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Both teams had scored three penalties so far, and Croatia’s last kicker stepped up to the ball. The air itself seemed to hold its breath as he contemplated his shot.

Rain was still falling in a steady mist. It cast a surreal haze over the pitch, and for a moment, everything seemed suspended—the crowd, the noise, time itself.

He drew back his leg and kicked. The ball rocketed toward me. I didn’t think; I just let my instincts take over as I launched into a full stretch.

I’d studied this player’s film before. Although he typically favored the right corner, I trusted my read and committed to the left. I landed on the ground, hard. A sharp pain streaked from my shoulder down to my arm. The ball punched into my chest and knocked the breath out of my lungs, but I held on, making sure to secure it against my body so it didn’t accidentally slip into the net. The sharp pain turned into a steady, throbbing ache.

The stadium erupted, and the noise grew to ear-splitting levels minutes later when our last kicker buried his shot into the back of the net.

The US had won the shootout, four-three. We were advancing to the Round of 16.

I was so dazed by the pain and adrenaline that I didn’t remember standing up or celebrating with my teammates. Austin whooped and grabbed me in a crushing hug, jostling my shoulder. I flinched and staggered back a step. My breaths were labored. The rain had stopped, but my skin was cold and clammy.

He noticed my discomfort and drew back immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“Shoulder,” I gritted out. The ache had intensified again into full-blown agony. I didn’t hear Austin’s response, but less than a minute later, Emilio, the lead team physician, rushed over to me along with the head trainer and the team manager. Austin also hovered nearby, conferring with a few players who’d noticed the commotion and wandered over. Everyone radiated anxiety.

After he completed his primary assessments, including checking for deformities, Emilio placed my arm in a sling and helped move me to the dressing room. There, he carefully rotated my arm, his face growing more serious with every movement. I tried to maintain a neutral expression, but every adjustment sent a fresh bolt of pain through my shoulder.

After several more targeted movement tests, Emilio sat back. “We’ll want to verify with X-rays, but I’d wager you have a grade II AC joint sprain,” he said. “You landed directly on the point of your shoulder. The ligaments are torn, which allows your collarbone to shift out of its normal alignment. That’s what’s causing this bump right here.” He gently touched the small, visible bump at the top of my shoulder.

I winced. “What does that mean for the next match? How long does this take to heal?”

He hesitated, his eyes flicking from me to the team manager to Austin and back again. “The good news is, you don’t need surgery,” he said. “With proper care and management, you can resume normal daily activities in four to six weeks. Full recovery usually takes six to twelve weeks.”

He continued on about how we could speed up my recovery, but I couldn’t hear him. I couldn’t discern what the manager was shouting about or what Austin was saying to calm him down either.

My ears were filled with static, and a cold emptiness hollowed out my chest.

Four to six weeks just to resume normal activities.

The tournament ended in three weeks.

Which meant…I’d just played my last match of this World Cup.

CHAPTER 41

NOAH

Although I was benched for the rest of the tournament, I stayed in South Africa with the team to support the other players and undergo rehabilitation with the medical staff. Unfortunately, our World Cup dreams didn’t last much longer—Morocco knocked us out in the Round of 16 just days later, three to one.

Four years of hopes and anticipation, ended just like that.

“Congrats, man,” I told Adil after the match. I shook his hand with my uninjured arm. “That was a helluva match.”

“Thanks.” He smiled, but his forehead wrinkled with concern as he eyed my sling. I’d worn it for the past five days, but Emilio said I could take it off in forty-eight hours, thank god. My shoulder pain had downgraded to a dull but steady ache, and the sling was a real nuisance. “How’s your shoulder doing?”

“It’s been better, but it could be worse.” I gave him a half smile. “You lucked out. Next time we see each other at the World Cup, you’ll have to get past me if you want to score.”

“Ha!” He snorted, but his eyes regained their usual twinkle. “Like you could stop me. I’m unstoppable. Adil the Assassin. That’s what they call me because I murder all of my opponents. Figuratively speaking,” he added. “Actual murder is bad.”

“Literally no one calls you that.”

“Oh, sorry, didn’t realize you had surveillance tracking every conversation in our dressing room.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you?”

“No, Adil, we don’t,” I said dryly.

“Ah, well, can never be too sure.” Someone called his name, and he waved to them before facing me again. “I need to go, but it was good to see you. I hope your shoulder gets better soon. We need you in top form so we can kick some Premier League ass once we’re back in the regular season. Oh, and say hi to Carina for me!” he yelled over his shoulder on his way to rejoin his team.