My voice sounds normal. I think. “Makes sense.”
“She’s gonna be in the VIP box. Probably come down after if we win, shake some hands, photo op. You know the drill.”
She’s going to be there. In the stadium. Watching the game. Watching me…
“Cool,” I manage.
Danny squints at me. “You okay? You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“That thing where you look like you’re about to either punch someone or propose to them. I can never tell.”
“Get out.”
He laughs, heading for the door. “Whatever, man. Just figured you’d want to know. Big game, big stakes. Don’t want to embarrass ourselves in front of the president, right?”
He waggles his eyebrows and disappears.
I sit very still for a long moment.
She’s coming to the game.
I’ll be on the sideline. She’ll be in the box. Probably won’t even be able to see her from the field. But if we win… if we win, she comes down. Congratulates the team. And I’ll see her again. Talk to her again. Maybe get another thirty-second interaction like the one I’ve been replaying in my head for days straight.
We have to win.
I grab my tablet and pull up the tactical breakdown for our first opponent. I’ve already watched this footage three times, but I’m going to watch it again. And again. And however many moretimes it takes. Because we’re going to win that game. And I’m going to see her.
* * *
The next three days are a blur. Training sessions, team meetings, press conferences. I’m in full head coach mode, focused, intense, demanding. My guys are ready. We’ve worked for years for this moment, and they know it.
But under all of it, there’s this hum in my blood. This constant buzz of anticipation that has nothing to do with soccer.
Lina’s going to be there.
I catch myself rehearsing what I’ll say to her. Practicing smooth lines, clever remarks, things that will make her smile, like a fucking teenager. Then I feel like an idiot and shove those thoughts away, only to find them creeping back an hour later.
I’m forty-five years old. I’ve been married and divorced. I’ve dated models, actresses. Women still throw themselves at me because I was a professional athlete and now a successful coach. None of them made me feel like this. Like a damn kid before his first date.
It’s not a date, dumbass. She’s the president. You’re going to shake her hand for fiveseconds,and that will be it.
But five seconds is more than nothing. And this time, I’ll be ready.
* * *
Game day arrives. The stadium is packed, ninety thousand people, a sea of red, white, and blue. The noise is deafening. The energy, electric. This is what I’ve worked my whole career for.
And somewhere up there, in the main VIP box,she’swatching.
I scan the crowd before kickoff, trying to spot which box is hers. It’s impossible; too many people, too far away, but I look anyway.
Focus, Hendricks. You have a game to win.
I tear my gaze away and turn to my players.
“Alright, boys. Let’s make history.”
