Betsy’s first conscious thought came at the moment she was aerosolized from the can of magic spray at the World Cup. She landed on the knee of a Belgian player who’d been fouled hard by an English defender.
The roar of the crowd were intense. She realized this was her moment. Her team, England, needed her help, and she was going to deliver. Instead of soothing the injured player, she inflamed his nerves.
The Belgian screamed. Betsy giggled.
Very quickly, two men in orange vests threw the player onto a stretcher and carried him off the field. He would be one less obstacle to English World Cup supremacy.
A sudden noise jolted Betsy awake. She was alone in her living room, with only the glow of the TV for company. She shook off potato chip crumbs as she struggled to her feet. Stumbling through the dark house to her bedroom, Peter heard the noise and stirred.
“Are you coming to bed?” he asked.
“Yeah. Did we win?” asked Betsy.
“It was weird. One of the Belgian players got hurt and had some sort of reaction to the treatment. It was their best player, too,” mumbled Peter.
“Did we win?” asked Betsy.
“Absolutely. After he went down, we took over the game.”
In the moonlit room a wicked smile spread across Betsy’s face. “Excellent.”