Aimee

     For thirty-odd minutes, my bedroom was bathed in the muted glow of dawn. Once it had weaved its way through the blue of my curtains, it recolored my sheets, the carpet, the walls, like a thin film, until it reached my door. It just touched the posters and clippings on the back of it; my sketchbook-like collage of superheroes and soccer heroes and Emma – everything was dipped in aqua light. That Saturday, I'd nearly missed the spectacle. The thirty-odd-minute window was closing by the time my tired eyes had opened, the aqua light dim, as my hand roved over the sheets in search of my cellphone. In the pillowcase – it must have burrowed its way in there during the night. The screen blinked to life.

08:06.

Later. Later, I would to try to understand why my alarm hadn't gone off at 07:00 like I'd set it to. There's no way I could've slept through it, right? For now, I'd toss the covers off of my body, draw my curtains. Standing at the window, I heard it, the strong-willed call from the kitchen downstairs. Molly's efforts challenged the humble hummingbirds outside, but I could not stop to hear their song today anyway.

"Aimee, I hope you're dressed!" Molly yelled again, which was a feat, considering the house was, in simple terms, big.

"Yup," I lied, charging out into the hallway and to the stairs. "I'm coming!"

I'd called this place my home for twelve years now. Cliff said it was his dream house. He also said that he could only afford it because he used to work with Nike or Adidas or something, before he became head store manager for a local brand. When I was a younger, I used to imagine that he had dressed superstar athletes and presidents – or something like that.

In the kitchen, Molly had just dished up my omelette. I could not say which had caused my abrupt halt in the doorway first; if it was the sight of what was to be my breakfast or the questionable smell. The kettle had just boiled, and it hissed at me then from the other end of the room, as if to tell Molly that I was there and that I was frowning. So, she hadn't had her morning cup – one rarely saw her without a cup in her hand, especially in the colder seasons. Sometimes, it was tea, but she was fondest of coffee, possibly addicted to it.

"There you are. Come on, eat up," croaked Molly.

I whispered good morning and took my seat at the island, slowly, as I tried to identify what exactly I was to consume. Saturdays were Molly's 'Special Omelet Days', self-proclaimed. I protested against the Americanized version of the word; spelling omelette without the '–te' at the end just felt wrong, borderline blasphemous, but then again... Molly's were really special.

"Peanut butter and banana?" I deduced carefully. I had hoped she would say no, but her eyebrows nodded for her. "Moll, you do know that most people eat this on toast, right, not omelettes?"

Molly hummed knowingly, frying the next batch. "And do you know that you're going to be late if you sit and stare any longer?" she reminded me upon noticing that I had yet to pick up my fork. "Eat."

"Touché," I adhered and scarfed down my questionable breakfast. I could at least find solace in that it tasted better than the sardine omelette from the week before.

When I had finished, I made my way upstairs to freshen up, taking extra care to brush my teeth. I put on my gear, shoved a spare outfit in my gym bag for later, and considered brushing my hair. On second thought, I could do that in the car. I went straight to Molly and Cliff's room instead. As it turned out, I was not the only one who'd overslept; I could hear Cliff's snores before I'd even reached the door. I crept into the room and up to the bed as stealthily as I could, which in retrospect was counterproductive – I needed him awake if he was going to drive me to the stadium like he had promised.

"Cliff. Rise and shine," I tried, nudging him at the shoulder a few times, until he eventually stirred.

My name left Cliff's mouth in a yawn as he sat up. "Your game – it's today, isn't it?" he remembered – sort of – taking in my appearance.

No, I'm just in my uniform on a Saturday morning because it looks good on me. "Yes, Cliff. I'm late, too, so, we need to move," I respired and began tugging at his fuzzy sleeve so that he would get up. But Cliff was stubborn.

"Ah. You mean Dad," he resisted, one eyebrow cocked higher than the other, and for the second time in the hour, I had no choice but to submit.

"Alright, Dad, please get your carrot-colored bum out of bed so that I don't miss my game and let my team down and become a total loser. I'm enough of a loser as it is."

'Dad' chortled at my exaggerations before letting out one last yawn and grabbing his keys from the bedside table. We each gave Molly a kiss on the way out. Then, we were on our way – one of us in an unapologetically orange onesie.

The town of Calypte Cove was thawing, clinging onto what sunlight it could before night would come to frost it all over again. When we arrived at the stadium, I pointed Cliff to where Emma had said she'd be waiting. Surely enough, she was standing there at the edge of the parking lot, with a jersey pulled over her striker gear and her hair pulled back into a long, sleek ponytail. As we rolled up beside her, I pressed my palms against the window and my face between my palms, my big brown eyes pleading for forgiveness. Emma's own eyes widened in response, like a threat, only there was love there, too. She made her way to Cliff's side of the car while I grabbed my stuff from the back – he asked her about her parents, who were well, and then she asked about Molly, who was well, too. Clifford also asked how she was feeling about the game.

"Nervous, a little."

Judging by Clifford's expression, he seemed to think she had no reason to be. "Nervous? That just means you'll try your best. I'm sure you'll do great out there. Both of you!" By then, I had come up to his window to plant a kiss on his cheek.

"Thanks, Dad."

"Ah, thank you!"

I chuckled, "Glad I could make your day."

We waved Cliff goodbye as he pulled out into the road and shouted us his final wishes of good luck. Emma waited until he was out of sight before proceeding to address the elephant in the parking lot.

"So, you're late – really late. Could you have been any later?" she asked spiritedly.

"I'm sure I could have," I joked. "I'm sorry. I overslept."

There was a silence then that felt long, like it existed solely so that I would feel the full weight of my offense and the guilt that came with it. The silence persisted through Emma's skeptical glance, but it ended when she tugged me into a hug so tight that it must have cured her of her doubts.

"Coach and the others are waiting in the locker room. We were starting to think you wouldn't make it!"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," I assured her still.

With a nod, Emma locked hands with mine and we sprinted to the locker room as if hoping it was somehow possible for us to be less late, but Coach Kirkwood had already started his final run-through of the game plan when we got there. His gaze made a beeline for us before we'd even had a chance to step inside, and he was not happy.

"Griffiths, Lincoln! Sorry the rest of us were here on time," he said, pointing us to a spot on the bench. "I hope you'll move faster when you're out on the field. Now, all eyes on the board!"

Kirkwood slapped the thing with his bare hand, and most of us jolted at the sound. The man had a voice like thunder – perhaps that played a part in why he was so good at his profession – but I knew that he was a softy at heart. He owned two corgis that he and his husband took for walks every weekend. What more proof did you need? Coach clarified the strategy perfectly, word for word. He was a natural, totally in his element, but if one looked closely, one might notice the anxious sweat on his brow. Before we knew it, we were being called out by the officials. So, we shook off our nerves.

It was game time.