Chapter 4
Angela avoids eye contact with Amanda all throughout Monday’s practice. She’s still pretty banged up– she shows up to the field with several pieces of wound closure tape which by the end of their scrimmage are hanging by a thread from her forehead, and her swollen eye is all shades of purple, black, and blue. Her play isn’t her best, but it’s easily forgiven as she essentially only has one eye to look through. Amanda watches as she tries to get Olivia to switch pinnies with her for the end of practice scrimmage, but Chanse had drawn up specific rosters for the teams and the switch is reversed. Angela treats the goal box like a line of bear traps. Whenever she finds herself with an opportunity to shoot, she bumps the pass to one of her wingers and moves back onside. After Coach Hecox blows the final whistle and she watches Angela make a break for the parking lot, totally forgoing the locker room in favour of the safety of her car, Amanda makes the tough decision to be the bigger person.
She jogs up to Angela, tugging her by the sleeve of her practice jersey. Thoughts race through Amanda’s head. What should she say? That she regrets the kiss? That she doesn’t regret it at all? Angela turns around, the personification of a deer in headlights. Instantly, Amanda is torn between letting go of Angela and running as fast as she can in the other direction or reaching out to caress the girl’s bruised face. All of her half-baked ideas of how to go about their conversation fade away the second Amanda sees the look on Angela’s face.
“Hey Ange,” she says, watching as the girl’s one working eye darts around, looking for an escape, “you uh, you still have your reversible on.”
Angela looks down. She’s still wearing the blue mesh used to differentiate teams.
“Right, sorry,” she says awkwardly, pulling the scrimmage vest over her head and handing it to Amanda. “Here.”
Amanda opens her mouth to speak, still unsure of what will come out, but Angela is already closing the distance between herself and her car. Amanda lets the opportunity pass. She slowly makes her way to the equipment shed, throws the scrimmage vest into the bag with the rest, then heads into the locker room. Angela’s bag is still open at the foot of her stall.
The next day, Amanda returns to her usual third row seat in Tuesday/Thursday lecture. The previous week, she’d chosen a spot in the very last row– Angela liked to sit close to the front so she could see without her glasses. She shows up a few minutes later in dark shades and a cap pulled down low, but when she sees her in their usual spot, Angela’s eyebrows rocket up to meet the brim of her hat. She takes the seat next to Amanda cautiously.
Amanda gives her a small smile. “I like your new look,” she says, tapping the royal purple brim of Angela’s two toned cap.
“Thanks. People won’t stop looking at me weird or recognising me because of that stupid Barstool post.”
She’s referring, of course, to the popular Instagram sports page that had posted a clip of Angela’s attack and subsequent scrum during Saturday’s game. It had blown up over the past four days, and now she was being recognised everywhere she went on campus. That hadn’t been the only consequence for the events that had taken place on the soccer field. Angela would be required to take a week of anger management courses, she would be unable to dress for UCLA’s next two games, and she had already issued a formal apology to both the girl and her school.
“Nah, you look great,” Amanda says, and something inside of her breaks at the way Angela’s face softens.
They don’t talk about the kiss.
And what is there to say? That she’d really like to do it again, but oh wait, she can’t because… because why? Because she’s afraid it will compromise her game performance despite her worst game happening during the only time she and Angela weren’t speaking? Because she’s afraid these feelings might be a fluke despite never feeling more strongly about anything or anyone? Because she’s worried about just how happy she’ll be if she lets herself give in?
Amanda’s guess is as good as anyone’s. All she knows is that there’s something going on.
***
“There’s nothing going on.”
“Girl, what,” Chanse says, curls bobbing as he shakes his head back and forth. They’re sitting in their now normal booth at their go-to diner. Angela’s been recapping the whole saga for the past thirty minutes, watching as the boy’s jaw drops lower and lower with every precious detail.
“There’s not. Really. I promise.”
“How can you say that when you just told me about how you fell asleep in her arms?”
“That’s not what happened,” Angela says sheepishly.
“Uh… you quite literally just recounted a movie night in which you fell asleep on top of her and woke up two hours later. You were the only two in the room, she was awake and wanted to let you sleep so she just laid there. That is so romantic it makes me want to jump.”
Angela makes a face. She knows it’s a losing battle, but she’s putting up a fight.
“That’s just what girls do,” she tries.
“Nuh uh,” Chanse says, wagging his index finger, “don’t try that. I have a sister and she didn’t do any of that gay shit.”
“You’re gay,” Angela counters.
“No, you’re gay, bitch.”
Angela opens her mouth to respond, but closes it as several LMU students approach their table. They look nervously from Chanse to Angela.
“Are you the girl from the soccer video?” One of them asks.
“Who are you?” Chanse asks, a disgusted look on his face.
“We-,” the one on the left starts.
“No. Leave,” he says. The students scurry away. “Unbelievable.”
Angela sighs, pulling the brim of her cap lower and slouching down in the booth. She grumbles.
“You still haven’t told me how exactly you ended up with a two game suspension,” Chanse says, picking up right where they left off.
“Right,” Angela starts, trying to figure out how exactly to explain the rage that had filled her in Saturday's game. How she had lost control of her body the second the girl’s cleat made contact with Amanda’s head, how she’d been running with fists flying before she even realised she was moving. “I dunno. It just happened.”
Chanse groans loudly. “That cannot be it. You are impossible.”
“What do you want me to say?” Angela asks, immediately defensive.
“Just tell me what happened,” Chanse says, the exasperation showing on his expressive face.
“Like, but what?”
“Girl, I don’t know. Just tell me what happened. Don’t leave out a single detail.”
“Fine. Okay. It started when–,” Angela pauses. When had it started? When Amanda had gotten hurt? When she’d ignored her for a week? When she’d kissed Spencer in the car? When she’d almost kissed her in the hallway? “When we went to the boys’ party.”
“Ah,” Chanse sighs, “the one where I demolished everyone at Mario?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Angela says with a flick of her wrist. “Anyway, I got there before Amanda so naturally, I did like a shot or two with Tommy and them, and then Amanda showed up. She wasn’t gonna drink so I went to get her a water or a lemonade or something, and when I came back she was pounding José Cuervos like nobody’s business.”
“I’ll be honest,” Chanse starts, a sheepish grin on his face, “I don’t really remember much from that night.”
“I don’t think anyone does.”
“But she did look wasted.”
“She was,” Angela confirms. “Court knows her the best on the team and even they looked a little nervous when they saw how drunk she was. We tried to sober her up with water but it didn’t really work. So anyway, we left with Shayne, Court, and Spence, and they dropped me off first ‘cause I’m the closest. I didn’t want to walk up to my room alone so I asked Mandy to walk with me, and she did. Of course she did But then we were standing in the hallway and I asked her if she wanted to come in and see my room.” Chanse wiggles his eyebrows at her. Angela makes a face. “She said no. But then she leaned in and I thought we were gonna kiss but then she, like, kissed me on the cheek which was super European. Then she jogged down the hallway back to the stairs. I was kinda disappointed but whatever. I fell asleep with my shoes still on the second she left. But then get this. I was talking with Courtney later, like, on the bus to the game I think? Something like that. Anyway, they told me that after Shayne and them left my dorm, Amanda started making out with Spencer in the backseat.”
“Our Spencer?”
“Yeah,” Angela says, “our Spencer.”
“What the hell?” Chanse mutters, leaning back in the booth.
“I know. That’s not even the worst part about this whole situation. ‘Cause after the party, Amanda, like, completely ghosted me. I’m talking complete no contact, hiding behind corners when she sees me coming kind of thing. It was so bad that other people noticed. I mean, even you said something.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Angela’s brow furrows. “No, I didn’t mean that. I just meant– I mean– it was noticeable!”
“Better be,” Chanse warns.
“Whatever! Point is, it was totally out of nowhere. I didn’t know what was going on, so for the first couple of days I was still trying to go on as normal and got completely stonewalled. After a few days of trying with no luck, I got the memo. And then of course, you know about the fight. I guess I just saw red. I mean, I would’ve been pretty mad if any of my teammates got kicked in the head and then disrespected, but I’ve never fought anyone before. I just started shouting and running at the girl about how that was our captain and I was gonna beat her up for disrespecting Amanda, and then I got a few good licks in on her before the refs were pulling my arms back.”
“Dude, I cannot believe I missed this.”
“I know. Of all the games to miss. So they sent me to the locker room, obviously, and I was just waiting for the game to end and trying to get my stupid nose to stop bleeding and then she just came barging in and started screaming at me for stuff that happened, like, two months ago. I was trying to be civil at first because I was scared her head was going to explode, but she was being really annoying and she seemed okay enough to scream, so I started screaming back at her and then I just got caught up and…”
“And what, bitch?”
“And then I kissed her,” Angela murmurs, folding her arms on the table and laying her head down. She’s not even sure if Chanse will hear her muffled whisper. Evidently he does. He shrieks so loudly that several of the diner’s patrons turn to look at the two.
“Then my parents showed up and I ran away.”
“Girl…”
“I know. It’s terrible, but it’s my truth.”
“What happened after?”
Angela gives a small smile. “Thanks for asking. I sobbed so hard in the backseat of my parents’ car that they didn’t even yell at me for attacking a girl during the game, and I could tell both of them were so mad. I’m a crier and they know that, but I was really bawling back there so I guess they knew not to poke the bear. On Monday, Amanda came over to talk to me and I thought we were going to address it, but then she just told me I had my reversible on, so I gave it to her and ran away. I had to come back to the locker rooms an hour later because I left all my stuff.”
Chanse shakes his head. “So you didn’t talk about it?”
“Not yet.”
“And are you going to?”
“I have no idea,” Angela admits. “I just don’t want things to be weird. I think pretending it didn’t happen is the best way to achieve that.”
The boy across from her sighs. She knows what he’s thinking, and she’s thinking it too. There’s little to no chance that she’s going to be able to pull off pretending like nothing happened. Even with her acting classes, this feeling that’s definitely not just a schoolgirl crush anymore is threatening to take over her life. But it’s the best of two life threatening options. She’d rather die of sexual frustration than embarrassment.
“Whatever works for you,” Chanse says unhelpfully.
“I just want to make it to the end of the season. After that, I’ll figure out what to do.”
“Before playoffs start?”
Angela shrugs.
“The season ends on Halloweekend. I guarantee to you that every single person is going to be beyond wasted. Good luck.”
Good luck is right. It’s going to take every bit of Angela’s willpower to see to it that her lips don’t end up pressed against Amanda’s. Again.
The season goes on. Angela’s face heals, she completes her mandatory anger management course, serves her two game suspension, and returns to the starting lineup without missing a beat. By the last game of the season, Angela leads the team and the conference in goals. The days drag by agonisingly slow, and every day she’s forced to sleep three feet away from Amanda on road trips or go over to her place for team dinners or look at her face and act like she doesn’t have the world’s most kissable lips is like hell, but she manages.
It’s still awkward, but it’s better. Amanda will sometimes put a hand on Angela’s shoulder while talking and then yank it back like she’s been shocked, occasionally she’ll catch Amanda staring or Angela will look over to see her long dark hair fluttering in a quick turn of the head. And she slips up too. Whenever Amanda talks, Angela has to force herself to make eye contact rather than stare at her lips, has to force her hands to her sides rather than to reach out and run a finger down her jawline. They’re talking again. Not about the stuff that they probably should be talking about, but still, they’re talking. It’s not the same as before, but Angela will take whatever she can get.
The last game of the regular season falls on a Saturday afternoon, so that Friday night, the whole team piles onto Courtney and Amanda’s couch to watch some chick flick that everyone has seen a thousand times before. She’s settled into her spot on the floor in front of Amanda’s seat on the couch, leaning back and trying not to focus on the fact that she’s started absentmindedly playing with Angela’s hair while looking at something on Erin’s phone. Amanda’s manicured nails are running down Angela’s scalp and it’s oh so soothing. She’s asleep before the main characters are even introduced.
The next time her eyes open, there’s light streaming through the window and onto her body, now covered by a blanket on the couch. She must’ve been moved. Angela looks around wearily. Her glasses are folded and set on the coffee table and her phone is plugged into the nearby outlet. There’s someone moving around quietly in the kitchenette behind her, and Angela sits up to look.
“Wakey wakey,” Amanda says softly.
“Hey,” Angela says, still somewhat disoriented, “sorry for falling asleep.”
“No worries. Court already left for the game, they have to get PT or something. You can hitch a ride with me if you want, or if you need to go home, that’s okay too.”
“Uh…,” Angela mumbles, getting up from the couch and folding the soft blanket that had been laid on top of her during the night, “yeah. I can go with you.”
An hour later, she’s in the passenger seat of Amanda’s minivan on the way to the field. They’ve barely spoken to each other. Not in an awkward way. It’s the silence of two people coexisting in the same space, and it’s everything.
“You want aux?” Amanda asks.
“Sure,” Angela says, realising her phone has automatically connected to the car’s bluetooth. She queues up an 80s rock ballad she knows Amanda likes and watches the scenery pass by though the car window. Amanda sings along cheerily, tapping rhythms into the steering wheel.
Six hours and one win later, the UCLA Bruins Women’s Soccer team season is over. The successful result means that UCLA finishes the season second in their conference. The victorious team hits the bars for ‘Halloweekend’ prepared to celebrate with more than a couple overpriced shots. She’s tipsy, but Angela’s still not as drunk as she’d like to be as she glumly watches the scene from a dangerously tall barstool. Her costume had been a hit, but now she’s regretting it, tugging at the loose sleeves and adjusting the hem. Through the flashing lights, Angela can make out Chanse, dancing in the corner with some upperclassmen, Arasha, who seems to be leaving with Tommy and Spencer, shouting something about ‘finding a bar with better music,’ Courtney and Shayne slow dancing to the hyperpop beat, and the rest of the team scattered around in various cliques.
“Hey,” a familiar voice says from above. Angela turns to look. It’s Amanda. Of course it’s Amanda. She’s dressed as a sexy vampire or a sexy nun or something, it’s hard to discern, especially when one-hundred percent of Angela’s concentration is going towards making sure her gaze stays up at eye level and not to her form-fitting costume.
“Hi,” Angela responds.
Amanda takes a seat at the barstool next to her. It’s a more appropriate height for her. “What’s got you so glum?”
Angela shrugs. In truth, part of her mood tonight is because she’s sitting at the bar watching all her friends dance to the most annoying song in the world when what she’d really like to be doing is smearing Amanda’s deep red lipstick and pulling the taller woman into a disgusting bathroom stall.
“Not a Halloween fan?” Amanda asks, craning her neck to get a better look at Angela’s less than ecstatic expression.
Angela shakes her head. “No, I am. I’m just tired.”
“You played really well today,” Amanda assures.
“Thanks,” Angela says, a smile escaping through her tight-lipped countenance, “so did you.”
“Nah,” this time it’s Amanda’s turn to shrug, “I could’ve gotten a clean sheet. Stupid PK.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault the refs were trash and couldn’t see that it should’ve been a direct. Plus, I think you played great.”
Amanda gives her a small smile and Angela’s gaze immediately shoots down to look at her own fidgeting hands.
“So…” Angela starts, not looking up as she racks her brain for something to say, “are you excited about going home?”
Since UCLA had finished second in their conference, it meant they had qualified for the conference tournament and would be competing for an automatic spot in the NCAA tournament, as well as home field advantage for any subsequent games. In a week’s time, the team would be packing their bags for the predetermined tournament venue: the frostbitten fields of Massachusetts’s own Gillette Stadium. It was just a coincidence, several venues had been suggested and Gillette was randomly chosen, but the way Amanda had been talking about it made it seem like it was a sign from the universe.
“Yeah, my family is gonna be there, so that’s exciting. They haven’t seen me play since they flew out my freshman year.”
“Yeah, should be cool,” is all Angela can come up with.
They both fall silent, the space filled with the sound of the bar’s patrons singing along to the rap song blasting through the speakers.
“Shouldn’t you be partying over there?” Angela asks, nodding to the space across the bar where Courtney and Olivia look to be doing some sort of modified Harlem Shake.
Amanda looks over and laughs. “Nah. That’s for losers.”
“You’re not a loser,” Angela says, her tone a little too serious.
Amanda turns back to her. “Thanks.”
She looks so gorgeous, like truly, unbelievably gorgeous. Her costume accentuates all of her best features, her makeup is perfect, every piece of her wavy hair falls in just the right spot. Angela needs to kiss her.
Angela grips the barstool, physically bracing herself with the amount of courage she’s mustering. “Amanda, I–”
“Hey guys!” Courtney shouts, coming up from behind Amanda and putting a hand on her shoulder. Shayne and Olivia are trailing behind them, grimaces on their faces.
“Hey Court,” Amanda says, turning to the blonde.
“Wassup?” Courtney slurs.
“Nothing much, what’s up with you, babe?” Amanda wipes away a smudge in their lipstick with her thumb.
“Just dancing and stuff. Y’know!” There’s a big grin on Courtney’s face.
“Sorry, we tried to stop them,” Shayne says, catching up with his partner. “Hey Court.”
“Hey Shayne!”
“Why don’t we go back and dance with Olivia?”
Courtney pouts. “But I wanna hang out with Mandy and Angie.”
“They’re in the middle of something,” Shayne says, looking between Amanda and Angela, “you can hang out with them later.”
“Fine,” Courtney says, then goes limp in Shayne’s arms.
He catches them and spins them back towards Olivia and the rest of the group. “Sorry about that,” he says to the two girls.
“No worries, I was going to go to the bathroom anyway,” Angela says, hopping down from the barstool.
“Oh, okay. You good?” Amanda asks. Angela’s face must look less than calm.
“Yeah,” she says, waving Amanda’s concerned hands away. The last thing she needs is Amanda’s soft hands on her bare shoulders, “don’t worry.”
She makes her way to the restrooms, passing by Chanse, who breaks from his swaying to give her two giant thumbs ups. She returns with a weak smile and pushes against the swinging door.
***
The second Amanda Lehan steps off the plane at Boston Logan International Airport, she feels it. That East Coast je ne sais quoi. She feels it on the ride to their Foxborough hotel, she feels it at their team dinner, and she feels it as she drifts off to sleep in the scratchy hotel sheets.
On their first full day in Massachusetts, Coach Hecox gives them the second half of the day to explore after practice goes unexpectedly well. His only condition is that roommates stick together. Luckily for Amanda, the captains and the freshmen had been paired together, and Angela is more than happy to accompany her on the forty-five minute train ride up to downtown Boston, as are Courtney and Arasha. Amanda does her best to mimic a Boston tour guide, showing them all the best spots while throwing in a slang word here and there. Her attentive audience gives her crap every time she points out a Dunkin or drops her r’s or refers to something as ‘wicked’ but overall, it’s a nice time. The only close call is when Court loudly complains about needing a Starbucks and several passersby turn and glare.
“You know, you kind of get your accent back when you talk to people here,” Arasha says.
“What do you mean?”
Angela smiles. “You totally do!”
“Guys, what accent?”
The three lose themselves in a fit of giggles on the crowded Boston sidewalk. Amanda waits for them to stop.
“You seriously don’t hear it?” Courtney manages to get out between laughs.
“No? That’s just the way I speak.”
“It’s wicked strong. Like ‘pahk the cah in Hahvahd Yahd’,” Angela says, putting on an exaggerated East Coast accent and they start to laugh again.
“That’s offensive,” Amanda deadpans, but even she chuckles.
Eventually, Courtney and Arasha abandon them, mentioning something about taking photos for the grid during golden hour as they run off, leaving Amanda and Angela on the Boston Harborwalk by themselves.
They’ve had their fair share of awkward moments in the past week alone. There’s the time that Angela caught Amanda staring during their lecture. Or the time that Erin had snuck up and scared them before practice and they’d both grabbed each others’ hands in surprise. Walking side by side next to the water with nothing to talk about quickly takes the top spot on the list.
“So,” Angela starts, “you grew up around here?”
“Nah, maybe like, forty minutes away,” Amanda estimates, “it’s literally like right next to where the field is.”
Angela’s face lights up. “So what you’re saying is that I can go visit your childhood home?”
“Maybe,” Amanda says, picturing Angela in her childhood bedroom, “if you score a few goals.”
“Deal.” Angela puts out her hand and Amanda shakes it.
The chilly Boston air is making Angela’s ears and nose turn pink. Her hair is a little bit messy from the wind, and her teeth are chattering slightly. In short: she’s never looked better. So Amanda takes a risk in her hometown. She doesn’t let go of the other woman’s hand, pulling her in close and kissing her softly.
Angela’s surprise only shows itself for a few initial seconds as she refamiliarises herself with Amanda’s mouth. She feels her lips gently separated by Angela’s tongue and has to stifle a groan at the sensation. Angela’s hands go to cup Amanda’s jaw and she can feel her own hands snaking around Angela’s waist. It’s an insane, totally crazy, spur of the moment decision and nothing’s ever felt more right.
After a few gorgeous moments, Angela breaks the kiss, pulling away with a small smile. Amanda’s still making up her mind about whether that was her greatest idea or worst mistake when Courtney and Arasha reappear down the path, ambling towards them.
“Hey guys, what’s up?” Arasha asks, looking at both Amanda and Angela expectantly.
“Not much,” Angela answers, using the pad of her thumb to subtly wipe away Amanda’s lipgloss, “did you get some good photos?”
Courtney nods. “Tons. Did either of you see the group chat?”
Amanda shakes her head, unable to form words.
“Coach wants us back in like, an hour and a half for team dinner.”
They ride the train back to Foxborough and although Amanda can’t shake the feeling of Angela’s lips on hers, they don’t speak about it. Lights go out at 10:30 and Angela is snoring before Amanda even has time to start spiraling.
She plays an incredible game. Their opponent is throwing everything they can at her, and she’s got an answer. Amanda spends the game making save after save, diving for high shots, challenging fast breaks, blocking passes, and commanding the field. For the first round of the tournament, it’s one of their toughest matchups yet. They’ve been putting up one hell of a fight, and it’s just an unfortunate fact that Amanda happens to be playing the best game of her career in front of her entire family in the first row of the stands. They’re so close, she can hear their gasps as she tips a ball up and over the cage, can hear their cheers when she slides out for a sprawling save, can hear the hushed ‘anjinha!’ whenever a striker gets close. In short, it’s a goaltending masterclass.
Frustration is the root of the problem. Their opponent’s central defender has been working Angela’s nerves the entire game, and when the opportunity presents itself to not only deliver the finishing blow to the game’s 2-0 score, but to embarrass the opposing captain, UCLA’s talented forward seizes it. Angela’s racing down the field with the ball, already sizing up the goal to choose where she’d like to score her third goal of the game. Angela fakes the defender out and she bites but quickly pivots, planting her feet and ramming into Angela. The hit knocks the smaller girl to the ground and it’s immediately clear that something is wrong. The second Angela’s back hits the grass, she’s writhing on the ground in pain, holding her left arm close to her chest as she lets out a slew of curses. Amanda watches helplessly from across the field as Chanse, then Kimmy, then Coach Hecox run onto the field and to the girl’s side. They walk her off the field, taking her straight to the locker room. Play resumes around Amanda, who spends the rest of the game craning her neck in the direction of the tunnel where they’d taken Angela. She doesn’t even know the game is over until Arasha is next to her in the goal box, patting her on the back and congratulating her on an amazing clean sheet.
She’s unable to focus on anything during dinner with her entire family, even as various relatives pepper her with compliments and questions. She gets the vague feeling that her mother is growing agitated with her reticence and succinct answers, but honestly, how is she supposed to answer trivial questions and tell silly college anecdotes when Angela is probably writhing in pain on a surgery table as Boston’s worst doctors amputate her arm with a chainsaw.
Logically, Amanda knows that’s likely not what’s happening, but that still doesn’t stop her mind from wandering.
“Amanda, meu bem, you’ve barely touched your food,” she hears someone say. It rips her out of her spiral. She feels herself shrug, then feels the sharp point of her mother’s shoe kicking her shin.
“Ow!” She blurts.
When she returns to the hotel, she’s greeted with a diagnosis: a broken wrist. About a six to twelve week recovery period and a brand new sling. She won’t be able to play the rest of the tournament, but at least she’s okay.
After another successful practice in which Angela is forced to sit on the sidelines in her oversized parka, Coach Hecox once again gives them the rest of the day. Apparently, Courtney and Arasha already bought tickets with Emily and Bailey for some boat tour experience, and Chanse is already halfway to Boston with Olivia and Erin by the time Angela has gotten ready for the day, so the two find themselves alone with the rest of the day to kill.
Amanda suggests taking it easy and spending the day in bed, but Angela scoffs.
“I have this mobility sling for a reason and it’s so I can be mobile. I scored two goals yesterday, I think that classifies as ‘a few’,” Angela says.
Amanda’s confused for a second before it clicks. She’d promised Angela that they would visit her hometown if she scored a few goals. That had been right before she’d, they’d–
“You don’t have to take me to your childhood home or anything, I just wanna see where you grew up.”
“Okay,” Amanda says reluctantly as Angela does a little dance.
Thirty minutes later, Amanda is thanking the Uber driver as Angela excitedly points towards her old high school.
“Quiet down,” Amanda says, following the girl towards the school building, “there’s still education happening in there.”
“I’m so excited.”
“We’re not going in,” Amanda says seriously. Angela’s face falls.
“Why not?”
“Because no way.”
“Fine,” Angela says glumly, “will you at least tell me what you were like when you went here?”
“Like high school me?” Angela nods, “Well, I mean it wasn’t really that long ago. I was crazy though,” Amanda admits.
“Crazy how?”
“Oh like, crazy crazy. I really mellowed out freshman year of college, I think because I was so far away from home for the first time. It was like adulthood clicked. But back then I mean, I was sneaking out to go ride on my boyfriend’s dirt bike or getting busted by the cops at woods parties or honestly, just at work. I was pretty busy. What about you?”
Angela smiles. “Me? I don’t know. I was also crazy. Still am, kind of. I guess I’m waiting to get mellowed out. A few years ago for my sixteenth birthday my mom threw me a surprise party and it was a complete disaster. I freaked out and screamed and ran out of the restaurant crying and my dad had to come get me. Then the waitress thought he was hurting me because I was crying and screaming ‘get off me!’ So they never did that again. But no, I was wild. I went to a performing arts school, and all I really wanted to do was be funny and act, so you can imagine how I was.”
Amanda holds her side as she laughs. They keep walking and talking until they come up on a clearing leading to the woods.
“This is one of the main spots where we would have our woods parties. Since we were trying to get away from the staties, we’d throw parties in the woods and then scatter when they busted us.”
Angela looks at her in awe. “Your life was wild.”
They keep walking until they hit Amanda’s old elementary school. The sun has started its descent towards the horizon, and by the time they reach the playground, the temperature has decreased significantly. Angela skips over to the swing set and sits on one of the two seats.
“Swing with me!” Angela says, pushing off and launching into the air.
“Ange, no. It’s dangerous. Do you want to break your other wrist?”
Angela frowns but slows to a stop, dragging her feet in the wood chips.
“Won’t you come sit with me at least?”
“Sure,” Amanda says, sitting on the swing next to her.
“I can’t believe you went to school here.”
“Yeah,” Amanda says, looking around, “I don’t remember a lot from it, but I had fun.”
“I hated school.” Angela says, looking at the ground.
“Even in elementary school? When it was just you hanging out with your friends and reading books?”
“Yeah,” Angela shrugs, “I dunno. I was just a little dyslexic kid and reading was an absolute nightmare. Then, when I got older, all my friends were so toxic that I just wanted a break.”
“Aw. I bet you were so cute when you were a kid.”
“Yeah, I was,” Angela assures her.
They’re silent for a few moments.
“How’s your wrist?”
Angela looks down at her arm, immobilised in a sling over her right shoulder. “It’s good. It still hurts a little bit, but whatever.”
“I’m sorry. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Angela smiles. “I mean, there is one thing.”
“Yeah?”
In hindsight, Amanda should’ve seen it coming. But there’s a reason they say hindsight is 20/20 because Amanda is totally caught off guard when Angela leans in and captures her in a kiss. It’s just as good as she remembers. The right amount of softness mixed with Angela’s classic ferocity. They’re fully making out now, and Amanda’s a few seconds away from falling off the swing as the other girl sucks on her tongue. She’s about to weave her fingers into Angela’s short hair when she’s hit with the startling realisation that anyone from her hometown could see them now.
She pulls away. “What was that for?”
Angela shrugs, then winces. “It worked last time.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you kissed me last time and you played the best game of your life. Why not?”
Amanda’s heart sinks. It shouldn’t, but it does. They’re both in it for the good of the team, and she repeats that message over and over in her head as she leans in for another kiss. This time, there’s no surprise. Immediately, they fall into the push and pull rhythm that keeps Amanda up at night. She’s not sure how long it lasts. It could be ten seconds or ten years. Whatever it is, it’s not enough.
“We should probably get back, huh?” Angela asks once they’ve broken the kiss.
Amanda looks at her watch. According to the time, she’s leaning towards ten years. “It’s too late. My house is like, two blocks away, let’s just sleep there and go back tomorrow. We don’t have to be in the lobby until noon. It’s a late game.”
“Won’t Coach be mad?”
“Coach is probably asleep by now.”
“Are you sure?”
Amanda nods and leads Angela silently to her childhood home. Her mother answers the door, pulling Amanda into a quick hug before turning her attention to Angela. Once they’ve made it past the formalities, the girls tiptoe up the stairs and fall asleep in Amanda’s cramped twin bed.
When she wakes up, Angela’s already up and moving.
“Hey,” she says when she notices Amanda is awake, “I was just about to wake you up. I called an Uber. It should be here in about ten minutes.”
“Thanks,” Amanda says groggily.
Angela tosses a stack of clothes at her, turns around while she changes, and thanks Amanda’s mother before they leave the house.
Twelve hours later the UCLA Bruins pull into the hotel parking lot with another excellent win under their belts. Coach Hecox stops them before the bus doors open. “Alright guys, great win today. I’m so exceptionally proud of you all. Get some rest tonight, we’ve got a long two days ahead of us. I’ve sent out details about practice and meetings in the groupchat. Breakfast is at 7:30. Great job everyone,” he says. The team does a quick ‘Bruins!’ cheer before they scurry back to their rooms for the night.
Unlike the past two practice days, they don’t venture off on their own. After an early morning practice, they begin a slew of lengthy meetings and film sessions that take them to a 7:45 dinner. When they finally trudge upstairs after the last meeting of the night, they’re beyond beat.
“Wanna watch a movie or something?” Amanda asks, splashing water on her face in the bathroom.
“Too tired,” Angela groans. She flops onto Amanda’s hotel bed, ignoring her own bed.
“Scoot,” Amanda instructs. She does as she’s told, and Amanda joins her under the covers. They don’t say anything as Angela gently places her lips on Amanda’s own. It’s just routine at this point. Sometime after Angela’s nuzzled her head into the crook of the taller woman’s neck, the two girls drift off to sleep.
Amanda’s not expecting it when she wakes up with her arms still wrapped around the sleeping body of UCLA’s star striker. It’s a bit off putting to see her so close, so calm. She tries not to shift too much, but eventually Angela wakes, looking up at Amanda and giving her a drowsy smile. Amanda tries to smile back.
It throws her off more than she realises at the time, waking up with Angela tucked in her arms. She’d looked like a little trinket that Amanda had found and pocketed. Like she had been hers to hold and fall asleep next to. But she isn’t. Angela’s her own person. A living, breathing person watching as Amanda gives up goal after goal. It’s truly one of the worst performances of her life. Everything is getting past her. Sure, there’s some good shots, it’s the finals after all, but after a floater rolls past her outstretched hands that she knows she would’ve gotten on any other day, it’s obvious something’s not right.
Coach Hecox pulls her after the sixth goal. She tries to stop the tears from flowing as the backup goalie high fives her as they pass. Her teammate is on her way to Amanda’s rightful goal while Amanda is jogging to the bench, forced to watch the decimation of her team from the bench.
It’s the finals of the conference tournament and she’s in her head over some girl. She may have just cost her team home field advantage or even a spot in the NCAA tournament. Her gloves are flying to the ground before she even crosses over the sideline. Next, her water bottle slams down, popping open and spilling into the artificial grass. She’s so angry, disappointed, embarrassed, ashamed, scared. She gets drunk on her rage, how it takes up space in her mind and pushes all of her other thoughts away. She kicks a folding chair to the ground on her way to the team bench, but is intercepted before she makes it.
“Mandy,” Courtney is saying, both hands on Amanda’s shoulders. They say something else but Amanda is already shrugging their hands away and stomping down the tunnel to the locker room.
***
From where she and Chanse are standing on the sideline, they get a perfect view of the whole thing. The flood of easy goals, the look of rage in Amanda’s eyes as she jogs off towards Coach, the sound of her gloves and water bottle hitting the turf, the slam of cleats striking thin steel.
Chanse gives her a look which Angela returns. She lasts about a minute before she can’t take it anymore and heads down the tunnel herself.
When she enters the locker room, Amanda is sobbing on one of the benches. Her head shakes in her hands and there’s snot dripping from her nose.
“Manda?” Angela calls softly.
Amanda looks up. The last time they were in a locker room alone like this, well– she pushes the flood of memories away.
The girl on the bench starts to sob again. Angela rushes over to her, sitting next to her and patting her back with her good hand.
“It’s gonna be okay, Mandy,” she whispers.
Amanda looks up again, eyes sparkling. Angela returns the eye contact for a few moments until Amanda is surging forward for a kiss. It’s too rough, too watery, it’s not right. Not with Amanda in this state.
“Woah, slow your roll there, bud,” Angela says, gently pulling back from Amanda’s determined mouth, “are you okay?”
In place of an answer, the other woman instead attempts another kiss. Angela turns her head to dodge, a harsh movement that hurts. This seems to break something in Amanda, who bursts into tears once more.
“It’s okay,” Angela says, repeating it over and over as she rubs circles on Amanda’s shaky back.
The Bruins return to Los Angeles with good news: although they had lost in the finals of the Conference Tournament, they received an at-large bid and are scheduled to host the first three rounds of their bracket as well as the finals. It’s a best case scenario, and Coach Hecox stresses how lucky they are.
Things are kind of weird for Angela Giarratana, who is attempting to prepare for her first round of college finals while balancing doctor’s appointments, practice, team bonding, and trying to do normal things without the use of her left hand.
By the time the first game rolls around, Angela still hasn’t been cleared for action no matter how many times she begs Kimmy to sign her medical clearance waiver. Coach Hecox also rests Amanda for the first game, confident that his team will be able to destroy in the first round, so she and Amanda stand next to each other on the sideline, watching their team pummel their outmatched opponent.
Things get more stressful when UCLA narrowly escapes with a 2-1 win during the second round, and Angela is politely asked by Coach Hecox to stop pacing the line. Despite this, the Bruins advance to the round of 16.
The night before their matchup against Iowa, Angela can’t sleep. She tosses and turns and dodges a pillow thrown by Arasha but she still cannot rest. She spends hours doing everything she can to bore her mind. She counts sheep, she makes lists, she replays every embarrassing moment from the past ten years. She must fall asleep at some point, because she’s being shaken awake by her lovely roommate thirty minutes before they’re set to be in the locker room. They rush in four minutes late and half dressed, but they still make it.
Angela splashes water on her face ten minutes before coin toss, cleats skidding on the smooth floor as she sprints back to the field, taking her place on the bench with a smile.
Nine minutes into the game, the ball bounces out of bounds and the referee’s whistle is blown. From her peripheral, Angela can see Chanse deliberating over a whiteboard with Coach Hecox.
“Angela,” Coach Hecox calls. Angela springs up from her spot on the bench and rushes over to where the coaches are standing.
“Yes, Coach?”
“You’re in,” he says simply.
Angela rips off her parka and does a few warm up jumps as she waits for her teammate to jog off the field. Immediately, she makes her mark on the game. Arasha sends a long ball down the sideline which Angela collects with ease. Two defenders chase after her, but it’s no use, the ball is already in the back of the net.
Angela and Amanda have been kissing. A lot. Athletes are creatures of habit, superstitious beings, and tradition is tradition. The day before a game, Angela’s lips are on Amanda’s– just a peck. Nothing like Boston. Whatever it is, it’s working.
Two wins and five Angela Giarratana goals later, the Bruins have secured their spot in the Final Four. Five years ago, UCLA had been chosen as this season’s tournament host. The team is determined to win the whole thing in front of their home crowd, and it shows in their daily schedules. Each and every player’s day is jam packed with film sessions, individual and positional practices, cool down with trainers, and whatever else Coach Hecox thinks will improve their performance.
The day before their semi-final game, Angela and Amanda are in the locker room after being the only two at the optional yoga session. Seeing her chance, Angela gives Amanda a peck on the lips.
When she pulls away, Amanda’s eyes are still closed and she’s breathing slowly.
“Ange,” she starts, “we have to talk.”
Angela’s brow furrows. “Uh… okay?”
“We’re going into semi-finals tomorrow. This is important. We can’t have any secrets.”
“What? I don’t have any secrets,” Angela says truthfully. Does she maybe have feelings for Amanda that she’s been putting off analysing until the season is over? Sure. But that doesn’t make her a liar.
Amanda makes a face. “Then what’s going on between us?”
“Us?”
Amanda nods.
“Manda, there’s nothing, I swear,” Angela says quickly. She’s nervous. Has Amanda picked up on her less than platonic side of their kisses?
Confusingly, Amanda responds. “I’m not talking about you, I’m talking about me.”
This tilts Angela’s world off its axis. Her head spins, her ears start ringing, she feels like she might pass out. “Can we talk about this later? I have PT in like, ten minutes,” she says, trying to sound as impartial as possible.
“Sure,” Amanda answers, voice wavering slightly. Someone just overhearing their conversation wouldn’t notice a thing, but Angela picks up on her hollow response, how her tone flits between okay and not.
Amanda packs up her things and Angela lets her go without another word.
Five days later, UCLA is in the championship final, the first time in the past ten years. The stands are packed, the stadium lights stand out against the night sky, the atmosphere is electric. The game remains scoreless after ninety minutes of play. Both teams have fought tooth and nail for the upper hand, but even with the two overtime periods, the bright scoreboard proudly reads 0-0. The two teams stand on opposite sides of the half line, arm in arm with their teammates, watching as the penalty kick process begins.
Having won the coin toss and chosen to kick second, Amanda stands on the goal line, arms spread wide, as the opposing player takes her position at the penalty spot. The girl steps back, runs up, and shoots the ball straight into Amanda’s waiting grasp. The line of UCLA players cheer. Amanda shouts and pumps her gloved fist.
Angela watches from the half line as each team sends their players to the penalty spot. At the start of the final round, the goals are tied three apiece. It’s captain versus captain. The opposing team has sent out their senior striker as their fifth penalty taker. She steps back from the ball, running on a curve as she sends it high and to the right. Amanda launches herself in the air, barely getting a touch on the ball. It’s just enough as she tips it up and over the crossbar. She’s just given UCLA the advantage. If they miss the next shot, the penalties go to sudden death, but if they score, the trophy is theirs.
Angela is shaking like a leaf at the penalty spot. The overhead lights are so bright she can barely see. She’s aware of the fans in the stands, her teammates on the centre line, the throb in her wrist. The opposing goalie is jumping up and down on the goal line, waving her arms in an effort to psych Angela out. It’s sort of working. She takes five steps backwards, keeping her body in line with the ball. The ref blows the whistle. Angela runs up to the ball, stuttering for a moment before her right foot makes contact with the synthetic leather ball. The shot sails towards the net, the goalie pushes off into the air, time slows down.
There’s a scream, and suddenly she’s being tackled by her entire team. Blue and gold confetti shoots out from cannons on either side of the field. Her knees buckle under the weight of her team and she lays on the field, soaking it all in.
Eventually, Angela will be shown a replay of her game winning goal. She’d sent the ball low and to the left, while the goalie had banked on the top right corner. She’ll recount the post-game interview, pouring Gatorade all over Coach Hecox, the trophy ceremony, the t-shirts, the hats, the pictures, the MVP trophy being thrust into her arms by some NCAA big wig, the hugs, the congratulations, the formality of it all. It will all come back to her eventually. Right now, all she wants to do is celebrate.
“We’re freakin’ champions,” Amanda is shouting, Angela’s head in her hands, sunglasses perched on her nose.
“We’re freakin’ champions,” Angela repeats.
Everyone is beyond drunk. Tommy has already thrown up twice, and he didn’t even win a trophy. The team had been doing karaoke, but they’d gotten far too drunk a long time ago to even read the words on the screen, and now 2010s party music shakes through giant speakers. Angela has been dancing with Amanda since she’d leaned on the shorter girl for support after dismounting from a keg stand.
“Rahhh!” Olivia shouts and there’s a cheer. She’s holding up her trophy and a beer in each hand. She holds the trophy at an angle towards her mouth, pouring the beer down the length of it. Angela holds her own drink up towards Olivia in salute before she downs it. She and Amanda end up dancing with Courtney, Shayne, and Trevor for a few songs. Amanda has been clinging to Angela like a koala, drinking half of whatever Angela has in her cup.
“Ange, I just wanna tell you how much I love you,” Amanda slurs, partly into the crook of Angela’s neck. She’s nestled herself in there for the past few minutes, and it’s taking the rest of Angela’s sobriety not to do something about it.
“I love you too, Mands,” Angela says, resting her chin on Amanda’s head.
“Like, when you first got here and stuff, I thought you were gonna drop out before the season started. ‘Cause you were so moody and mean to everyone. But I’m glad you stayed.”
“I’m glad I stayed too.”
Amanda looks up to give Angela a dazed smile. “We couldn’t have won without you, you know? You’re the best player here, no, in the whole world!”
Angela lets herself blush. “I dunno about that.”
Courtney shouts something at the two of them, but it’s covered up by the cheering of some drinking game on the other side of the room.
“What?” Angela asks, trying to get closer to Court. Amanda practically enveloping her means that almost all of her mobility that’s not swaying to the music has been taken away.
“I said, do you want to do body shots?” Courtney shouts. Angela relays the question to Amanda, who lights up like an activated sleeper agent. The next thing Angela knows, she’s laying on a table with a lime between her teeth while Amanda licks a line of salt from her neck.
From there, things start to get fuzzy. She vaguely remembers Amanda giving her a piggyback ride that ends with them both on the liquor covered floor as well as asking everyone to draw on her new wrist cast. Angela’s sure she gets up to more shenanigans, but the only thing that’s constant is Amanda by her side.
Presumably, she makes it home safe, because her last act of the night is to tear off her shirt and flop face first into a mattress.
***
Amanda wakes up in her own bed the next morning with three things: a new t-shirt, a wicked hangover, and someone’s arm around her. Disoriented, she tries to twist around in the sheets. Her forearm brushes against her bed partner’s and it prickles against her skin. She stops moving, lest she wake up the stranger in her bed. The contact is strange. Where the person’s arm should be warm and full of life, it’s solid. Like a rock but rougher. Like a brick but hollow. Like sandpaper. Like plaster.
Oh.