Finding a Balance Chapter 1, a twilight fanfic

Chapter One:

Broken

"Great game Bella!" Shouted Anthony from the bar overlooking the indoor field. "Five goals, two assists and no broken bones… that's one hell of a show Bells!"

"Heh, thanks Toni, all in a nights work I guess", I smiled at him, slinging my soccer bag farther onto my shoulder. "Gotta get going guys, see you next week. Great game everyone". I waved at my teammates as I hurriedly left the soccer facility.

Getting home was the only thing occupying my mind. Even while playing tonight, I was totally distracted. My thoughts surrounded today's date and its significance.

Today is notification day.

The chant repeated in my mind, reminding me of the dread I was going to meet when I walked through the doors of my home.

Throughout the entire game tonight, my body had moved of its own accord. My body went through the motions; dribbling, passing, shooting, and tackling. Most of the game I didn't even acknowledge the other players and usually I'm a vocal player.

Really vocal. The refs get on my ass most games.

I knew I'd have to deal with my teammates tomorrow. My voicemail was going to be full of bitching, complaining and aggravation. Even though we won the game, our goalie fucking sucked ass. Usually, after every game we get some pitchers of beer, sit in the viewing area, drink and argue away the bullshit that happened during the last ninety minutes. Somewhere along the lines it changed. Somehow, regardless of the fact that I was not the captain, the team members always complained to me.

Yeah… like I could make a damn difference.

I passed on all the bullshit to Ross, THE CAPTAIN, and then proceeded to bitch him out because I was bitched out. It's a vicious cycle, and I usually get my kicks hearing Ross squirm through the phone line. I didn't mind the responsibility of managing a team, but frankly, it's a recreation league and even I… soccer freak, didn't take it that seriously.

Seems like soccer wasn't just about soccer anymore, I missed the freedom and the fun of the sport.

You see, that's what started this ball rolling in the first place.

I love soccer.

Eh… that might be a slight understatement. There's a fine line between what you would call a soccer fan, and what someone might lovingly refer to as a soccer hooligan.

When I was a little girl, my mother Renee tried to get me to play with Barbies and make-up. I wasn't having any of that. When my mom and my dad, Charlie, were walking me home from school when we lived in Arizona I saw my first real soccer pitch. It was the most clean and most beautiful thing I had ever seen. A fragrance drifted out from the field and hit my nostrils. It smelled like home. It smelled like the sweetest candy, fresh cut lawn, air dried sheets, and the faintest mixture of pine and sunshine. It was mouth watering. I begged my parents for a soccer ball for my birthday. I'm not the begging, bright-as-sunshine-gift-recipient. Quite the opposite actually, but God… I had never wanted anything more than that soccer ball in my life. After I tore the harsh pink paper from the blatantly obvious spherical shape that sat waiting for me on my kitchen table, my parents had a hard time keeping me inside and off any flat surface I could kick a ball. Renee pitched a fit every Christmas because she had to stomach purchasing gifts that I would actually like, but there was always that last ditch effort. Amidst the new soccer jerseys, new shin guards and more blatantly spherical wrapped gifts, something extravagantly feminine always wound up in my pile.

After I got my first ball, I spent years envisioning myself as a soccer superstar. I would dribble down and around the fields, scoring against nothing, but having the time of my life nonetheless.

It was just a hobby until I had an epiphany. On the one and only career day that I ever had in elementary school, we had to write an essay about what we wanted to be when we grew up. I hadn't actually thought about anything like that before. I didn't have a playschool cooking set or doctor's kit as a child, and I didn't have a mini fun laboratory. I just had my soccer ball. So when the teacher asked our young minds to ponder what we thought we would like to do, I was truly stunned into silence. Could I play soccer and make money?

And so my essay took shape. I wanted to play soccer professionally. This was before the women's league was actually a reality. I still envisioned myself as one of the boys, so I didn't think anything of it when I only watched the men play matches on the television. I always played soccer with the boys, and I never met any other girls who played, so I automatically assumed that girls just didn't like it and that I was a minority. My teacher gave me grief about choosing that as a profession. She told me that soccer was just something people did for fun, and I couldn't possibly be serious about being a professional athlete.

It reminded me of "A Christmas Story", the movie where Ralphie gets a C on the paper he was told to write about what he wanted for Christmas.

Could I shoot my eye out with a soccer ball?

I was as likely to shoot my eye out as the teacher was as likely to give me a passing grade.

I didn't listen to my teacher, and I continued to imagine myself as a soccer superstar. Stardom became my goal. As I grew up, my dreams slowly started taking on a more definite shape. I wanted to play international soccer, and I wanted to play the best in the world.

So… many, many, many years ago I threw myself over the line that separated the fans from the fanatics. With a goal in mind, I set off running at full speed.

I never played for a traveling league, and I never went to a soccer academy. My parents couldn't afford it. And unfortunately, my high school only acquired women's soccer my senior year. As a result, I was only able to play for an actual team for one year.

I was a glorious season.

During the final game at the state championship, I scored two of the three goals and caught the eye of a University of Connecticut scout. He invited me to fly out to Connecticut for a tryout with the team. If all went well, I would be given a full scholarship to one of the biggest competitors in the Division I league of NCAA Women's soccer.

I drove home quickly after meeting with the scouts to tell my parents about what had happened at the game, and about we could have our shot at stardom. They were of course, overjoyed. My mom, Renee, always told me that I was an extraordinary athlete. A tom boy. She even would go as far as telling me that my toy boyish exterior was the reason so many guys befriended me. Renee claimed that I had a secret 'in' with their exclusive 'man club'.

There was always a tube of clear lip gloss in my soccer bag.

I never put it there.

So what did I do after getting a try out? I was a great player, but I wanted to be the best. So, I practiced hard.

Really fucking hard.

Too hard.

I joined a few indoor leagues so that I could practice with a team after the fall season (my only season) of soccer ended at my high school. Soccer came naturally, but because of bureaucratic bullshit at my high school, I was jipped out of 4 years of playing time.

I couldn't dance.

I couldn't jump rope.

I couldn't really do much really.

But I could play soccer really well.

Whenever I played, whenever I touched the ball, everything around me disappeared. It faded away and I was in total control. Time slowed, and I could quite literally make anything happen. The soccer ball, as cheesy as it sounds, became an extension of my body.

I wasn't having fun unless I was playing soccer, and stepping onto any field was like returning to Mecca. The game was always a battle waiting to be won on fields of glory. Playing against an unknown, or even better… a known opponent, and winning the war was a complete thrill. I worked myself into a frenzy when my opponents got frustrated at themselves when they couldn't keep up.

It was such an addictive rush.

The indoor leagues helped me become a better team player. They helped me anticipate counter attacks, forward movement and I developed an instinctive feel for where my teammates had positioned themselves on the pitch, and where they were moving to.

But the indoor leagues turned out to be my greatest downfall.

Two weeks before my trial at UConn, I had an indoor game. I was feeling great. It was going to be my last game before I took some time off and cleared my head in preparation for the big day.

Fifteen minutes into the game, I blew out my right knee.

I never thought that three little 'popping' sounds could drastically alter the course of someone's life. As it turned out, I was quickly enlightened.

My trial was gone, my parents were furious, and I sank into a very deep and bottomless depression.

My new knee cost me fifty thousand dollars and three of the most painful years of my life.

I had never truly felt pain until I had my swollen, bloodied and stitched up knee forcefully bent in an effort to break up scar tissue a mere forty eight hours post-operation after a knee reconstruction. My first physical therapy appointment was a complete blur of pain and vomit.

The subsequent weeks at therapy worked kind of like an assembly line, and if I wasn't the one biting down on a piece of wood to keep from both screaming out in sheer agony and clenching my jaw so tight that I would shatter my teeth, it might have been kind of interesting to watch.

As it happened, it was the furthest thing from interesting, and if had had a bomb at the time, I would have blown that building sky high. I would never wish that pain upon my worst enemy.

While the physical therapists bent my knee, tears poured down my cheeks and I screamed so hard that my body forced itself to react. Most of the time the reaction was dry heaves, but sometimes… sometimes I'd actually scream so loud and so hard that little blood vessels in my eyes would pop. So not only would I bleed from the massive incision on my knee, I was also spewing bleed out of my eye ball.

Bella: 0, Life: 1.

Awesome.

Satan's spawns repeated their bending and breaking until they were completely satisfied with the amount of movement that I had regained.

If I didn't know before that, which I sure as hell didn't, all physical therapists were sadists.

Worst. Revelation. Ever.

After a few weeks with physical therapy, I got a handle on my own recovery. I couldn't really walk, but I also couldn't afford to keep paying fifty dollars per training sessions. So not only did I get the sick and twisted kind of therapist, they charged a shit load of money for their fun and games. My dad was the town sheriff and my mom was a photographer. Middle class all the way. So, I took it upon myself to finish my rehabilitation.

Slowly, the months passed. I could walk, but I couldn't run.

More weeks passed. I could run… albeit very slowly and really it was more of a slow controlled jog, but it was more than walking.

Two years later, I was practically fully recovered and itching… jumping out of my skin, to touch a footie ball and to get back on the field.

Throughout my rehab I attended college from home. I went through it at an extremely accelerated pace. It only took me 3 years to graduate with a degree in Psychology. I finished so quickly because I didn't really have anything else to do, and thinking about soccer made me depressed. So I threw myself into school work as a distraction.

But the best part about this tangent is that three years after my surgery, I could play again.

I threw myself right back into my obsession and played constantly. I felt that since the boat had sailed on my college career, I had to get back the fuck up and play again competitively.

I needed to.

My sanity would no longer be satisfied by just watching on the sidelines, and with each minute ticking by, I could feel my dreams slowly slipping away.

So I did the only thing that I could think of. I joined up with an indoor soccer league and began playing again. Slowly my life started to come together; I even started dating a fellow player. He was my first boyfriend. I never really paid any mind to boys growing up. I was too obsessed with playing soccer to really notice their advances. I also didn't pay too much attention to the way I looked. I was boring, and absolutely ordinary. I played plenty of soccer with boys, and by way I made lots of friends. I never had many girlfriends, and in school many would give me the cold shoulder because I was friends with all the guys. When the girls in my classes wanted to find out snippets of info on the latest jock, they would come to me. I was a tom boy, and by extension not a threat to any of them. That was ok though, because I didn't really want a boyfriend. I didn't know how to act around boys when we weren't talking about sports. So I avoided those unsafe conversations, and steered everything around the latest game report or prospective wins and losses.

Don't get me wrong, I thought there were a few cute guys in high school, and I did go to prom, but I don't think I ever 'saw' myself with any of them. Why would they want me, boring and brown Bella, when they could have beautiful, blond and busty babes. I was anything but blond and busty, and I had come to terms with my station in life. I went on a few dates here and there, mostly with guys who didn't go to my school, and I received my first kiss when I was 14. Not only did he slobber all over my face, he tried to shove his hands up my shirt.

Yeahhhhh, no. I wasn't having any of that. He wasn't even that good looking. But I sure as hell wasn't going to have my first time, doing anything, in his parents' basement, sweaty from a soccer game, and kissing a guy I didn't even like that much.

Thanks, but no thanks.

I wasn't a knock out, so I figured that instead of throwing myself at guys, I'd just concentrate on what I was good at. So my obsession as a girl was soccer and not sex.

But rejoining the indoor soccer league introduced me to James and my first significant relationship. After I started dating James, I had an uneasy feeling in my stomach. He was always touching me when I didn't want him too. But it was worse than that. They weren't the loving caresses I had dreamt of. He was harsh and brash. Not loving and tender at all.

In the back of my mind there was a gremlin dancing around smirking at me. His facial expressions told me blatantly not to get comfortable with anything that was going on.

I usually just flipped off the gremlin on a regular basis, and tossed aside the uneasy feelings that I was getting.

Strange enough about the Gremlin, I know. But what really got under my skin after a while into the relationship with James… was just that. James. He was a fucking looker. Short blond hair, big blue eyes and a devastatingly hot soccer body. He was a phenomenol soccer play, and I think that because he was so talented, his personality left a lot to ask for. It's the same old story, prince charming in the beginning, and an ass in the end.

James did not fit the image of the man I wanted to fall in love with. Of course I wanted him to be handsome and I wanted my prince charming to be smart, intelligent, extremely athletic and funny. But more than that, I wanted a spark. I wanted to feel a pull towards him that was completely unavoidable. I guess I was looking for my soul mate. But of course, I didn't have time to dedicate to any of that. I was focused and ready to rehabilitate. Boys and men weren't going to distract me. Not that I was really much of a distraction for them. I'd rather fade into the background then have to deal with a guy like James again.

I had a nagging feeling that something wasn't clicking into place in my life.

Sure as shit, the fates had not finished with me yet.

Oh, the hilarious wenches.

Two things happened on one of the worst nights of my life.

One, I found a picture of James and a red haired woman fucking in a cruise ship cabin. He took a cruise to Alaska two weeks prior to that fateful night. The one and only cruise he had ever been on. I called him out on it, and the monster reared his ugly head. James told me that I was worthless. He said that I was a nobody, and that I would never find anyone who would love me they way that I wanted to be loved. James told me that I was not good enough for anyone and that I was pathetic for continuing to hope to become a professional soccer player. James was my first. He was my first boyfriend and he was my first lover. When I gave that piece of myself to him, I was jaded by the facade that he had created in my mind. I gave him a little piece of myself, and because of that, he had an uncanny effect on the way that I felt about myself. If I wasn't good enough for him, how could I ever be good enough for anyone else?

His harsh words echoed in my mind. They seemed so familiar. I was reminded of the night my mother told me how much of a failure I was. It was a shame I played on a team with him, and still had a game that night.

I should have just left after I confronted him. I should have just left after the memories of the cruel words were dredged up and caused me to be distracted for that fraction of a moment in time.

I was such an idiot for not leaving.

Two, during the game after our confrontation, James became even more vicious. He screamed at me on the field and embarrassed me by shouting obscenities when I would miss a shot. He pushed me against the boards circling the field, and in front of everyone he told me that I was a waste of space, and I didn't deserve to play. I was completely shaken by the event. He may have been an ass, but he never went as far as physically harming me. The incident left me shaken for the duration of the game. He totally fucked with my head.

I had a break away with the ball, and I was winding up to take a shot. There were no defenders around me, only James, who had followed up behind me to give me an out if I needed it. My left foot was planted on the ground, my body was propelled forward, ready to transfer the movement to the ball, and my right foot was cocked back and ready to fire.

It really only happened within a fraction of a second. But the repercussions would last for the rest of my life.

James flew from my left side into my body. He slide tackled me. His left foot connected with my knee. All I could do was look down and watch my knee bend in at an inhuman angle.

Again, with the fucking popping.

I fell to the floor screaming. The only thought pulling me away from the pain was, 'NOT AGAIN!'. I begged God to have some sort of mercy on me. I begged him to be playing some kind of sick joke. I blacked out after sobbing into the turf on the field. I didn't come to for almost an hour and when I did, I was in the hospital with my parents were standing at the foot of my hospital bed.

My father looked upset.

My mother looked livid.

No matter how I explained, or how I tried to reason with her, she blamed everything that had happened that night on me. My father sat silent and red faced, either from anger or sadness. I couldn't tell. All that I remember is that he sat completely quite while my mother ripped away the last shred of self-confidence that James had left within me.

Another $50,000 later my dreams were totally gone, and I was back to the sadistic physical therapist to endure another round of torture.

The depression returned.

I threw myself into my last year of study and graduated top of my class. The accolades didn't matter to my mother. Nothing did at that point. Renee and Charlie got a divorce. And of course, she blamed that on me as well.

Renee and I never got along following my first surgery and after my second and my college graduation, I moved out of my mother's house and in with Charlie. He had moved to a small town in Washington State called Forks. Charlie was able to get a job there as police chief. In the end, it all worked out for the best.

Charlie and I didn't really have a great father/daughter relationship. We just were two people who happened to be related in that manner. Our conversations consisted of no more than a few words. I liked it like that. He didn't have to answer to me, nor I him. I truly felt alone and I was okay with that.

When I moved to Forks I got a job as a behavior analyst for a non-profit hospital that helped people with brain injury. It wasn't a glamorous job, it wasn't what I loved, and it certainly didn't pan out like I had expected. But it was money. And besides, I was anything but glamorous. I was a shell of a former person. My spark was gone, my desire to do anything was completely shot to shit. So why wouldn't I wipe asses, and clean up urine? I was just going through the motions until the next big, 'fuck with Bella' moment crashed into my life.

I played a little soccer then, just a fraction of the amount that I played before the second surgery. But something inside me wouldn't let me give it up. I tried to hang up my cleats, a thousand times I tried. But I couldn't. I justified the unconscious desire as the need to retain any resemblance to a figure. I had no curves, James reminded me repeatedly of that, but I didn't want to get overweight. Poppa Swan died of a heart attack from being overweight and I didn't need that glimmer of light to focus on me.

A few months later, I stumbled across an ad in the local paper that changed my life, or at least its direction.

"OPEN TRYOUTS for the CONNECTICUT STORM WOMENS PROFESSIONAL SOCCER TEAM"

"MAY 3RD, 3PM at University Field"

"Video submissions REQUIRED to be asked to participate"

That day a fire lit in me that I didn't know I could posses. I wanted on that team, and I wanted it badly. I did everything in my power to prepare. I had 6 months to drastically change my workout routine. Not wanting to make the same mistakes for a third goddamn time, I went to the local medical supply store and bought 2 extremely sturdy freedom braces for my knees. Whenever I wore them I had to laugh at myself because I kind of looked like a living incarnation of the bionic woman.

I worked hard. Really fucking hard again.

The nail in the coffin about this whole ordeal was that I could only get a trial if my video was good enough.

Yes, they had cuts for those who made the cuts.

So, I ran 10-15 miles a day, pushing my body to acquire a super human endurance level. I used the weights at Charlie's house to shape my body so that I could support my injuries as best as possible. If I wasn't going to be good enough, I wanted it to be because there were ladies out there more talented than myself. James' words constantly echoed through my brain while I prepared. I didn't want my godforsaken injuries to be the wall in my way. So when I wasn't working at the hospital, I was running drills. Cone to cone, shooting patterns, deconstructing game play and playing in another indoor league.

At one of my more competitive games, I set up a tri-pod and recorded all 90 minutes of game play. I had a fantastic game. It was a shut-out and I had 6 goals and 4 assists. When the game concluded, I walked back over to the camera, gripped the lens with both my hands, smiled slightly and mustered up the courage to wink while looking straight into the camera. The next day, I said a small prayer to the soccer gods and sent it away to Connecticut, sealed in an envelope with all of my greatest hopes and dreams.

That was all three weeks ago, and my stomach has been unsettled ever since. I think that calling it unsettled is probably saying it sweetly. I think Charlie might actually believe that I'm pregnant because I'm vomiting all the time. There's no chance in hell that I'm pregnant, since the only guy that I was with had been James... and that was over a year ago. Unless, the return receipt from the package I sent to Connecticut was really a divine pregnancy.

I think not.

No. I did not tell Charlie.

I did not tell him that I'm hoping to get a trial with a Women's Professional Soccer team. He will think I'm out of my mind, and he'd probably kill me if he found out. "You're body can't handle it Bells, you should just give it up". Yep, that's what he'd say.

No. I did not tell Renee. Hell would free over because I mentioned any of this to my mother.

This would be my victory, or my defeat. I was either going to die as a poop cleaner and toileting professional, or I was going to play soccer. I can't let it go. It's inside me. It'd be like betraying my very genetic make-up.

I thought all these things as I sped home from the late afternoon game. All I wanted to do was get to my computer, to the mailbox, and to the phone. I had to find out if I'd be given a shot. I was hoping for a phone call, but I'd take anything at this point. I left all the means to communicate with me in the letter I sent with the tape. I didn't know how they would get in touch with me. I just knew the date they were making their decisions.

"Please God... please, please, please, please", I begged aloud. I felt slightly overwhelmed with emotion. My throat had that pre-tears salty taste, and my hands gripping the steering wheel started to shake violently.

I pulled into the driveway and saw that the house was still dark. Charlie must still be at work. Not unusual, and actually I was really thankful that he wasn't there. I wanted to do this alone.

I slowly walked into the house. I had to calm myself, and control each step. If I hadn't, I'm fairly sure I would have knocked the walls of the house down to get to the telephone.

I approach slowly and saw the light blinking on the receiver.

There was a message.

I was done controlling my legs. For the third time today, my body reacted of its own accord. I rushed to get the message on the phone to play. My hands continued to shake and my breathing had spurred to a frantic pace.

"Good evening, this message is for Ms. Isabella Swan. This is Carlisle Cullen, manager of the Connecticut Storm Women's soccer team. We received your trial submission, and I have to say that I, the trainers and the coaching staff are extremely impressed. We would like to invite you to come to Connecticut in 2 weeks for a trial..."

I didn't hear the rest of the message because my body went limp and I blacked out.

One of the finer moments in my life.