published author, her greatest thrill is being a grandmother. Born over fourteen weeks early her granddaughter’s perfect development and growth are a miracle and joy.

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Tales from the Field: Lucky Brooke by Katie L. Carroll

It’s not luck if you’re always in the right place at the right time.

I angle my run up the field on the diagonal. With one eye on the last defender to keep from being caught offsides and the other on the ball, I bide my time, waiting to burst into full speed. I don’t really think about it as I’m doing it, almost like my brain and body are on autopilot. Years of training make it all happen naturally. I’m in the zone.

My teammate Haley dribbles the ball up the center of the field. She breezes past an opponent, but several more stand between her and the open field.

“Brooke!” she unnecessarily yells my name.

I’m ready and waiting. The ball zooms off her foot in a perfect arc over the last defender. In a full-out sprint, I beat everyone to the ball. Just me and the goalie now.

A shrill blast from the whistle brings me to a halt. Did something happen behind me, a foul off the ball maybe? Nope, the assistant referee is holding up her flag, signaling I’m offsides.

My arms fly up in indignation. “No way!”

The fans, mostly parents but a few students as well, shout their displeasure at the call. Megan, our team captain, runs from the back of the field right up to the main referee. Her face is bright red and her cheeks are puffed out, but she keeps her cool as she talks it over with the ref.

The rest of the team surrounds me because I’m about to “go into beast,” as my Italian grandmother would say of anyone who gets angry. I breathe in and store the anger deep inside to fuel my game instead of my temper. I’m the only freshman on the Central High varsity team, and it would be a very bad idea to get carded and kicked out of our first game of the season.

Megan jogs back to her position as sweeper and the other team takes their free kick. The first half ends a few minutes later, the score 0-0. My feet are almost literally itching to get another chance at scoring.

I pour water over my head and take sip of sports drink, the afternoon sun a scorcher in early September. Coach Walker—a male coach even though we’re a women’s team—gives us a pep talk and sends us back out on the field.

Megan pulls me aside. “Don’t worry about that call.”

“Coach didn’t mention it,” I say.

“Well I am mentioning it. It was total BS and everyone knows it.” She slaps me on the shoulder. “You’ll be ready when the next scoring chance comes. Prove those refs are idiots.”

I nod and internalize the words, more fuel to my fire. Seems the rest of the team is fueled up, too. We thunder down the field, passing seamlessly around our opponents. Haley receives the ball in striking range and lets a shot rip. The goalie knuckles it up and over the crossbar, earning us a corner kick.

Megan had us practice corner kicks last week. I position myself right next to the goalie as she instructed, doing my best to be an annoyance. Mac—as we all call Mackenzie when she’s on the field—sends a beauty of a corner kick right to the sweet spot, far enough out so the goalie doesn’t go for it but close enough for our players to have a good chance at scoring.

Megan, who as a defender probably doesn’t get many chances to score, barrels in and heads Mac’s kick. The goalie saves it but not cleanly. The ball rebounds right into my chest, which by anyone’s standards is pretty flat, and deflects into the back of the net. Goal by breasts! My breasts!

My teammates surround me, squealing with delight. I take off for the corner flag and dive headfirst toward it, my teammates following suit, a move Megan also had us practice. Gotta have a good celebration planned for the first goal of the season.

There’s no time to rest on my laurels—that’s an expression my non-Italian grandmother uses—as the other team is about to kick off. Despite our high from the goal, the rest of the second half passes without us scoring again, but neither does the other team. The game ends 1-0, my goal the one and only, the game winner.

We exchange handshakes with the other team, offering a less-than-heartfelt chant of “good game” down the line and rush back to our bench to celebrate.

Megan slaps me on the back. “See. I told you you’d get another chance and you’d be ready for it. And off my header, too.” I’ve hardly ever seen her smile, but her face is lit up brighter than a tinsel-doused Christmas tree.

Coach Walker calls us in for a huddle and reminds us about practice tomorrow morning. There are a few grumbles about having to get up early on a Saturday, but I’m too keyed up to care.

I’m about to find my parents in the stands when Coach calls for me. “Good team effort on that goal. Lucky you were in the right place at the right time.”

“Lucky?” I shrug. “I have a knack for being in the right place at the right time. Scored a lot of goals that way. I’ve developed a good feel for the game, know how to capitalize on chances like that. Luck’s got nothing to do with it.”

He stares at me, mouth slightly open. No one—not even my coach—is going to diminish this moment for me. I’ve earned it.

***

Want more from the young women on the Central High School varsity team? Check out these other Tales from the Field: "Captain Megan" and "Addison in Love?".

Katie L. Carroll is a mother, writer, editor, and soccer player. She began writing at a very sad time in her life after her 16-year-old sister, Kylene, unexpectedly passed away. Since then writing has taken her to many wonderful places, real and imagined. She wrote her YA fantasy ELIXIR BOUND so Kylene could live on in the pages of a book. Katie is also the author of the picture app THE BEDTIME KNIGHT and a contributor to THE GREAT CT CAPER, a serialized mystery for young readers. She lives not too far from the beach in a small Connecticut city with her husband and sons. For more about Katie, visit her website at www.katielcarroll.com.