Defeat
Beads of sweat are racing down her back. The one that makes her quiver first, wins.
She pushes her hair out of her face so she can watch her surroundings. By watching, she realizes she’s being watched. After just sloppily pushing her hair back, she moves her fingers above her head like a sporadic orbit, checking for misbehaving strands of hair. She felt the sudden urge to fix her uniform and lost.
She glances around, looking at the people but especially at how much time is left. She looks next to her to the girl that’s stalking her like prey. She felt the girl was attached to her. Only there was a fifteen foot gap and like her orbital, it was unseen to everyone else but her.
She didn’t just glance at the girl, she clearly checked her up and down, took her in, trying to regard what she was up against. With her intense glance, she gained immediate confidence. But how could she be so confident? How does she know she has the upper hand? It’s simple; she doesn’t. All she can do is hold her head up high, be alert, expect anything and wait.
It should be unnatural to have to wait. It is for her. She would gladly do jaw-dropping, bone-breaking, tedious labor while baking under the hot sun then have to wait.
Standing here now, the blazing sun beating down on her, sweat still dripping, she sighs. She’s been tense for the last ten minutes but now she’s finally starting to relax.
Wrong idea.
She knew it was going to happen before it actually did. She saw it in her teammates eyes.
Finally, she got the ball. Now all she had to worry about was her defender. Of course the girl was much closer now, trying to stop her in her tracks. This is the time when she’ll learn who really does have the upper hand.
Her mind is flooded with every skill she learned but is unable to put it to use; she speeds up and runs right past the defender.
Her teammates are running with her, supporting her if she needs it, and other defenders are flanking in from behind her. Yes, behind her.
Her hair is trailing as she’s running full speed towards her goal. The closer she gets, the quicker she moves, her body full of adrenaline. At this point, nobody can touch her. Her mind is blocking out everything except what’s ahead of her.
She’s getting closer. She has to take a shot. She sets the ball closer to her right leg. Mid-stride, she takes that leg, pulls it back and kicks…laces down. After she sends the ball away, she looks up, watching it, but she already knew something went wrong. Her kick wasn’t as strong as it should’ve been. She slowed down, no longer running full speed, just letting her legs carry her forward.
She watches the ball roll on the ground into the goalie’s grasp. She’s been defeated. Not by her opponent, but by her own self.
The goalie is getting ready to punt the ball back out on the field. She jogs back to midfield with praises of ‘Nice try,’ and ‘Good run,’ follow behind her. The game goes on.