The game slows down. The way it always does when everything clicks. When instinct takes over. When football feels simple again.
The ball comes across the box. I don’t even think. I just strike through it, clean and hard.
The ball rockets to the back of the net, and the stadium erupts.
Next thing I know, I’m sliding on my knees, arms spread open as the lads pile on top of me.
I barely feel it, because when I stand up, my eyes find hers immediately.
Up on her feet, cheeks flushed with adrenaline, chanting my name like I hung the damn moon.
And fuck me, itwrecksme.
That’s one way to snap a losing streak.
The second half kicks off and my legs are already burning. The stadium is a wall of noise—the fans riding every tackle, every half-clearance, and every panicked boot upfield.
It’s 1-0. The most dangerous scoreline in football. Close enough to lose. Close enough to panic.
Every pass, every touch, every goddamn second matters. I can feel the weight of the lads on my back, the crowd in my ears, and a little voice in my head whispering that if I slip, we slip.
But thenI also hear Stan’s voice from the other day, telling me that I can’t control everything, that I’m pushing myself too hard.
I probably am. I want this so badly for myself, and for the lads. The weight of that pressure is crushing, but then I look into the crowd and see her, and when she watches me with that kind of passion and hope, I think I could single-handedly drag this team over the line if I wanted to.
I’m everywhere. Sliding in for tackles, sprinting back to cover the defense, and barking orders like a drill sergeant on steroids.
“Eyes up! Push the fuck up!” I shout, pumping my fists. The lads are responding, following my lead, and I can see them feeding off it.
I glance across the pitch.
Brennan is tracking back.
Sebastian is pressing like a madman.
Carlos is making another run into space.
They're here.
All of them.
This isn't mine to carry alone.
I suck in a breath and point forward. “Keep pushing!”
The lads respond instantly. Not because I'm barking orders, but because they want this too.
The opposition breaks through the midfield. I dart forward, shoulder first into the bastard trying to pass, boots crunching turf and man. Whistle blows. Yellow card.
“Oi! What? Can’t protect the pitch?” I yell cheekily, grinning at the ref. “It’s a bloody hazard zone out here!”
The opposition surges again, dangerous as hell. I track, lunge, and boot the ball away.
Every second is chaos, but I thrive in it. My body moves before my brain catches up. I can feel my pulse in my fists, in my boots, and even in my bloody teeth.
I don’t stop. Corners, throw-ins, every second, I’m shouting, motivating, driving, making sure no one relaxes. I can’t let them. Not now. Not ever.
By the final whistle, I’m soaked, lungs screaming, legs trembling. But we’ve done it. I’ve done it.
