My entire bedroom was a mute shade of aqua as the sun forced its light through my curtains. My eyes were hardly open. Actually, they probably wouldn't have been at all, but a distant, strong-willed voice called me awake. I heard my name three, maybe four, times before realising it was my mother summoning me downstairs. Her incessant efforts completely overpowered the serenity of the hummingbirds and the wind that gently brushed the leaves on the trees outside. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the sounds, block her voice out, just for a little while.

Letting out a long yawn, I got up to open my curtains. I made a 180 degree spin as my bedroom walls returned to their original baby pink colour (so not my idea).

"That's better," I said, rubbing my eyes.

I peeped over at my alarm clock, which read 8:05. Sadly, I was used to Molly waking me up that early on a Saturday. I thought that it might be her way of making up for the weekdays - since I was frequently awake and ready for school before she got up - as if it was some maternal need she had to fulfil. I stared at my clock for a moment longer as something slowly dawned on me.

"Aimee, are you up? You're gonna be late for your big game!" she called from the kitchen, as if on cue.

I could have fainted. How? How could I forget it was the day of the league? My team, the Lancers of Ulysses S. Grant High, had been one of the teams to qualify for the regional soccer league that season. It was something I was proud of, I was their goalie, I could not be late!

"I'm coming," I mumbled to myself, half falling through my doorway on my way downstairs.

Our house was unnecessarily big - there were two stories worth of it. We had lived here since I could remember, since Cliff and Molly adopted me - Cliff always claimed it was his dream house. We weren't ridiculously well-off, but we were financially secure, because before Cliff became a clothing store salesman for some not-famous brand, he designed sportswear for Nike or Adidas or something. The money he had made then, he saved in the bank as fall-back cash and my college fund, so we lived on what he and Moll earned now. And since it was just us three, Cliff could afford supporting us, even with a mediocre wage.

Molly had dished my omelette onto a plate, "There you are," she said in her miserable morning voice, "Hurry up and eat."

I spun in the counter stool until she threw my plate down in front of me, "Good morning to you, too."

My face turned green as I observed what I was forced to consume, but I tried my hardest not to make it obvious because Molly wouldn't let me hear the end of it, if I did.

"Peanut butter and banana?" I inquired. I'd hoped she'd say no, but her eyebrows nodded for her. "Normal people eat this on toast, not omelettes."

She simply hummed in agreement and went about making the next one. Saturdays were Molly's 'Delicious Omelette Days', self-proclaimed. She was amazing, really.

I gulped down my distorted breakfast; I'd never seen mashed bananas up close before. Even though it was not the best omelette, it was edible-ish, and only slightly to the left of normal - not like the previous Saturday's sardine omelette, eek! When I was done, I ran upstairs to freshen up, taking care to brush my teeth, and then I showered. I put on my goalkeeper gear in my bedroom and shoved some random extra clothes into a bag to wear after the game. From the edge of my bed, I blow-dried my short, dark chestnut hair, grabbed my bag of extra clothing off the duvet, and dashed across the hall into my parents' bedroom. Cliff was still fast asleep, and he was meant to be my mode of transportation. So, I crept up to him and intentionally dropped my carry bag onto his legs. He didn't even flinch!

"Wake up, Clifford!"

"Aimee? Morning," he yawned as he sat up in bed. "Do you still have to go to that game today?"

No, I'm just in my goalie uniform on a Saturday morning because it looks good on me, I thought.

"Yes, Cliff. Now please get up!" I tried pulling him out of bed by his arm, but it didn't do much.

"That's Dad to you," he resisted.

"Okay, Dad, lift your orange butt out of your bed!" Dad laughed at my persistence before letting out one last yawn.

He picked the keys up off the bedside table as I caught my carry bag before it could fall onto the floor and we went down to the garage. I climbed into the Land Rover the moment the alarm was immobilised. I tossed my bag to the backseat, buckled in, and waited for the garage door to roll up. And we were on our way (one of us in an orange one-piece pyjama).

We soon arrived at Monarch Stadium. I had my hands and nose pressed to the window the second I saw my best friend, Emma, dressed in her striker gear with her pink carry bag at hand. Her silky black hair was tied back in a long and neat ponytail. Once the car had stopped, I grabbed my bag from the back and kissed Cliff on the cheek, as Emma walked up to the car to greet him. When we said goodbye, he drove off in an instant.

What's the hurry? I thought.

He never made plans on Saturdays, and even if he did, he had no sense of punctuality. Peculiar.

Emma and I sauntered up the stadium lot. I didn't know about her, but walking alongside the tall stadium walls made me feel really short - and I'm a pretty tall gal. She nudged my elbow with hers, addressing me and keeping my attention from delving into the scenery even further.

"Aim, could you have been any later?"

"I'm sure I could have," I said with a little giggle. "Sorry, I overslept," I explained.

Emma shook her head in disapproval, but I noticed her smile.

"Coach Kirkwood and the girls are waiting for you in the locker room, we were worried you wouldn't make it," she sighed.

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

She paused suddenly, her attention lost over my shoulder. I tried regaining it by waving my hand vigorously in front of her face, but she didn't respond. Her index finger elevated past my ear, so I turned to see what she was so interested in. Of course: it was a guy.

"It's Stefan, he's the hottie I told you enrolled at Ulysses S. yesterday," she confirmed, sighing again.

I knew that sigh. It was the one she made at all the 'hottie' celebrities in the magazines. From where I was standing, I couldn't tell whether this guy is even semi good-looking, but I decided to trust Emma's opinion.

"I'm not sure what his surname is, but he is so dreamy right?" Emma continued.

Yup, that was Emma for you. Before I could reply, she remembered our team was waiting in the locker room. When it came to soccer, Coach was anything but patient.

"We're late, Kirkwood is going to be so mad!" she gasped with that realisation, before pulling me along and almost tripping me in the process.

We finally ended up at the locker rooms, on the other side of the stadium, where Coach and the others awaited us. Emma slowly released her hand from my forearm, opened the door even slower. Coach was already discussing our strategy; we were later than we thought.

"Well, if it isn't Lincoln and Griffiths," he remarked. That's us. "Sorry we got here on time, ladies. Please, sit," he pointed us to a place on the locker room bench, right next to the few cheerleaders who couldn't help but laugh at us. Like, really?

"Now, I want all eyes on the plan board!"

He slapped the thing with his bare hand. Emma and I sat down quicker than our hearts beat, with our bags glued onto our laps.

Coach Liam Kirkwood. I smiled because I knew he wasn't really so stern - he was one puppy short of being a softy. He continued clarifying the strategy, perfectly, word for word. Before we knew it, we were called out. It was game time! Coach enthusiastically cheered: "Go, go, go!"

Simultaneously, Emma and I dropped our bags on the ground and we all run out.

The first match was an easy win. We scored 8 to 0 and I was at least half full of energy. At the end of the match, the team approached Kirkwood. We huddled up and he congratulated us on our victory.

"Well done, ladies! But it isn't over yet," he just had to remind us. "Not until we claim that league trophy!"

We all cheered at the thought of having our name on our very first, very own, trophy.

The Lancers weren't playing the next match, so we had a break until we were up again. Thus, Emma had a lightbulb moment and gave me a mischievous smile. I knew that whatever she had in mind, it couldn't be good.

"I want ice-cream," she beamed.

No, definitely not good!

I wish I could've talked her out of it, but I knew her. It would've been pointless. She walked ahead of me, to the ice-cream stand on the other side of the stadium wall, and I guessed all I could really do was follow her.

"Emma, have you taken any of Coach's eating advice since the start of the season?" I asked, keeping pace beside her.

Somehow, her speed was much steadier than mine.

"Yeah, but everybody has a sometimes food," she inferred, and quickly ordered herself a double-scoop of choc chip ice-cream on a sugar cone as soon as we get to the stand.

"Are you kidding?!" I exclaimed, fretted. "That is not a "sometimes food," that, my friend is what one would call a bad idea!"

"Shhh," she handed the cone over to me. That smile of hers had begun to look malevolent. "I'll have another one of those, please," she placed her second order.

I shouldn't have taken it from her, but it was my weakness, and anyway, she probably would've dropped it if I hadn't saved it. I started licking the chocolaty goodness that it was; I didn't have it in me, to let a perfect ice-cream go to waste!

"Emma, you're crazy. We'll never finish this in time for our next game!"

"You say 'never' too much," she received her cone. "You should listen to more Justin Bieber. Thank you," she looked back at the ice-cream man.

"Justin Bieber? He didn't even have a forehead when he wrote that song!" I remarked and looked around nervously once I had. You know, in case I was mobbed by Bieliebers...

Emma and I strode back to the locker room, ice-cream cones in hand. I shouldn't have been eating that thing! We only had a morsel of a cone left by the time we had reached the locker room and we halted at the door to finish up.

"So you've given up on salads I see," a man sauntered out of the shadows with his arms crossed.

"Coach Kirkwood, we were just -"

You know, it was really hard for me to justify our false actions when I'd known things could only have ended badly.

"If this prevents you from winning this game for the team, you'll both be waist-deep in trouble," his voice was strict even though he was barely shouting.

His tone was one that made you feel guilty whether you were or not and, well, we were. Kirkwood disappeared into the locker room, unambiguously disappointed in the two of us. I shot Emma a look of my own: the angry emoticon look.

"I told you this would happen," I bleated.

"We have a league to win," she dismissed any further critique and entered the locker room.

I trailed behind her, thwarted, and shaking my head from left to right and back again. I felt almost like a disapproving parent, but Emma was right: all I wanted to do right then was win the league, for Coach Kirkwood and my team.