During recess, Taia struck the scuffed orange ball and it rocketed straight up into the gray sky. Her mouth fell open as her friends pointed upward. "She kicked it to the clouds," someone whispered. Taia grinned and took off running after it.
She chased the ball all the way to the empty dirt field beyond the school fence, where weeds pushed through cracks and the goalposts leaned like tired sentinels. She lined up shot after shot, the crack of leather against dirt echoing across the quiet lot.
Her best kick sent the ball sailing over the chain-link fence and into Mrs. Gable's herb garden, landing softly among the fragrant green plants.
"That ball's been living in my thyme bush for five minutes, dear!" Mrs. Gable called from behind the fence, her floral sunhat bobbing. Taia scrambled up and over, boots scraping metal.
She retrieved the muddy ball and pressed her forehead against the warm mesh in apology. Mrs. Gable chuckled and tossed her a sprig of rosemary. "Smell that. That's the smell of a champion."
Back at the schoolyard, Taia dribbled through a cone of chalk marks on the asphalt, feinting left and spinning right with quicksilver footwork.
She launched a perfect strike into the cracked tire hoop someone had painted gold. It swished through the rubber net with a deep thwack and bounced once, twice — then rolled straight to her feet.
Taia hugged the warm, dimpled ball to her chest and watched her friends weave through chalk cones in the golden afternoon light. Then it rolled away and she had to chase it like every other kid. She grabbed it, boots laced tight, and ran — already dreaming, already playing.