Free Gracie Faltrain Gets it Right (Finally) by Cath Crowley Page A

Year 7 kid leaned in and whispered, ‘Did you hear how Gracie Faltrain almost killed her English teacher because she’s dating her ex-boyfriend?’
    I leant back and whispered, ‘You know I’m Gracie Faltrain, right?’ It cheered me up to see her run. But only for a second.
    Kally’s at the sheds, again. We kick around each other for a while and then she passes to me. I head my ball up, kick hers back, and then catch mine on its way down. We volley two balls between us, catching and sending, catching and sending. For a while, nothing but the game matters.
    The bell goes and we walk towards school. ‘Don’t try so hard at the next trials,’ I say. ‘You’ll qualify, easy.’
    â€˜I knew what I was doing and I couldn’t stop. The more I tried the more passes I missed.’
    â€˜It makes sense, after what happened with school soccer.’
    â€˜That was definitely humiliating.’
    â€˜I should have done something.’ Yeah, Kally had to be good enough to cut it on her own. But why did she need to be superhuman? She was up against twenty-one players out there that day instead of eleven. When I first tried out the team weren’t exactly on my side, but they didn’t knock me down.
    â€˜Forget it. You weren’t even on my team.’ She’s right. But I could have asked Coach to put me on her side. He would have done it in a second.
    â€˜Did you see how everyone was checking out the competition at the state trials?’ she asks, changing the subject. ‘Char Taylor’s one of the best players but she favours her left leg.’
    â€˜I know. And Esther Wish swerves to the side instead of taking the ball straight down the midfield.’
    â€˜She swerved because Natalie Nguyen was on her left.’ The guys and I don’t talk about soccer like this. We don’t pick apart the game and work out how to get better. I wishwe did. This is what I’ve been trying to tell Mum but she doesn’t understand. Soccer isn’t only about kicking a ball. It takes strategy as well as skill to play. Over the summer, when Martin wasn’t there, I’d run on the field alone. I’d map how I played and how I could move better.
    â€˜What about me?’ I ask Kally.
    â€˜You focus on your striker. You switch feet without blinking and you’re impossible to predict because you judge situations on the spot. And every girl gives you space because you’re brutal.’
    And there’s that word again. ‘Thanks. I think.’
    â€˜I’m only telling you how it is. You’re forgetting to shield because you think you’re faster than them. You’re backing rough play over skill sometimes and that’s lazy. It’ll get you injured. And you are not a team player.’
    â€˜The trials aren’t a team sport.’
    â€˜The trials coaches won’t want wild cards. They’re assessing on attitude, remember.’
    â€˜You’re right.’ I learnt that lesson in Year 10 and Year 11.
    â€˜Now if I could fix my own play before Sunday, I’d be happy,’ she says.
    â€˜If you want an extra person to train with . . .’ I fade off because I’m not sure if offering to practise with Kally is weird. I mean, we’ve only talked for a bit and let’s face it: I’m not one hundred per cent sure her cousin doesn’t have a bounty on my head. Kally and me hanging out would be like Jane and Annabelle becoming study partners.
    â€˜Dan and I train most nights on the trials oval,’ she says. ‘We’re at Better Life Gym on Hanover Street about four-thirty on Tuesdays and Thursdays.’
    â€˜Would it be strange if I came along tonight?’
    â€˜Annabelle hates you. Dan likes you. I’m still on the fence. But I could do with the help.’
    â€˜Losers,’ some guy says, walking past us. Kally puts out her foot; he flies over it and lands on his