Before The Whistle Blows

I watched Rory sitting at her cubby, calm and steady as she peeled the edge of the white athletic tape between her fingers. Around us, the dressing room hummed with pre-game energy, boots scraping the floor, gear bags being unzipped, muffled music drifting from a teammate's phone. But in her little corner, time seemed to slow down. Every movement she made was precise, deliberate. She always went into her own world. She isolated and everyone left her to it. It was hard to draw her out. We all respected it having our own pregame rituals, we knew what it was like. Not even Les could tempt her to join in with some of the team moments.

Rora needed this time to focus herself.

She wrapped the tape around her wrist, pulling it tight like she always did back in Australia. The ritual grounded her. Once, twice, three times around, then the Sharpie came out. I saw her write Mum in block letters bold, permanent. The way she did it was quiet, but it spoke volumes.

Next, she took the chain from around her neck and carefully looped the locket onto the small hook inside her cubby. It swung gently in the light, a gold beacon in the sea of neatly folded gear. Everything else, boots, warm-up clothes, water bottle was tucked away with military precision. Only the locket hung out in the open. I knew why.

She had been told during the world cup to "switch it off," to fold up her grief like her kit and lock it away for the duration of the match.

Everyone else's cubby was full of their belongings hanging around. Our personalities shine through. Some messy, some neat, but the stuff was there. Hers you could only tell was hers by the gold locket that hung proudly in a way on the hook.

I watched Rory sit up straight, focused, as Jonas went over the game plan. She nodded when she was supposed to, eyes sharp, posture perfect. She never interrupted, not even when I knew she probably wanted to, especially if something felt off. But she did have her lines: if someone disrespected a teammate, that was the only time she'd speak up. Otherwise, she stayed quiet, kept her head down. That was her rule: show up, do the job, be good enough.

When it was time to leave the locker room, Rory was one of the last to move. She lingered a moment by her cubby, her thumb brushing over that locket. I caught the small gesture, a quiet ritual, like she was drawing strength from it. Then she stood and followed the team out.

At the stadium, cameras flashed the moment we stepped off the bus. Rory blinked against the bright lights and instinctively shifted closer to Les. I saw her resisting the urge to look away, trying to stay present for the cameras. Her agent had told her to smile more, to look healed, like she'd moved on. It didn't come naturally. But she was trying.

Les said something quiet, something only Rory could hear and I saw her smile, a real one this time. It wasn't entirely for the cameras, and that little flicker of light in her eyes was enough to tell me she was holding on, even if just barely.

As we walked through the tunnel toward the pitch, I noticed Rory tap her left chest three times quick, light. One. Two. Three. She didn't glance around, didn't seek anyone's notice. That was for her mum. A quiet signal only she knew.

When we reached the edge of the pitch, Rory was stretching, jogging in place, eyes scanning the field but settling where she always did, on Les, mid-air in those pregame jumps she did every time. Same routine, same comfort. I could tell it made her feel safe.

When she saw her name in the starting lineup earlier, relief had flooded her. I knew how important it was for her to start, to get into the rhythm from the first minute. Without that, the noise in her head would spiral.

Then the whistle blew, and the match began. I watched her focus sharpen, like the world narrowed down to the ball and her teammates. The roar of the crowd faded behind her, replaced by the rush of the game. My head was in the game, I was present, I was focused.