Free Gracie Faltrain Takes Control by Cath Crowley

says. ‘Although something tells me it’s Woodbury who’s gonna need it.’
    The light is dropping by the time we start. It’s hard to see. Shadows of birds cartwheel across the sky. The crowd casts dark shapes. Woodbury and I stand opposite each other. The ball sits on the ground between us. ‘When the whistle goes,’ he says, ‘it’s whoever kicks first.’
    It seems like hours before someone blows the whistle. I keep my body tense, ready to jump. I take a quick look at Woodbury. He’s standing the same way. We’ve both got everything to lose. And everything to gain.
    The sound hits the air and my legs move a second too late. Usually I’m quicker than light, quicker than breath at the kickoff, but today my nerves are sand in my blood.
    Woodbury has feathers in his, hundreds of them. He races down the field, feet cradling the ball. I’m too far behind to stop him. He swings to the right before goal and kicks. The smack of his boot is hidden in cheers.
    But it’s my old friend in the square today, confident, unafraid. Martin dives left and catches the ball. Score nil. If I keep playing like this, though, it won’t be for long.
    I shake my arms and wait for Martin to throw the ball back onto the field. He sends it as far as he can in my direction. Woodbury and I chase it. I get there first and kick it forwards. I’m a second ahead – less, half a second – but it gives me theedge. I slam the ball and hope it’s hard enough to take the goalie by surprise. He slaps it like a summer fly, lazy with heat.
    â€˜Good try, for a girl,’ someone calls out from the crowd.
    If I lose today, I won’t be the player who wasn’t good enough. I’ll be the girl who wasn’t good enough. Woodbury’s goalie tosses the ball in, and I follow it like my life depends on it. My soccer life does.
    I have the edge, now. Because I’m more desperate than Woodbury. I go in hard. Over and over again. I’ve had to play like this all my life because on that field I have more to prove.
    â€˜Get under them, Faltrain, get around them,’ Martin always said. So I do. I race around Woodbury, dancing with the ball in the dark afternoon. I crash it into the net, a wave of leather hitting the back like the shore.
    â€˜Go, Faltrain,’ Flemming calls from the side. Alyce gives a little half squeal like she does at the matches when she gets excited.
    â€˜Lucky kick,’ someone yells.
    Lucky, hey? How’s this for luck. I head the ball forwards after it’s thrown in and race hard. Woodbury’s close, but as always, not close enough. He doesn’t have a chance. This is what I do. I run faster than anyone else. I kick goals. I remember once my dad said after a game, ‘You play like a champion. But I have no idea how you do it.’
    I knew what he meant. Why are some people good at things and others not? He and Mum aren’t great at sport. Alyce is more like them than I am. But somewhere along the line I learnt to run. Somewhere I learnt to pass and kick and shoot. No one taught me. When I watched my first soccer game I knew. That field was home.
    I can feel Woodbury give up beside me at about the sixteen-minute mark. He moves slower. His feet fumble at the ball. He can’t catch up now and he knows it. I could ease up and still win, but I don’t. I launch the ball like a boat; watch it sail across the sky. I keep slamming it into the net. I keep winning.
    Someone blows the whistle. Flemming and Martin and Alyce run towards me. ‘Guess there are a lot of disappointed people out there, Woodbury,’ I say. ‘And you must be one of them . . .’
    Martin grabs my arm and pulls me away.
    â€˜I haven’t finished talking yet,’ I say, and then I notice the crowd moving in on us.
    â€˜Quit while you’re ahead, Faltrain. One person you can win against. Fifty, I’m not so