Two minutes left on the clock.

Three moves before it happens, I see it.

I see the ball passing from Green’s O’Connor to Green’s Blake with a force undoubtedly meant to shatter a shin bone. They have been going through an ugly divorce off-field, and they are both notoriously petty players (and people).

I see Green’s Blake receiving the pass with skill and avoiding the broken bone. But Blake will intentionally let Blue’s Perez strip the ball from her in a direct confrontation that will include a few pinches and a couple of ‘accidental’ scrapes of sharp cleats against bare skin. Blake is trading to Yellow next season to get away from O’Connor. Blake doesn’t care what happens anymore, but it has to look good.

And finally, I see Blue’s Perez go for a run with the ball. She will break through the defense line. It will be just her and Green’s goaltender facing off. She will fuel herself and each step toward the goal with every hateful comment from the tabloids and teammates who have tried to sabotage her all season, knowing that a goal for her is as much career suicide as it is career making. She can’t score, yet she can’t miss. Both options would ruin her. I know that she will choose to score. The game always wins for her. Top left corner, from the top of the goalie box. It will be an open net.

I know Perez’s secret. She has never missed a shot. If she misses, she means to. If she wants a goal, it goes in.

The moves play out as I predicted. I still wince at the power of O’Connor’s pass to her ex-wife. I still cringe when I see the weight of Perez’s goal opportunity land on her shoulders, even as she takes perfect aim.

Plunk!

The ball plunges confidently into the top left corner of the net and drops to the turf. The goaltender puts her head in her hands.

1-0.

The crowd lights up with Blue signs and face paint, exuberant cheers bringing the humid night to life. Until the screen zooms in on Perez’s jersey. Some cheers remain, but I start to hear murmurs. The murmurs seep like poison into the air. Angry shouts at the ref replace Blue’s team chant.

I look at the teams. At the pieces on the field. They are trained to play regardless of the crowd. The crowd should not matter. But this crowd is split equally between Green and Blue. And even Blue is finding it hard to cheer for that goal.

I shrink into my seat.

One of two things will happen next.

One: Perez will get to play 30 more seconds before being pulled by her coach. He has never liked her and has never respected unofficial customs of the game. Her pride will be shredded. She should get to celebrate with her team and be carried off a hero. Being pulled would lead her to change teams in the offseason, upsetting both her old team and her new one. The tabloids would never let her live this down.

Two: Perez will get to stay in until the end of the game. Green will be so incensed by her goal and her presence on the field that they will body and hurt her until they score their own goal, and Perez will receive all the blame for a tied game. The tabloids will ignite with the story of the player who should never have scored, and yet did, and then didn’t even make it worth it. Yet again, her pride will be broken. And in this case, she might get injured as well.

I prepare myself for both possibilities, my stomach twisting in knots.

Perez straightens her hairband and adjusts the tape on her shin pads, undoubtedly weighing the two possible scenarios for the end of the game in her own head. Her teammates don’t gather around her. They slap each other on the back in the center of the field.

The stands swell with a cacophony of jabs and cheers from both sides. The wave of sound crests. My head aches.

Perez asks for a substitute.

For one single moment, I am alone in the stands. I blink. I try to calculate what this means.

In the end, I don’t get to calculate anything.

A fan behind me cups his chip-greased hands around his mouth and bellows: “The tranny wants off? Booooo-hoooooooooo.” And then he pretends to wail and sob, to the great amusement of the rest of the crowd.

My face heats up. I look to Perez for a reaction.

Perez is walking off the field. She pauses on her way back to her bench and looks directly up to the fan behind me. She lowers her eyes to me. She must have known where I was sitting the whole time. Even in a crowd of thousands, she can single me out. She smiles and blows me a kiss, creating an even louder reaction in the crowd.

My chest hums pleasantly. I can’t help the smile that blooms across my face. Even the fan behind me, who apparently is getting off on the crowd’s reactions to his jeering, can’t stop the pride flowing through me.

If my wife had been brave enough to get on the field today – and not only to play, but to star – then I am brave enough to do something for her.

I stand up from my seat, tighten my ponytail, and adjust the purse string on my shoulder.

Then I turn around and punch the chip-greased asshole in the face.

***

Lila Webb (she/her) is based in Calgary, Alberta, Canada, and is a passionate advocate for inclusivity in sports, and enjoys exploring these themes in her writing, her work, and her life. Lila has had the opportunity to spectate many, many games of soccer (and even play a few), and is happy to share her joy for the sport. Her work has been previously published on 50-Word Stories.