The Last Kick

Camille could hear her heartbeat in her ears.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It was louder than the crowd. Louder than her teammates clapping and calling her name. Louder than everything.

The referee placed the ball on the penalty spot — that little white dot in front of the goal that suddenly looked a million miles away. Then he stepped back, blew his whistle once, and pointed at her.

Her.

Camille Reyes. Number seven. The girl who had to take the kick.

The score was 2–2. The championship game. The Riverside Rockets versus the Hillcrest Hawks. And there were no more minutes left on the clock — just this one kick.

Camille walked toward the ball slowly. Her cleats felt heavy, like someone had filled them with sand. She could see the goalkeeper already bouncing on her toes, stretching her arms wide like a giant spider.

She looks so big, Camille thought. The goal looks so small.

From the sideline, she heard Coach Tran shout, "You've got this, Camille!" But Coach Tran's voice sounded far away, like it was coming from the bottom of a swimming pool.

Camille stopped a few steps behind the ball and stared at it. Just a regular soccer ball. Black and white pentagons, a little scuffed on one side from where it had bounced off the goalpost in the second half.

That had been her shot, too. Second half, twenty-third minute. She'd broken past two defenders with her favorite move — the quick cut left, then burst right — and fired the ball toward the far corner. It had hit the post with a horrible CLANG and bounced away.

She still felt that clang in her bones.

What if I miss again?

The thought landed in her stomach like a rock.

She looked over at her teammates lined up along the edge of the penalty box. Maya had her fingers crossed. Jordan was bouncing up and down. Little Sofia — the youngest player on the team, who had scored her very first goal today — was hugging her own jersey, eyes squeezed shut.

They were all counting on her.

What if I let them down?

Camille closed her eyes. And when she did, she wasn't on the field anymore. She was back in her backyard, three years ago, when she first started playing soccer.

She'd been five. The "goal" was two lawn chairs her dad had set up in the grass. The "field" was barely ten steps long. And the "goalkeeper" was her older brother, Marco, who was eleven and acted like he was guarding the World Cup final.

"You'll never get it past me," Marco had said, grinning, crouching low with his arms spread wide.

She'd kicked the ball. It went sideways and rolled into Mom's flower bed.

"Ha!" Marco had shouted.

She'd kicked it again. This time it dribbled right to his hands.

"Too easy!" Marco had said.

She'd kicked it again. And again. And again. The ball went over the lawn chairs. It went under the lawn chairs. It went into the neighbor's yard. It went everywhere except where she wanted it to go.

After about the twentieth try, Camille sat down in the grass and crossed her arms. "I can't do it."

Marco walked over and sat down next to her. He picked a dandelion out of the lawn and twirled it between his fingers.

"You know what your problem is?" he said.

"What?"

"You're kicking the ball. But you're not choosing where it goes."

Camille frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means — before you kick, pick your spot. See it in your brain. The exact spot. Then kick it there."

So she stood up. She looked at the space between the two lawn chairs — the left side, just past Marco's reach. She stared at that spot until she could practically see a glowing target on the grass.

Then she kicked.

The ball sailed right past Marco's fingertips and rolled through the chairs.

Marco's eyes went wide. "SEE?" he yelled, and he tackled her in a big brother hug so tight her feet came off the ground.

She scored a hundred more goals that afternoon. And about ten thousand more since then.

Camille opened her eyes.

She was back on the field. The crowd was still there. The goalkeeper was still there. The ball was still sitting on that little white dot, waiting.

But something had shifted. Her heartbeat was still loud, but it didn't scare her anymore. It just meant she was alive. It just meant this mattered.

Pick your spot, Camille.

She looked at the goal. The goalkeeper was leaning slightly to the right, shifting her weight, trying to guess. Camille looked at the left side of the net — low, just inside the post. She stared at that spot until she could practically see a glowing target on the grass.

Right there.

She took a breath. One big, deep breath that filled her whole chest.

Then she started walking forward. Walking turned to jogging. Jogging turned to running.

The goalkeeper bent her knees.

The crowd went silent — or maybe Camille just couldn't hear them anymore.

Three steps. Two steps. One.

Her right foot swung back and came forward with everything she had — every backyard practice, every early morning drill, every time she'd missed and tried again. All of it poured into one kick.

The ball left her foot with a sound like a thunderclap.

It flew low and fast, spinning hard to the left. The goalkeeper dove — arms stretched, fingers reaching — but the ball was already past her. It hit the inside of the post, and for one terrible, breathless moment, Camille thought she'd hear that horrible CLANG again.

But instead, the ball bounced off the post and tumbled into the net.

Into. The. Net.

For half a second, the world was perfectly still.

Then it exploded.

The crowd erupted. Her teammates screamed. Maya sprinted toward her so fast she almost tripped over her own feet. Jordan was jumping up and down like a pogo stick. Coach Tran threw her clipboard in the air — she'd never done that before, and she'd never find it again. And little Sofia ran across the field with her arms out like an airplane, shouting, "WE WON! WE WON! WE WON!"

Then the whole team crashed into Camille at once — a giant pile of screaming, laughing, crying, hugging soccer players — and Camille was at the very bottom, her face smushed into the grass, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

"You DID it!" Maya screamed in her ear.

"That was AMAZING!" Jordan yelled.

And Camille just lay there in the pile, grinning up at the sky, her heart still pounding.

Later, after the trophy and the team photo and the orange slices and the juice boxes, Camille sat on the bench untying her cleats. Her dad walked over and sat beside her.

"That was some kick, kid," he said.

"I almost didn't take it," Camille said quietly. "I was so scared."

Her dad put his arm around her. "I know."

"But then I remembered something Marco taught me."

Her dad smiled. "The lawn chairs?"

Camille laughed. "You knew about that?"

"Who do you think set them up?"

They sat there for a moment, watching her teammates goof around on the field, spraying each other with water bottles. Camille's hands weren't shaking anymore. Her stomach didn't feel like a rock. She felt warm and calm and something else — something that was even better than the goal.

She'd been afraid. Really, truly afraid.

And she'd kicked the ball anyway.

She pulled on her sneakers, tucked her cleats into her bag, and ran back out to join her team.