Defending Irene by Kristin Wolden; Nitz Page B

between him and the goalkeeper. The others streamed behind him, trying to catch up. Emi and Federico were also charging hard down the field to force Appiano to defend against a possible pass. Not that Matteo would give up the ball if he had a chance to score. So why did I find myself shouting “Dai, Matteo, dai!” with the rest of them?
    I don’t know whether Matteo heard the footsteps behind him. But instead of taking the ball all the way in, Matteo kicked it from just over the chalked line of the penalty area. The goalkeeper lunged, but he wasn’t even close. The orange netting stretched taut.
    â€œGoal!” shouted our team and our fans. They actually used the English word—although the o was rounder and from further back in the throat.
    I was only one touch away from an assist, I realized. The closest I had come all season. The ball would have never made it near Matteo, of course, without Davide’s header.
    â€œ Bravo , Davide!” I shouted. “You have made a beautiful bridge!”
    He had been jumping up and down, pumping his fist, and cheering Matteo. When he heard my voice, he stopped and looked at me. His mouth twisted in a grimace of some sort. Anger? Outrage? No, pretended pain. He rubbed his head, grinned at me, and gave me a thumbs-up. It was the first friendly gesture he’d shown me since I watched the mister lecture him for coming to practice late.
    I smiled and gave him a thumbs-up in return.
    The midfielder from Appiano stood next to me, clutching his nose and looking a bit wobbly.
    â€œEverything all right?” I asked.
    â€œBrutta strega,” he said.
    Ugly witch. Well, I had been called worse. And given that we had just scored, I suppose my question hadn’t been phrased in the most diplomatic way possible. But then he added another word, one that Giulia had taught me after school.
    I searched my new, small collection of words for something appropriate to say back to him. Then Werner appeared from one direction and Luigi from another. The boy from Appiano stalked off, still pinching his nose.
    â€œWell done, Irene! We have taught you many things, no?” Werner said proudly. “Ah, the things you will show your friends in America.”
    â€œ Dai , Irene,” Luigi murmured. “Must you try to take off the head of someone at every game?”
    â€œI didn’t mean to do it.”
    â€œAt least this time, it was not my head,” he said. He brushed the back of his hand across his forehead.
    â€œOh, it pleases Irene to do that?” Werner asked. “I will stay attentive.”
    I just grinned at him.
    The celebration was ending now on the other end of the field. Luigi backpedaled to the goal before the mister could complain about our chattering. I took my place in one of the straight, evenly spaced lines for the kickoff.
    The team from Appiano looked determined, but all the determination in the world can’t make a dent in a two-goal lead with ten seconds left in the game. The whistle blew three times.
    Our fans—parents, brothers, sisters, grandparents, and a few kids from school—cheered. I looked up into the stands for my family. Dad sat near a cluster of other parents, but I didn’t see everyone else. My grandparents were supposed to arrive by train from Milan a few minutes before my game started. Dad didn’t look worried, though, so everything must have been all right. Maybe their train was late. Or they might have missed a connection.
    As usual, the mister focused on the negatives: poor passing, lack of hustle, lack of energy. Oh, yes, he told us, we were happily standing on the sidelines with a final score of three to one, but how close had we come to letting Appiano score? How could we start so strongly and finish so very poorly?
    Something—it might have been a slight change in our faces or our breathing—told him we felt that we had actually finished the game rather well.
    The mister snorted.