Pass the ball. Pass the ball. Pass the ball. Pass the fucking ball.

Or lose the ball.

The ball bounds back to the other side of the field, the other team. Bing. Bing. Bing. The other team passes right through our midfield—dammit, Bree, get to the ball—until our quick defender cuts off the striker’s run.

And boots it over the top.

Pass the ball! Pass the ball! Pass the fucking ball!

Bree hip checks a girl, snags the ball, executes a sweet v-pull—yeahyeahyeah—and passes to #9.

Oh, god, no.

Pete yells, Nice ball Bree.

#9 dribbles, fast, fast, fast up the sideline. Parents shrieking. That’s the way. That’s the way. Head down, #9 keeps dribbling, drawing defenders. Pass the ball. Pass the fucking ball. Defender presses her until she dribbles out of bounds. Again. Sixth, seventh, ninth time this game?

Pete sighs. Why doesn’t the coach say something to her?

The other team wins the throw in, chips the ball to their striker, and scores.

Game over. Fourth loss in a row.

Pete leaves to go home. Long day at work, blah, blah, blah. Wants his G&T. Leaves me to wait. Console. Three times Bree moved into space, wide open for a pass from #9. Three times! Maybe even more.

Parents mill around waiting for the coach to finish her grim speech. Come on. Come on. Come on. Enough already. We’ve still got to eat dinner. Bree will have AP homework, maybe math, too. Dancing With The Stars starts tonight. Benny’s been home alone since 3:00, probably forgot to feed the dogs and probably hasn’t started his homework. Hope he let the dogs out to pee. I’ve got to read the third quarter sales report. Should vacuum. Floor is more dog hair than carpeting. Maybe I’ll save the chicken for tomorrow night and we’ll just run to Chipotle tonight. No one will bitch about that. Maybe Pete will make me a margarita. It is Dancing With The Stars night.

Bree lingers to chat with teammates. Come on. Come on. Enough already. #9 trudges over to her parents, looking pissed. Mommy folds her into a big old hug. Maybe Mommy should tell her little baby to pass the ball once in awhile. The girl will never reach her potential—the kid is fast—if she doesn’t learn to look up and pass. Back in fifth grade—have I known her that long?—dribbling through every player worked for super fast kids. But now the defenders have caught up. No one can dribble through the whole opposing team. Not at this level.

The girl is fast off the field, too. That stuff Bree showed me. Whew. Bubble bath photos. Posted online! Rumor is that she’s sleeping with that new boyfriend too. No wonder she’s posting that stuff online. Crazy. No shame. No sense of privacy. Why doesn’t her mother monitor her posts?

Wish I had the guts to say something about passing the ball, and I probably should say something about the online photos, but after Cindy Martin got absolutely burned by telling Marie Renner about the dick pic Cooper sent to Kennedy, well, no way. Bitch accused Cindy of stalking her son, like that creepy English teacher at the high school. Plus, Kennedy got blocked by half the grade, making her a social media outcast.

Bree meets up with me, walking stiff—poor kid gets beat up out there—lugging her school backpack as well as her lumpy soccer bag. Long game followed by hours of homework. Bree works so goddamn hard every day.

You played well.

Did not. Coach is pissed.

You moved into space. Can’t make people pass to you.

Tears gloss Bree’s eyes. The kid cares so much. Works so hard. She looked at me, Mom, looked right at me, and still wouldn’t pass the ball. Because she thinks I suck.

She’s the one who sucks! Sure, she’s fast, but she’ll never reach her potential if she doesn’t learn to pass the ball. I should really talk to her—

You wouldn’t! You can’t! Mom, promise me!

The fear straining Bree’s face, widening her eyes. Why is this ball hog so goddamned untouchable? Girl needs someone to take her down a notch. Wish I had the guts to do it.

You promise, Mom?

Of course, I say, I’d never do that. I just wish I could. Parents like that don’t do a kid any favors. Kids need a reality check, don’t you think? I certainly don’t over-praise you and Benny.

I guess not.

I’m tough on you about homework, and I tell you when you don’t have a good game—unless it’s someone else’s fault, like today. That girl just won’t pass the ball!

She never passes!

I offer to let Bree drive; she’s only months away from her sixteenth birthday, and I’m counting the days until I’m free from all the soccer-related carpooling. But she’s too tired. Everyone’s so tired all the time. Pete rarely wants to take her driving after work. We’re busy all weekend with Benny’s baseball. Housework, yard work.

I wince at the stink of Bree’s feet as she pulls off her sweaty cleats. Oh, please, no. Can’t you wait until we get home?

Bree grins. What? What’s wrong? I don’t smell anything.

Kid slays me. She’s so funny, so smart, so talented. If only her teammates would pass her the ball, maybe the coach would see it, too. People only notice the flashy players, even if they never do a fucking thing that matters in the game. People just love to watch fast girls run. I wish I could shout: soccer is a game about passing, you idiots!

We do the Chipotle thing. Chicken with black beans. Steak with no beans. Cheese on that one, none on that one. Hot sauce. No sauce. Extra guac, please. Pete and I could both lose twenty pounds, but the thought of spending a half hour cooking, followed by kitchen cleaning—I’m just not up to that tonight. Bree grabs her burrito and heads upstairs. Make sure you’re eating enough! I shout after her. All that running. So many girls don’t eat properly, and according to that doctor on Good Morning America it leads to all kinds of bone problems, especially in athletes. Bet #9 doesn’t eat much. Judging from all the photos she posts. Ribs showing, concave stomach. Bree isn’t self-conscious about her thick thighs is she? Those are soccer muscles!

Pete’s eyes don’t shift from the game on TV as I update him on Bree’s version of the #9 situation. She looked right at her—right at her, I repeat. Nothing. After wadding up the burrito wrappers—thank you, Chipotle—I grab my laptop to see if #35’s mom has posted photos of the game online. Plenty of shots of #9 dribbling, dribbling, dribbling. Guess the ball hogs get all the photo ops too. A comment from her mom flickers onto the screen: Great game, honey! You make us so proud, beautiful girl.

Gag!

Bree would kill me if I posted crap like that—beautiful, girl, seriously? I’m about to shut my laptop and run upstairs to discuss these totally embarrassing Mom Comments, when the next comment posts: Thanks, Mom. You’re the Best! Thanks for always supporting me!!!!!!!

Double gag!

I certainly don’t need that kind of public fawning from my kid. I know Bree appreciates all the hours of carpooling, camps, cleats— You act like you’re so nice all the time, @soccergyrll9, but then you screw up the whole game by not passing the ball. Bree was open—like four times, maybe five times. And you just looked at her. Just looked at her. I jab my finger into my screen smearing the girl’s face with the color waves whooshing away from my thumb. Someone needs to teach you a lesson. Wish I could write: I’m not proud of you. You lost the fucking game. You never pass. That hurts the whole team.

Couldn’t do that—certainly not as @lindaparker.

Other moms glom onto the praise: Keep on trying, guys. Can’t win them all, but you guys did a great job! We love you girls no matter what. You’re the best @soccergyrll9!!!! Great job out there!

Not a great job. Girl hogged the ball. Stole so many chances from other players. Doesn’t anyone care? Will no one tell this girl the truth? One: you will never reach your potential if you keep hogging the ball. Two: you will end up being a teen mom if you keep posting slutty shit online. Maybe that’s not quite biologically accurate, but she is—most likely—sleeping with her new boyfriend, and she’s only fifteen, so there’s that!

Pete shouts, Hey, I’m ready to watch Dancing With The Stars now.

Coming! I snap my laptop shut. 

But I can’t get #9 out of my head.

Yeah, he’s right, Pete says about a judge’s comment. The dancers I’m watching will all improve—well, maybe not that klutzy Reality TV dude—because of constructive criticism. Everyone needs accountability. Isn’t that what report cards do? Performance reviews at work? If I really think about it, I’d be doing #9 a favor by telling her that stuff—helpful stuff—about her performance. The coach obviously isn’t doing it. Parents don’t see it. Grandparents—forget about it. The worst!

I slip my phone out of my purse. A chubby sitcom star whirls across the stage doing a clunky waltz. You’re helping, I tell myself. Constructive criticism might not feel good, but it does good.

New User. @soccerxpert7. Really? Soccer xpert, spelled wrong, needs a number to go with it? Unbelievable. I use the free email account that came with our home internet. Again, it’s something vague with numbers. I leave all the profile information blank. If I had the guts, I’d pretend to be a coach—someone from a D1 school. Doesn’t #9 run around wearing a UGA sweatshirt? But that would be dipping into improper territory, assuming someone else’s identity. I’m not doing that at all. I’m merely giving constructive criticism.

Pete’s laughing about a retired athlete’s dancing.

Hesitantly, I type: @soccergyrll9 Next game try passing the ball more

Wait. Wait. Wait.

Nothing.

@soccergyrll9 Soccer is a game of passing. Passing = scoring

Wait. Wait.

@soccerxpert7  Who is this????????

@soccergyrll9 Someone who wants to see you reach full potential.

@soccerxpert7 WTF?????

I try to type a complete explanation: if you don’t learn to watch for teammates moving into open space, and pass the ball to them, you will continue to dribble out of bounds, or lose the ball to defenders, and therefore lose games.

Damn site won’t allow me to type all of that. I’m forced to rephrase.

@soccergyrll9 Fast girls don’t win!

Someone else joins the conversation.

@soccergyrll9 Is she talking about Derrick?????

@Rah-rah96 uses that winky faced thing that’s definitely sexual.

Uh-oh. Uh-oh. Uh-oh.

I didn’t mean that. I mean, the girl is fast, off the field, apparently, but I’m only talking about soccer. @soccergyrll9 Passing the ball is better.

@Rah-rah96  You made it past Derrick’s balls? Hahahahahahah.

#9 posts a winky face.

Thing’s getting away from me.

@soccergyrll9 Slutty behavior = [pregnancy emoji]

@soccerxpert7 Who is this? Why are you contacting my daughter?

Uh-oh. Uh-oh.

@bwilson NOT OKAY!!!!! @soccerxpert7

Other familiar names pop up: @smithfam123, @meggiesmama, @sally.swenson  Every mom on the team, practically, rallies to defend #9. You’re amazing girl! Don’t let the haters get you down. Whoever this is: stop now. You loser. Who would bully a child????

Uh-oh.

Quick. Quick. Quick.

I log out of the fake account, log into my account. Load! Please, load. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Upstairs Bree’s door swings open, slamming against her wall. Ma-oom, she wails.

What have you done? What have you done? What have you fucking done?