Fuck.
I adjust my stance, grateful for the suit jacket hiding what’s happening below the belt.
You are on international TV. There are children watching. STOP.
Xavier Price, our rising star forward, joins my side. “You good, Coach? You look… intense.”
I give him a death glare. “It’s the final. I’m supposed to look intense.”
The idiot grins. “Yeah, but this is like…” He squints at me. “Scary intense. Serial killer intense.”
“Focus on the damn game, X.”
“I’m just saying, maybe dial it down to ‘fearless leader’ instead of ‘psycho killer.’”
I cut him another murderous look, and he holds up his hands and backs away, still grinning. Idiot.
Deep breath, Lev’. You can do this. Ninety minutes. Win the game. Then you get the girl. After. She promised.
The referee blows his whistle.
Let’s fucking go.
The first half is a fucking nightmare. They score in the twelfth minute. Our defense is wide open. We should have caught that ball, but now we’re down 1-0 in the World Cup final.
Shit.
The stadium goes quiet, at least most of it. The other side erupts.
I pace the technical area, mind racing. We need to adjust. Push higher. Get more bodies in the box. I make substitutions at halftime. Change the formation. Give the talk of my fucking life about passion, belief, all the shit that somehow still carries truth.
“We didn’t come this far to lose,” I yell in the locker room. “This isourhouse!OurWorld Cup! Now go out there and fucking take it!”
They nod, fucking fired up.
God, I hope I’m right.
The second half starts better. We’re pressing harder, creating chances. The momentum shifts. I can feel it, that crackling energy in a stadium when something big’s about to happen. Then, in the 63rd minute, it fucking happens. A corner kick. The ball bounces off Tyler Brooks, our veteran defender’s shin, then Andy Yoon’s head, and then it’s in the net. 1-1. I damn near lose my mind. I’m screaming, pumping my fist, hugging Dannyso hard I probably crack a rib. The stadium is deafeningly loud, with thousands of people on their feet, chanting and fucking roaring.
We’re back, baby! We’re still in the fucking race.
I look up at Lina’s box. I can’t see her face, but I imagine she’s on her feet too. Cheering. Hoping.
Win this for her.
Three minutes left in the game. We’re pushing everything we got. All-out attack. It’s reckless, dangerous, but it’s our only option. A long ball goes over the top, and X chases it, outpacing the other team’s defender. Then he’s one-on-one with the keeper.
Please,please,please…
He shoots. The keeper dives. The ball hits the post, and bounces in! 2-1.
OH MY GOD.
The stadium fucking explodes! I drop to my knees on the sideline, hands over my face.
We’re winning the World Cup. We’re actually winning the World Cup.
The guys tackle me. The whole bench piles on. I’m at the bottom of a heap of screaming coaches and players, and I’m laughing and crying, and this is the greatest moment of my professional life.
