Today's game against the Sea Lions marked the first and last of the season. Mini soccer never gained traction in Chesterfield. No one showed up in the bleachers, scholarships didn't ride on our win, and forget boasting about our team in our college applications. How do you spin your entire season comprised one game against your hometown rivals because they were the only other school in your county? We lucked out enough players joined both seven-a-side teams at all.

This match determined who advanced to the Mini Soccer Washington State Tournament: an exclusive two-day competition in Seattle for the county champions in our state. We focused on how we'd spend three nights in the Silver Lining Hotel if we won today's qualifier; lounging in fluffy bathrobes, chilling in indoor hot tubs, and partying in hotel rooms. Hungover losses against the other teams would be all part of the 'deluxe experience.' Well, that's what our captain, Eduardo, said when he formed the Dragons in Freshman year. Half of us were seniors now with zero wins under our belts, prepared to embarrass ourselves again for the slim chance of luxury.

I paced inside my front porch, texting Eduardo's sister twenty minutes before kick-off.

My boyfriend's beat-up mustang rolled up in front of my house, cancelling out my white-lie. I hopped in the passenger seat and said, "Izzy just threatened to send Sheriff Santiago to haul my ass to the field. Sirens blaring."

"Yikes. Well, crisis averted? Maybe? Okay, there's a ninety percent chance of us breaking down. Stupid faulty alternator. This heap of junk's falling apart," Carter said, cranking the radio full blast. Even his Johnny Cash playlist couldn't drown out the engine's rattling.

I dumped my gym bag at my feet. "Beggars can't be choosers. Thanks for coming."

"No problemo. Sorry I'm late, though. I got held up helping Amrita sweet-talk a love language expert into running a date night at Flamingos. Am I knocking 'act of service' out of the park today or what?"

His foster mom always had bizarre schemes to promote her café, even sponsoring our crappy team. "Explains why you're so... peppy."

"That, and—" he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, "—the specialist gave us early access to her app. You know what that means."

"Say 'April Fools' right now."

He vibrated in his seat. "You wish. We've been together for what? Four months? How have we not talked about our love languages yet?"

"Because they're gimmicks, Carter."

"Only you would think someone wanting to get to know you better is a scam." He nudged my shoulder. "What? Scared I'll tell everyone behind your gruesome paintings and leather jackets that you're a secret softie who doesn't know how to ask for a hug?"

I gasped in mock-horror. "You do one morbid painting and get labeled as a Van Gogh wannabe because that's the only painter anyone ever knows. Also, I don't hug people because I don't like hugs."

"If only there was a way to prove me wrong, like, I don't know, a quiz?" he suggested, waggling his eyebrows.

I got my tablet and stylus from my gym bag and said, "Nah. I'm already on Izzy's hitlist. I'm dead if I'm late and mentally unprepared for the game."

"Right, doodling helps you get 'in the zone.' I thought that was for important stuff. What happened to 'mini soccer isn't a real sport?'"

"Living it up in a fancy hotel for free is too good to pass up."

"Priorities, right?" he muttered, disappointment obvious.

No surprise there. Relationship vision boards, personality tests, and zodiac sign compatibility charts were his way of connecting. He clearly thought my 'words of affirmations' could do with a few verbal pushups. It was either answer a few dumb questions or rant about how love languages lacked empirical research. Not that the latter would sway him. He was the definition of a hopeless romantic. Think love letters, flowers, and sappy poetry. Not knowing what made me 'feel loved' would eat away at him until he convinced me to participate.

Why put off the inevitable? I took his phone from the dashboard holder and asked, "What's your passcode?"

"Wait." He snatched the phone, shoving it under his leg. "Guess my love language is quality time, huh? Explains my knee-jerk reaction—emphasis on the 'jerk.' I don't want to mess with your pregame ritual, so doodle away, okay?"

Who hid their phone under their thigh like that if they'd nothing to hide? Right? Maybe I read it wrong? It wasn't like I had much dating experience to pull from since he was my one and only relationship.

Our first impressions of each other had been a downer. That's what happened when you met someone in a grief group. Chesterfield High's former school counselor made me attend a session at the end of Junior year after I entered a local art competition. Painting the scene of your parents' death would do that. Lesson learned: keep any artistic endeavors anonymous. Anyway, the school brought in a grief therapist, Dr. Goodwin, to guide the session and I, the intended target, never opened my mouth. That's where I heard Carter speak for the first time since he moved to town two years ago.

At the start of senior year, he wasn't the new kid whose mom died from an overdose or whose dad bailed right after her funeral. Carter was this sweet guy who was the school's go-to photographer and a friendly face at Flamingos. He chucked me a free Graveyard Espresso on Halloween night and asked me out. He even waited a whole month while I deliberated my answer—and when I said yes—he didn't even ask why it took me so long. At first, I thought what was the point since most high school flings had an expiration date? Then I figured one date couldn't hurt for that exact reason. Against all odds, it spiraled into a relationship.

The sound of the tires crunching through the Ridgeway Institute's gates brought me back to reality. Carter pulled into the first available parking spot without commenting on my tablet's blank screen.

So much for getting in the zone.

Royal blue lockers, shower stalls, and graffiti-free-cubicles made up the empty guest changing room. The flashing 3D LED wall clock drove home how late I was.

Three minutes until kick off.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

I opened the cubby labelled with my jersey's unlucky number seven, and found a random blue-ribbon dangling inside. It came down with a yank. Pop. My ears rang as I blinked through a wet, twinkling cloud. A glitter bomb? Seriously? It'd take more than a lame, middle-school-level prank to throw me off my game. I jumped at my reflection in the locker's mirror. My auburn hair shined like a freaking disco ball. Even my lashes spiked together like tiny sparkly spider legs.

I slammed the locker door closed.

Forget sportsmanship. All bets were off.

I made my way onto the field with a minute to spare, coughing up residual glitter from the back of my throat.

The downside of my lateness was the half-assed warmups I performed next to the half-way line alone. I stumbled, failing to grab my ankle from behind, right in time for a brunette girl in a yellow jersey—Rosie Torres—to stop short at the sight of me. She was the terrier who marked me every year and the last person I wanted to see me look like a walking bedazzled mannequin.

The way she stifled her laughter with fake coughs didn't help my mood. Ugh. Who could blame her? My red brimmed eyes and sparkly nose made me look like someone who tried to get high on glitter.

Some might have thought me petty for my grudge against the girl with rainbow-striped warrior paint across her cheeks. Here's the deal: she tried to make herself appear as least threatening as possible. She wore different face paint every game to lower my guard. Last year, butterfly wings decorated the corners of her eyes; the year before that, blue whiskers covered her face, and she had a sea lion painted on her cheek during our first game against each other. She didn't look like someone who'd make your life a living hell on the field, yet every year, she made scoring near impossible.

The rivalry between us didn't start with mini soccer. It began in sixth grade after she left a teddy bear in my Valentine's Day basket when everyone else other than the Santiago twins avoided me for two months after my parents died. The scribbled 'P.S. His name is Mr. Muffins' had broken through my numb haze for a solid five minutes. Someone must've noticed the exchange because all our shared teachers paired us together in classes for a few weeks.

Who would've thought one kind gesture would've kicked off a rivalry spearheaded by our middle school gym teacher? He pitted us against each other so we'd been constant rivals in dodgeball, faced off in absurd one-on-one obstacle courses where sabotage had been the norm, and don't get me started on the hula hoop competitions. Small bets between us started, like whoever climbed the rock wall first won the loser's favorite pencil. It escalated to marker sets, bookmarks and whatever snacks we could get our hands on. My aunt Harriet and Rosie's mom intervened when homemade baked goods got added to the mix. Rosie (allegedly) nearly burned down her kitchen. They limited us to trading what got us in the mess in the first place: Mr. Muffins.

We settled our rivalry at the end of eighth grade when we played capture the flag in the Ridgetop Woods. She'd stuck to me like glue—a strategy she hopefully wouldn't use today, since that was how she won Mr. Muffins for good.

It was time to level the playing field by getting in her head.

"Ready to lose?" I asked, stretching one arm above my head.

"You say that every year," she said, settling near the center spot, confident that her team captain and sister, Dorothy, would win the coin toss against Eduardo.

"I didn't mean it before. It's mini soccer. Who gets worked up over mini soccer?"

"Uh, you?" she said. "You sprained my finger last year?"

I pulled on the bottom of my red jersey with a scoff. "Not my fault you tugged on my shirt hard enough to hurt yourself."

"You also got red carded for flipping off the ref?"

"Because giving me a yellow card when I didn't even touch you was a bad call," I said.

She planted her hand on her hip, exuding an air of sunny self-assurance. "Who gets worked up over mini soccer again?"

"Remind me when you lose, Torres."

She turned away with a mumbled, "Every. Single. Year."

The blue-ribbon swaying from her ponytail stopped me cold. 

The Sea Lions always went all out with accessories, sure, like headbands, bandanas, customized shoelaces, and one person even wore a visor. 

No one bothered with ribbons today. Except for her.

Was it a calling card from the locker room? Did she freaking prank me?

The sheriff signaled for Rosie's team to kick-off the match before I could find out.