Meera was the only girl who played goalkeeper in the whole Ashok Nagar league. She didn’t mind. She liked diving for the ball more than running for it.

“You’re playing Saturday,” Coach Deepa told her on Tuesday. “Final match. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” Meera said.

On Friday night, her cousin Tanya called. “Meera, my birthday party is tomorrow morning! You have to come, everyone’s coming.”

“I have a match,” Meera said.

“It’s just goalkeeping. Anyone can stand in front of a goal,” Tanya said, laughing.

Meera laughed too, even though something about that didn’t feel right.

Saturday morning, the party had a bigger cake than she expected, music, and her favourite cousins from Pune. She forgot to check the time. When she finally looked at her phone, it was 10:50. The match started at 11:00, twenty minutes away by auto.

She ran outside the building, heart pounding, and called Coach Deepa.

“Where are you?” Coach Deepa’s voice was tight.

“I’m coming, I’m sorry, I’m coming—”

She reached the ground at 11:15. The match had already started. Rohit, a defender, was standing in goal, gloves too big for his hands, looking miserable. The other team had already scored once.

Meera stood at the boundary line, breathing hard, not allowed to enter mid-match.

“Sit,” Coach Deepa said. Not angry. Just flat.

Meera sat on the bench and watched. Rohit dove the wrong way twice. He couldn’t read the strikers like Meera could. By halftime, the score was 3-0.

In the break, Coach Deepa crouched near the water bottles. She didn’t look at Meera.

“Rohit didn’t train for this position. He stood there because someone had to.”

“I’m sorry,” Meera said. “I lost track of time at the party.”

“I know,” Coach Deepa said. “But the team didn’t know where their goalkeeper was. That’s the part that matters.”

Second half started. Meera wasn’t allowed to play — the substitution rules didn’t permit it once a match had begun without her. She watched Rohit get scored on once more. Final score: 4-0.

Nobody shouted at her after. That was somehow worse. Karan, the captain, just looked tired when he packed his bag. Rohit handed her his gloves without a word, like he was returning something that belonged to her.

That night, Meera sat on her building’s terrace, gloves in her lap.

On Monday at practice, she arrived forty minutes early. Coach Deepa was already there, marking the field with chalk.

“I set an alarm this time,” Meera said. “Two, actually.”

Coach Deepa kept marking lines. “Good.”

“I won’t miss another one. Not even for cake.”

A small smile from Coach Deepa, finally. “Especially not for cake.”

Meera pulled on her gloves and walked toward the goal, the chalk lines still wet under her shoes.