Chapter 8: Game Faces
Saturday mornings were usually lazy for Andrea Mei. Sleep in. Grab coffee. Catch up on reading. But today?
Today her nerves were awake before she was.
She got to the field early—too early—just to see it all get set up. The chalk lines were fresh. The netting on the goals looked tighter than usual. The bleachers, even, had been wiped down like the school was trying to impress someone.
Someone important.
The West Bay scout had arrived exactly on time. Clipboard. Sunglasses. No smile.
Andrea picked the third row, middle seat, right above the halfway line. Same spot she always sat. But nothing about today felt normal.
Sheik was down on the field, lacing up slowly. His face was unreadable from here—focused, but distant. Andrea could tell. His shoulders were too stiff. His posture too straight. It wasn't him.
"Don't overthink it," she whispered under her breath, as if he could hear her from fifty feet away.
The team huddled, then scattered.
Kickoff.
The game started fast. Too fast.
Sheik's first pass was off. Not badly—but enough to make Andrea flinch. He adjusted his position, but she saw the shake in his hands. He was in his head.
The scout scribbled something down.
Coach Mendoza shouted something unintelligible, pacing the sideline like a caged dog.
Andrea dug her nails into her jeans.
Then it happened—ten minutes in.
Sheik made a run for the ball at midfield. The other player got there a second later. It wasn't dirty, but it was hard.
Their bodies collided. Sheik went down. So did the other guy.
Andrea stood up so fast her notebook slipped off her lap.
"Sheik!" she called, not even thinking.
He didn't move right away.
The world froze—just for a second. Just long enough for panic to set in.
Then he sat up, blinking, rubbing the back of his head.
Andrea didn't breathe again until she saw him wave off the coach and push himself to his feet.
He jogged it off. Of course he did.
But when he glanced at the bleachers and saw Andrea, she could see it—just for a split second. The flicker of uncertainty behind his eyes.
He wasn't okay.
And there was nothing she could do from here.
Not until halftime.
So she sat back down, heart hammering, clutching her phone like it could anchor her.
This game wasn't just about soccer anymore.
It was about all the things they weren't saying. The choices they hadn't made. And the future creeping closer every time the ball moved.