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Without giving him time to process what I said, I kick the ball with my left foot toward the center and take off dribbling down the field. I caught Mateo off guard, but he’s much faster than me, so it won’t take him long to be hot on my heels.
The familiar rush of streaking down a soccer field with an opponent chasing me takes over my brain and body. I sense Mateo closing in, but I know he won’t come after me as aggressively as he would against a real opposing player. I take advantage of him taking it easy on me to juke to one side to escape. I’m just inside the box and pulling my leg back to take my shot when I feel Mateo’s arm wrap around my waist as he pulls me off course. The ball slowly rolls to a stop well short of the net.
“Hey! Whistle! Whistle, whistle!” I yell. Mateo is dying laughing as he releases his arm from around me.
“That, sir, was a penalty,” I tell him with feigned indignity, poking my finger in his chest.
He just shrugs his shoulder with a smile. “Maybe the penalty was worth it.”
I ignore his flirting. “You owe me a penalty kick,” I announce as I march to scoop up the ball and place it in position. I point at Mateo and then the goal, commanding him to take the goalie position.
Mateo reluctantly moves in front of the net. “For the record, I haven’t played keeper since I was like, eight years old,” he says as he crouches and holds his hands out at his sides.
“Well, I haven’t shot a PK in almost four years, so we’ll call it an even match,” I say. My mind immediately transports me back to the fields in Kansas City, hearing my coaches and teammates cheering me on as I stare down the opposing goalkeeper.
I decide to pull out my favorite PK strategy since Mateo doesn’t know anything about the way I used to play. Blowing out a deep breath, I glance at both corners of the net before ever so slightly angling my body toward the right side. I’m sprinting toward the ball as Mateo takes my bait and starts a dive to the right, but I take a Jorginho hop and use it to angle my kick to the top left corner instead.
The ball swishes into the back of the net, and I raise my hands in victory as Mateo sits up with his arms on his knees. We both turn our heads at the sound of loud voices.
“Ohhhh, she totally faked you out, bro!” Andrès yells as he walks toward us. Another teammate is doubled over laughing. “Burn, man!”
I can’t help but smile as Mateo hops up, defending himself. “Dude, I’m a midfielder! I never claimed to have goalkeeping skills.” He’s laughing as he gives Andrès a bro hug before mock slapping the back of his head. I start walking toward them, and the three of them meet me halfway.
“Andrès, you know Lana,” Mateo says as Andrès gives me a huge grin that clues me in that he probably knows a lot about me from Mateo. “And Lana, this is Chris—he’s one of our starting defenders.”
Chris reaches out to shake my hand. “That was quite the PK. We always enjoy seeing Alvarez get put in his place,” he says with a laugh as he shoves Mateo, who puts him in a headlock in return. This is clearly their typical team dynamic, because all three of them are smiling without a hint of ill will.
“Yeah, well I only learned about two minutes before that impressive display that Lana played competitive soccer her whole life, so I was at a disadvantage,” Mateo says as he winks at me. My heart does a much bigger flip flop this time.
I raise my hands up and tilt my head. “Hey, your coach would probably say you’re always supposed to be prepared, so I’m just exposing any weak spots.” It’s crazy how quickly trash talk comes back, even after you’ve been disengaged for a long time.
Chris and Andrès give Mateo a hard time all over again. When they’re done scuffling, Andrès claps Mateo on the back and says, “What would you say to playing a little two v two action?”
Mateo looks over at me and raises one shoulder in question. The exhilaration of being back on the field is still pumping through me, so I nod my head and reply, “Sure!”
“But only if I get Lana as my partner,” Mateo quickly adds with a grin. “I’m not going up against her again.”
I blush, and he high-fives me as Andrès spells out the rules. “We’ll play on one half of the field and take turns attacking the goal. If the ball goes out of bounds or back past the midfield line, the other team takes the ball. First to score five points wins. Cool?”
We all nod, and Mateo loses rock-paper-scissors, so we start on defense. As we jog to position, I hold up a hand and say, “Wait just a sec.” I pull the hair ties out of my bun and let the messy waves fall down my back. Flipping my head over, I pull my hair up into a high ponytail and tightly secure it with an extra loop of my hair tie, my signature hairstyle all the years I played.
It always drove new coaches crazy at first—they’d try to insist that I somehow braid my nearly waist-length hair to keep it well-managed so it wouldn’t weigh me down or get in my face as I was fighting for the ball. But they all quickly learned that I played my best with my thick mane free-flowing as I maneuvered the field.
Ponytail secure, I jump in place a couple of times and say, “Ready!”
Mateo is openly staring at me with a smile. He asks, “By the way, what position did you play?”
“Striker!” I yell to him as I start jogging toward Chris. “I always sucked at defense!”
Mateo gives a short laugh before quickly closing the distance between him and Andrès, forcing Andrès to pass to Chris. I’m ready for it and bump into him with more of an arm shove than he was probably anticipating. He’s thrown off balance just enough that I’m able to boot the ball out of bounds, earning a loud cheer from Mateo.
Hey, a girl has got to use whatever resources she has to her advantage. Even if it’s guys taking it easy on her.
Mateo tells me to take the ball to start our offensive at the midfield line. Andrès is standing a few paces back, waiting for me to bring the ball into play. I give the ball a soft kick, keeping my dribble slow and controlled as I watch Andrès moving toward me. I pick up speed as he comes in to fight for the ball. He nearly steals control, but I manage to inside cut the ball and kick a hard left-footed pass over to Mateo on the right side.
As he settles the pass and works his way up the field against Chris, I sprint toward the goal box. I don’t think Andrès will expect me to try a header, so when Mateo makes eye contact with me, I give a small upward jerk of my head. He raises his eyebrows right before kicking a perfect cross assist.
My instinct was correct, and Andrès stays grounded instead of jumping to fight for the ball. I offer up a split-second prayer that I haven’t forgotten how to do this as I leap up to head the ball into the back of the net.
