I made it through about half the game before my shoe started to feel too tight over the bruised area of my foot. Our halftime break was a blessing because I had the chance to take off my shoe for a bit. Another fifteen minutes in the second half passed before I made myself retie it a little looser. Eighteen minutes after that, I was praising the lord the game was over, and that we’d scraped by a two-to-one win—one point I helped score when I managed to pull several opponents away from the goal and kicked the ball to the closest open player.

The little snickers I’d heard from a few of the New York players the rest of the game had just gone in one ear and out the other.

Was I going to be able to walk the next day? That was debatable, but I’d worry about it when I woke up in bed with a foot that thought it would never be the same again.

That freaking jackass at the park. I really, really hoped he fell into an ant pile. Fucker.

While Coach talked in the locker room, I snagged an ice pack from a nearby fridge and let it sit. I showered, changed and waved goodbye to everyone, counting down the steps until I was at my car. There was a small strip between where the locker rooms ended and the parking lot began, so I knew to expect a few fans hanging around who wanted autographs. My parents hadn’t made it to this game since it was on a Thursday and they had to work the next day, but Dad had texted me good luck before the start. Sure enough, a group of about twenty fans were waiting, and I started signing a few of the posters that had been given away at the entrance, as well as taking pictures with a few little girls that had me smiling big time.

“Goodnight, thanks for coming!” I gave the last kid a side hug, before she waved at me once more and followed along with her mom.

It was kids like that and moments like those that made playing in pain totally worth it.

And then I heard the chorus of several loud voices talking at once, moving closer and closer. I sighed, knowing there was no way to escape and feeling a little cowardly for wanting to avoid hearing crap come out of people’s mouths who shouldn’t matter. Nothing they said should have bothered me; mostly, it didn’t.

By the time I managed to turn around and start making my way slowly toward my car, several of the players for the New York Arrows walked by me. I exchanged greetings and handshakes with a few of them, the ones that hadn’t called me a variation of a slut on the field earlier.

“Hey, Sal,” I recognized the person speaking behind me.

I stopped and slowly turned around, plastering a smile on my face. “Hey, Amber.”

But in my head I was really thinking, hey, you freaking bitch. Was it justified? Yeah.

She’d cost me the national team. Her and her stupid-ass estranged husband.

The tall brunette had a sweet smile on her face, but her eyes said it all. They said how much she disliked me and blamed me for something that had been a complete accident. The hate in her gaze called me a whore, in the same way she’d verbally whispered the name, when I’d stolen the ball away from her during the first half.

“Nice seeing you again,” she said in her deceivingly sugar-stained voice. She waited a moment until two other players on her team kept walking, leaving the two of us standing there. I was surprised her two buddies left; they’d called me a bitch and a tramp during the game, too. I just pretended like I hadn’t heard them by that point.

“Messed around with anyone else’s husband lately?” Amber asked the minute we were relatively alone in the parking lot.

Bitterness crept into my throat. Maybe even a little embarrassment too. I hated what had happened but as much as I’d explained the situation to her, it hadn’t mattered. Amber, being a fantastic forward several years older than me, and a star player for the national team, had taken my chance and my position away.