Page 1 of Pressure Point

Chapter One

Four minutes of extra time.

That was all that stood between the Atlanta Rising Football Club and their very first win at home.

Liam Daley could see the bright red number on the fourth official's sign from his spot in the goalie’s box and felt his pulse kick up a notch. The roar of the crowd had been constant all game, which had taken a bit of getting used to. He’d never played anywhere that had a crowd this animated. This consumed by the action on the pitch. Even in his hometown back in Ireland, where people lived and breathed football, it hadn’t felt like this.

Maybe it was because this was their first game, but something told him that this was just the vibe these fans carried. Whatever it was, he loved it. Feeling the energy radiating out of the stands had fueled him and his teammates for the last ninety minutes.

“Out wide, Tiago!” Parker Michaels, the defender currently closest to him and the team’s captain, shouted.

The hotshot Brazilian player zagged around a Memphis forward, shooting the ball out to the right side of the pitch to where Chance Walker was waiting for him. Chance took a couple of steps, effortlessly taking the ball with him before launching it up field, crossing it in front of the goal. Liam had a hard time seeing who was in front of the net from his vantage point back here, but it was clear from the way the fans erupted that one of the guys in electric blue had found the back of the net.

Letting out a shout, Liam leapt in the air, the sound from the crowd momentarily overtaken by the train horn that signaled Atlanta scoring. It was a loud, obnoxious noise, one that had startled the hell out of him when he’d first heard it during a training session in the new Pemberton stadium, but it was starting to grow on him. He still didn’t fully understand the history behind why such a sound was used, although Felicity Sutherland, the team's owner and girlfriend to the head coach, assured him that it had to do with the city once being a major railroad hub for the southeastern United States.

“Atlanta goal, scored by number fifteen, Hector “Dash” Lazaro!” the announcer called, dragging out Dash’s surname. The crowd called it out with him, making the whole stadium echo with their striker’s name.

The electronic scoreboard flipped to show the two to nothing score. The clock was still frozen at ninety, something that had always annoyed Liam. He wanted to be able to watch the final seconds of a game tick away, and the fact that extra time was only measured by the refs left him feeling a tad anxious. He wanted this win so bad he could taste it. So did the rest of the Atlanta Rising.

They were a brand-new team to the league, in a city and state that was notorious for being bigger supporters of college sports than professional. The team had a lot to prove, and they all knew it. Still, each and every one of his teammates was ready to show this city, this league, and this country how real football was played. After a tough draw last week in their league debut against New Orleans, they’d run themselves into the ground at practice this week, dead set on giving the city of Atlanta their very first win at home.

Another rush of excitement washed over Liam as he watched his teammates slowly make their way back to their positions, trying to run out the clock.

C’mon ref, blow the whistle…blow the fucking whistle…

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this excited about a win. Sure, every win was fun, but it’d been a while since he’d felt the pure exhilaration he was feeling in this moment.

Having spent the last four seasons as the backup goalkeeper for his hometown team in Dundalk, Ireland, he hadn’t spent near as much time actually taking part in as many of those wins as he would have liked. But that had all changed when he’d followed his mentor and then sorta-coach, Gunnar Gracin, to Atlanta.

Asking Gunnar about a chance with the new team in America had been a big risk. The look on Gunnar’s face when Liam had brought it up over lunch, though, had given him the confidence boost he’d needed.

“So, this team in America will need a goalie, yes?” Liam had asked.

“Indeed. Most teams do,” Gunnar replied, a smirk crossing his face. “You know of one?”

“I do,” Liam played along. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d left Ireland in the twenty-five years he'd been on this earth. If it hadn’t been for a friendly match against Ajax in Amsterdam last season, he would not have even made it to the European continent. “He’s the middle of five boys, all of whom have grown up in the Dundalk system. A system I believe you’re familiar with. Dad played for Dundalk as a young man and still works in the club’s sales department. Both his older brothers currently play for the first team, while the two below him are with the secondary team and the academy, respectively.”

Being a Lilywhite was in Liam’s blood. But he also knew that playing second fiddle, both on and off the pitch, was not what he wanted out of life. He needed a change. Needed to put himself out there and take a chance.

A chance not only to see a new country, experience a new culture, but to find himself. Figure out who he really was, without all the noise from back home.

No, noise was not the right word. Chaos. That was the word.

“With that pedigree, how can I say no?” Gunnar chuckled. “Let me make some calls, but I think you’d be a great addition to the team in Atlanta.”

Four months later, it was a chance he was glad he’d taken. After all, here he was in front of a record-breaking crowd, about to celebrate their first on-the-books win. But it was more than that.

This was something that was his, and his alone. Not some family legacy or expectation. For the first time in his life, he felt—he didn’t even know the right word—that this was the first step in living the life he wanted, rather than the one that had been handed to him. Leaving behind his family had been hard, but the fresh start was what he had needed.

Michaels turned back toward him, shaking his pointer finger as if to say, “You did it!” Because, he had. While it had been Dash scoring the actual goals, Liam had been the one at the other end of the pitch, ready and waiting for the counterattack. He’d been the one to maintain the clean sheet—the second in a row—putting their record at one, one, and zero. That had been all him.

Liam gave his captain a mock salute, before gazing over at the fourth official again. They had to be getting close to four minutes, and every second that ticked away amped him up even more.

“Blow the fucking whistle,” Liam muttered, his pulse racing.

As if he'd been waiting for Liam to give him the simple instruction, the ref finally blew his whistle, signaling the end of the game. Relief and excitement washed over him, as the train horn sounded again and the fans erupted, making the whole stadium reverberate. Liam ran toward the middle of the field, joining his teammates in a massive jumble of hugs and high fives.

“Padre!” Dash called, launching himself at Liam. At five feet, eight inches tall, he was one of the shorter guys on the team, a full nine inches shorter than Liam’s six feet, five inches, but what he lacked in height, he made up in speed and agility. Liam wrapped his arms around his travel roommate, lifting him off the ground in a bear hug. “Clean sheet!”