Off-Side 

Stella is a beast. A monster in size.

That's what the sports commentator says. The university magazine calls Stella "Goliath stampeding down the field."

"Look at her go!" Yells the commentator into the mic.

Stella runs at a thunderous full speed, tackling the poor line of defence. It would have been a comical sight had I not been next. Coach sizes me with two wide, urgent eyes. Don't pick me. Don't pick me. Don't pick me.

"Marrero, you're up," Coach waves his arm over his shoulder to get me to go faster.

I pull off my sweater and jog over to the field. In my periphery, Dana, the poor defence is pulled off on a stretcher.

Stella the tank.

She stands there in her ill-fitted shorts and jersey, unbothered as the girls keep a wide berth around her. The referee pulls out a yellow card. Stella spits into the grass, a big, white gooey wad of saliva. It just sits there, somewhat resembling an alien. Or a tumour.

The game continues with a free kick.

I don't know who takes the kick. My focus is on Stella, the sheer presence of her.

Her largeness is my whole entire world.

I breathe in, trying to calm my nerves, but her attention sits on me like a rock. She knows I'm an easy target. I'm even smaller than Dana. And Dana flew from the impact before she landed and cracked her skull.

The cleat kicking the ball sounds like my head slamming the ground. Stella's heavy-trodden foot. I gulp. Stella thunders forward.

Stella cradles a bloodied nose. Her head tilts back and the sunlight splatters just over her collarbones and I think back to the thud thud thud of her gigantic shoes, to the flare of her nose, the tunnel vision blatant in her eyes as she first zeroed in on me–

Her coach is screaming at her, both concerned and enraged by the transpiring events. The ref whistles for our attention, and the rest of the girls run back into position. I twist the tip of my shoe into the ground.

Why didn't she do it? What was the shift? The sudden hesitation when she met my eyes, a moment of recognition, a tear in her hyperfixation because she paused and then turned. She could have tackled me. The opportunity was wide open. It would've been the best call. But she didn't. Instead, she veered, and I got the ball.

To say I was surprised would be a huge understatement. Instincts took over and I dribbled past Stella and her red, bulbous cheeks and sweat-stained jersey, past the forward right to the defense line. All without a plan. When the defense honed in on me, I passed the ball over to Rachel, the striker, and she gracefully scored. The goalkeeper didn't even have the chance to blink before my team started celebrating. It was our first goal against Stella's team and we were in the second half of the game. This moment was monumental. But my mind was on Stella.

Huffing and puffing Stella, who stood a few metres behind me.

Who watched stoically from behind the midfield as my team engulfed me.

Through the space between entangled arms and legs, I could see her, wiping the sweat off her face. It struck me then, that the rest of her team were mourning together and she was completely alone.

Ten minutes till the end of the game, Stella gets mad.

The moment is innocuous. I'm head to head with their midfielder when their defense lunges towards me.

"Oh! Look at that! Stella the beast is down! What is she doing, missing a shot like that? Coach looks unhappy. Jenny passes the ball over to Amanda and oh! What a shot! A clean sweep! Seems like the Titans might just be back on track and heading their way into finals!"

Stella adjusts her position to keep the blood from staining her jersey. Her coach is still yelling. There is a strength to her, a palpable, unmoving rigidness, an unyielding sharpness to her silence. She bears the pain.

The coach urges her to get back on the field the moment the blood dries on her face. She obeys, running back to face me. The defense she tackled, on the other hand, stays on the bench because of her busted knee.

"Thank you," I whisper hoarsely, keeping my eyes on the ground.

She peers over her bruised nose, surprised perhaps by the sound of my voice. We'd never spoken before then. Never exchanged even a hello.

"You're too frail," her voice sounds slightly muffled. Still, there is a deep, scraping gravel to it, one that makes me shiver from deep inside. She smirks, her eyes teasing, "She'd have knocked you out cold."

My cheeks heat up. How was it that her hand slid down to my waist, gently moving me out of the way? The way she lunged forward to cover me with her own body– the earth-shattering collision as Stella's teammate drove straight into her.

I give her a look: "I was fine. I can handle myself."

At that, Stella chuckles.

"Sure."

"I can!" I straighten up, indignant.

Her eyes soften. She slips into a laugh. My breath hitches in my throat. She's beautiful, I think. A clean and simple fact. Parts of her form rolls and waves and the softness reminds me a little bit of summer. I clear my throat and look away.

"Next time play for your own team," I say, my voice a lot darker than I intended.

She bristles at my tone but doesn't say a word. What is it that plays on her face? She's been here before. Her guard goes up and it feels like a block of ice. She gets back into position, effectively shutting me out.

The whistle blows.

Yellow cards are pulled out like hair.

The referee is losing her mind. So is Stella, who has been the major target of these call-outs.

She looms over the ref, yelling back this time. The ref shoves her back.

"Did you hear what she said?" Stella screams, pointing at Jenny who's glaring back at her, "I belong on this team just as much as you, bitch! I'm–"

At her words, the ref blows the whistle and gives her a stern warning.

"What did Jenny say?" I ask to Rachel as she runs up to me.

"Called her a man," Rachel snickers.

"What? Why?"

"You haven't heard the rumours?" Rachel gives me a keen look, "I mean look at her."

Stella towered over all the girls. She wore her hair in two tight braids. Her jaw was wide and sturdy. Her shoulders broad, body almost shapeless and squared.

"I mean, she's a tank, for sure, but male? I think that's a stretch, don't you?" I mutter to Rachel.

A part of me means it. A part of me is desperate for Rachel to agree with it.

"Might be a good thing she gets sent off. At least we get a winning chance," Rachel shrugs.

Of course, I nod like I agree.

There is a staticky hollowness in the space between my ears. It makes my head feel light and airy. Somewhere in my periphery, Jenny shakes off her nerves. My breaths echo painfully.

Where is she? I scan the field but all of the faces blur into one.

The ref blows his whistle.

Our team takes the ball. I settle into position, pressuring my opponent. The ball reaches me, I lunge.

The game continues, head-to-head. I don't see Stella.

The first goal goes to our team. I glance over to the bench. Maybe they've sat her out?

Nothing.

The ref calls for a switch.

"Did they take her off?" I ask Rachel.

"Who?"

Before I can answer, the ground beneath us trembles. A smile oozes onto my face.

"Miss me?"

I'm shocked at the lightheartedness of her voice. My eyes snap up towards her and she's grinning devilish and wild despite her swollen, clearly broken nose.

There is an unkemptness to her, like wild grass, a lack of regard for everything around her. Already, I can tell she's not focused.

The ref blows his whistle again. Stella smiles deeply, revealing two dimples on either of her cheeks. The sight is confusingly dazzling. A deep, twisting sensation climbs up my stomach and settles. I look away, suddenly unable to look her in the eye.

She keeps me covered the entirety of the game. The ball never touches us. We stay like that, me entirely eclipsed and always closed. The rest of the game occurs beyond her; I watch from over my shoulder, struggling to get away.

I find a small opening and dodge past her but she sidesteps past me easily.

"Can you stop!" I yell frustrated and she yells that delicate, gravelly laugh that makes my insides melt.

"Aw, you don't really want that, do you?" She's all jokes and unseriousness today.

Out of pure frustration and spite, I shove her. She's not expecting it, so she trips and falls. I run off without looking back. The ref chases after me, yellow card in hand, but Jenny's got my back. She starts yelling at the ref about the unfairness of it all.

"How is that even allowed to play? He's on the wrong team!"

"That's it!" The ref hands her a red.

But it's too late. Stella's face shatters. She doesn't even say a word. She just walks off.

The walk back to my hotel room is devastating. Our win feels unwarranted. It sits heavy on my hanging shoulders. Stella never came back.

"Why'd you say it?" I asked Jenny under my breath as we walked back to the locker rooms, but of course, what else could she say other than, "I was defending you."

I'm not paying attention, so I don't see the lineup for the elevators. Nor do I notice Stella at the end of the line, until it's far too late, and by then, we are an entanglement of flailing legs and arms.

"Sorry," I mutter stepping away, shocked at how deeply my cheeks were burning, how much I wanted to stay leaning close to her.

She created a wide berth between us. She didn't speak a word.

Somehow, by the time the elevators finally free up, it's just the two of us. We step inside. I fidget nervously.

"It was a good game," I smile awkwardly.

The words sit like silt. I cringe.

"God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean... I wasn't thinking... It was just so..." I falter over my words.

Despite herself, Stella bursts into a fit of laughter.

"Chill, Marrero," she rolls her eyes. The door opens up on her floor. We both stare into the hallway. Stella steps out before she turns back, "I've heard much worse."

Impulsively, I grab her wrist without thinking. The door panics at the unexpected obstruction. I press the doors open button firmly when the elevator starts to beep. Again, Stella chuckles. She steps back inside.

"What everyone's been saying... I want you to know that I don't believe it, and that I'm sorry."

"Okay." Stella's eyes are hard and distant.

She leans against the elevator wall. Crosses her arms.

"Is that it?"

I look down at my finger against the dim-lit button. At her pale white shoes and then up to her calves, where I notice a shallow scar marking her otherwise smooth skin. To her criss-crossed arms and the way that the muscles bulge at just the right spot and in the moment she looks like a marble sculpted goddess, with her hair loose and hanging down to her shoulders and maybe in some other life, I might have admitted exactly what it is that I was feeling, that I've thought about her ever since we first played, the way her hand touched my waist when she pushed me out of the way, that I've followed her whole career, watched every interview, seen her interact and laugh and that I might be small in stature, but I'm strong, too, and if there was any world in which she'd let me, I'd become the wall against those horrible accusations.

As it is, I nervously add, "You're an incredible player. You should know those allegations show exactly how good you are."

Stella smirks and rolls her eyes, "I do."

The elevator beeps loudly, breaking the moment. Stella tears herself away from the wall and walks out. Her arm deliberately brushes mine as she does.

She doesn't turn around, but she does say, "Don't worry, Marrero, we'll play again."

And, we do.