The Willies | Page 5

his eye, he spotted his wife in the stands. No time for that distraction, he thought, he'd get enough of her after the game. He shifted his gaze to his team's coach on the sidelines. The coach made a complex series of gestures to him, waving both hands towards their goal, then chopping one hand against the back of the other wrist. Simon nodded and ran in the direction of his own net.
He ran as fast as he could, passing his own team-mates and the opposing players, until he could almost reach the man with the ball. Simon, a midfielder, couldn't go into the third of the field nearest his goal. Simon called to Rich, the defensive runner closest to the goalie, and made a gesture with his stick. Rich nodded, ran headlong toward the player, and cross-checked him. The runner's momentum caused both players to tumble to the ground in a mess of limbs, helmets, shins, shoes, and sticks. The ball flew wild into the midfield. Simon, still running, scooped the ball from the ground as he turned back for a dash to the other side.
The shot-clock started in his head. He had thirty seconds to make a play, or his team would lose possession of the ball. His team-mates appeared from everywhere -- Nick, Mark, and the others -- to block the men who threatened to stop him. Only two runners and the goalie were left in his way. One of the men closed in and hunkered down, ready for him. Simon faked a move to the right, then dodged left. The man just had time for an instinctive jerk, which sent the end of his stick spearing into Simon's chest. Simon toppled forward over himself, hearing the referee's "slow whistle" -- a penalty that would wait until a shot was made -- as if it came from a distant shore.
Time slowed for Simon, as he experienced his bliss. He never spoke of the sensation to anyone, and never heard others mention it, except to describe a car accident or some other life-threatened moment. His body could think, could work things out for him, could do anything physical he wanted it to do. In moments like this, his two selves came together and he was whole. This was why he made a life of playing this game. Here, on the field, there was a use for it, and it set him apart. Out there in the world -- that's where he got confused.
His shoulder hit the ground, but he was ready for it, tucked into a muscled nautilus shape, stick held close to his chest. He rolled with the fall then sprung open, upright, at the ready. He broke into a run. The last opposing runner hurled himself at Simon with his stick across his chest like the bumper of an eighteen-wheeler. Simon knew he wouldn't be left standing if he took the force of it.
Simon angled a shoulder at the runner and kept running. The other man's weight and force worked against him, tipping him over Simon's shoulder to land behind him like a bag of wet laundry.
Clear shot.
His men were taking care of everything behind him; he had a peripheral knowledge of it. Where's Nick? There, to his left, he noticed, about fifteen feet away.
Too many thoughts came all at once, overlapping in his mind like a hideous chorus. Bliss drained away in the presence of rationale. What should he do? Take the shot himself? Let one of his team-mates have it?
He hurled the ball to Nick, who, half surprised, half overjoyed, caught it and in the same motion shot it into the net like a rubber bullet. The goalie wasn't expecting the pass, and reacted too slowly.
Simon's team-mates cheered. They jumped up and down and ran together into a hugging, hair-messing, back-slapping throng around Nick.
Simon looked to his coach, who stood with some decorum to one side. Simon raised his eyebrows to the coach, who nodded and mouthed the words "Good show." Simon shrugged and laughed, then jumped on top of his team-mates, sending half of them tumbling to the ground.
As a rehearsed gesture of goodwill, both teams formed lines and shook each other's hands in turn. Simon made sure to give Red an extra vigorous handshake.
~
Simon heard her yelling his name before he saw her. His mother raised her arms in their old "Give me a hug" gesture. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed tight, lifting her off the ground. "Oh, you were great!" she said.
"Hello, Rosalynd," said Fleur, smiling, at Simon's side. She'd never felt right calling this woman "Mom". Besides, she had a mother, a woman who was nothing like this person -- loud, foul-mouthed, with badly dyed burgundy-black hair piled high on her head, face painted like a beauty