Twenty-three minutes to go. Just hold on for twenty-three fucking minutes, boys.
But we don’t hold on. They equalize in the 88th minute. A defensive lapse, a cross we should’ve cleared, and suddenly it’s 1-1 and we’re heading to extra time.
Fuck!
I look up at the VIP boxes without thinking. I can’t see her, but I imagine she’s on her feet. Nervous. Rooting for us.
Rooting for me. Don’t let her down, boys.
Extra time is complete chaos. Both teams are exhausted, running on fumes and adrenaline. We hit the post in the 104th minute. They hit the crossbar in the 112th. And then it’s penalties.
Of fucking course.
I gather my team, give themthetalk: stay calm, trust your preparation, pick your angle and commit.
My heart is about to explode out of my chest; my hands are shaking. The President of the United States is watching, and I desperately, pathetically want to impress her.
But the shootout is agony. We score. They score. We score. They miss. Their keeper guesses right on our fourth and saves.
Shit,shit shit.
They step up for their fourth. Our keeper dives left. The ball goes right. Tied again. It comes down to the fifth kick. Our shooter, Andy Yoon, a twenty—five-year-old midfielder who’s never taken a penalty this big in his life, walks to the spot.
I can’t watch this shitshow.
He runs up, strikes…
Please,please,please, God…
And fucking GOAL!
The stadium erupts. Our bench storms the field. I’m screaming, hugging everyone in reach, tears streaming down my face because holy shit, we just made the World Cup semifinals.
We won. And I get to see my girl.
The post-game chaos is insane. Interviews, celebrations, the team’s all over me. I do what I have to do: answer questions, praise my players, say all the right things, laugh and yell with them. But the whole time, I’m scanning the tunnel and waiting.
And then there she is. Lina walks toward the field with her Secret Service detail, and the world narrows to just her. She’s wearing white tonight. Some tailored pantsuit that hugs her curves and makes her look like a goddamn angel. Her hair is pulled back, showing off her gorgeous face.
Jesus, thiswoman!
Our eyes meet across the chaos. And she smiles. Not her public smile. Not the presidential one. The real one, soft, warm, intimate… the one that’s just for me.
Yeah. I’m fucking done for.
She works her way through the crowd, shaking hands, congratulating our boys. The picture of grace. But she keeps glancing at me. And I keep staring at her.
Then, finally, fuckingfinally, she reaches me.
“Coach Hendricks.” Her voice is formal, but her eyes are dancing. “Congratulations. That was quite a game.”
“Thank you, Madam President.” I match her tone, keeping it professional. “I’m glad you could be here.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it.” She tilts her head, and there’s mischief in her expression. “I was hoping we could speak privately. To discuss… the team’s needs going into the semis.”
“Of course,” I say, and it takes everything in me to keep my face from breaking into a huge grin. “I’m happy to brief you.”
Lina’s Secret Service guy appears at her elbow. And if he thinks anything is weird about this, his face does not show it.
