* * *
We’re in the last three minutes of additional time. And it feels like the longest three minutes in history. I pace. I pray… Then the whistle blows…
WE WON! We fucking won the fucking world cup!!
The next hour is complete chaos. Between the trophy ceremony. Goddamn confetti every fucking where. My playerslifting the Cup while fireworks explode over our heads. Interviews where I somehow manage to put together a couple of coherent sentences.
“Coach Hendricks, how does it feel to bring the first World Cup home?”
“Incredible. This team, these players, they’ve worked so hard. This is for them. For the country. For everyone who believed in us. Thank you.”
But the whole time, there’s only one thought in my head.Where is she?!!I scan the crowd, the field, the boxes. But there are too many fucking people. Too much chaos. Then my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, heart slamming.
‘Congratulations, World Cup Champ.’And then, a second message: ‘Plaza Hotel. Presidential Suite.’
I stare at the screen for a full five seconds. Is all of this really happening?
Then I shake myself and text back two words. ‘Leaving now.’
Her reply is instant. ‘I’ll be waiting.’
There are more interviews to give, celebrations happening, hands to shake, and photos to take. And I couldn’t give the first fuck about any of it.
“Danny.” I grab his arm. “You’re in charge.”
“What? Where are you…”
I squeeze his shoulder, grinning like a lovesick fool. “I got somewhere to be.”
He stares at me. Then his eyes widen.
“Oh shit. Is this… are you…”
“Don’t ask questions I can’t answer, Danny. Handle the press. I’ll be back.”
“When?”
I’m already walking away.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?!”
I don’t answer. I’m moving through the crowd toward the exit. Some people try to stop me for photos, interviews, some bullshit obligations, but I shake them all off.
“Sorry. Family emergency.”
And it’s not entirely a lie. Lina feels like family. She feels like fuckinghome. And I’m done waiting.
The car ride to the Plaza takes seventeen minutes. My knee bounces. My fingers drum on my thigh. I’m still in my dress shirt and suit pants, with grass stains on my shoes, because I didn’t take time to change. I probably look like a mess. I don’t care.
She’s waiting for me. Right now. In a hotel room.
My phone buzzes.
‘Are you close?’
‘Five minutes.’
