Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [49]
Glancing over his shoulder, Charlie acknowledged his dad with a quick wave before centering his attention on Coach Henry, who worked through a list of suggestions and corrections. The boys sat at his feet, resting tired legs and feet, drinking bottles of sports water. But though their bodies conveyed a lackadaisical attitude, they were listening intently. Only one player found it nearly impossible to concentrate: Charlie. The pain had not only returned, it was worse than ever before.
“Charlie? I want to talk with you for a minute.” He hadn’t even noticed Coach was wrapping it up, reminding them to hydrate again.
“Coach?” Charlie looked up to him. Concern he was about to be yanked tightened his gut, but he inwardly vowed to hide his fears.
“You seem hesitant to go head-to-head with their center forward. Don’t be intimidated by him.”
“He’s pretty quick, Coach.”
“So are you, Charlie. You’re just as fast—or faster.” His eyes flickered down to Charlie’s leg. “You didn’t appear to be hindered by your leg in the first half. Not that I noticed, at least. And I was watching. But are you hesitating because it hurts, son?”
“No, Coach, I wasn’t. It really was fine.” The truth, technically. Charlie held his breath, hoping that he wouldn’t ask how it was right now.
“Okay, but if it—”
“It won’t. It can’t,” Charlie interrupted, not allowing the conversation to go in an unwanted direction. “We’re gonna win this one, Coach. And I’m not gonna miss out on being a part of that.”
Coach Henry nodded, his apprehension lingering still.
The players gathered on the field again. Having lost the coin toss at the beginning of the game, it was now the Flames’ turn to kick off. They spread out, eyes fixed on Charlie.
The two teams were so evenly matched they spent virtually equal time on each end of the field, but the Comets connected successfully first. A wobbly, weak pass caught everyone, even Bryce, off guard. The Comets and their fans went wild in celebration, but it wasn’t to be the only score.
A momentary lapse by Charlie—his leg was commanding attention—led to a breakaway. Charlie recovered quickly enough to run with the center forward, but their right wing was especially quick. A last-minute pass left Bryce too vulnerable. And this time the ball bounced sharply against the net.
That was a goal with an exclamation point.
The Flames hung their heads. Their fans, suddenly subdued. Coach Henry, however, was immediately active on the sidelines, gesturing and shouting. Trying to get Charlie’s attention. “Charlie,” he shouted frantically, finally getting the boy’s attention. “Get ’em refocused.”
Charlie waved his arms, motioning for his teammates to join him. “We’ve been practicing the give ’n go. But this time, let’s do it in reverse.” He looked at Trevor. “You’re gonna take the shot when we can set it up.” Charlie made sure his gaze at Trevor was steady, communicating he believed without a doubt that his friend could pull it off. “Be ready, Trev. Okay, everybody? One, two, three … Flames.”
They lined up for the kickoff again. The referee blew the whistle, and the game was on. Amazingly, it ran like clockwork. For a moment, Charlie could tell Trevor was locked into the play they’d practiced over and over; he was setting up to assist Charlie rather than take the shot himself. But then it was as though Trevor physically switched gears, his feet performing what his brain was telling them. Then a defender tripped and their luck held: Trevor had a breakaway.
The crowd could already taste the goal; the fans immediately jumped to their feet. The Comets’ sweeper was frantic, knowing he’d been outmaneuvered. And the goalie, in his sudden indecision, committed himself way too early, going left. Trevor sensed the advantage. Kicked right. And the ball sailed into the net.
Charlie was noticeably limping as the boys celebrated. Though his body recognized the pain, his spirit did not—would not. Coach Henry was waving him over, but Charlie ignored him. When he glanced