AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Ludlin just scored.
“Offside,” Trent says.
On the field, a review is already being requested. Everyone, except me, looks relieved when the goal is ruled offside, and the score reverts to an even zero. Maybe us officially losing would have been enough to convince Wagner to give me a shot.
Minutes keep ticking by. We’re up to seventy-five minutes of play—fifteen minutes of remaining time, plus whatever the officials decide to add—when Wagner barks, “Aster!”
I jump to my feet and stride over to him. “Coach.”
Wagner just nods toward the field.
Herrmann is jogging this way. I glance at the sub board, my heart leaping when I see the glowing lines showing. When I read the number on the right. When it registers that Wagner is giving me a shot.
I don’t ask him why. I don’t thank him. I start to run, relieved breaths filling my lungs as I fly across the grass.
I’m home again, thousands of miles from where I last played a soccer game.
Play resumes.
I experience a heavy dose of nostalgia and gratefulness as I chase the ball up the field. There was a brief period where I thought I might never play professionally again. When I realized this was a privilege, not something to take for granted, no matter how hard I’d worked to get here.
Other players are tired. Most of the guys on the pitch have already run a few miles. Bouncing my knee didn’t burn much energy. I’m raring to go, like a racehorse that’s been locked in a starting stall, staring at the expanse of raked dirt ahead.
Beck has possession of the ball. I watch him scan the field, our eyes briefly meeting.
I’m the best and worst option. There’s a Ludlin defender ten feet away, struggling to cover me. Beck knows I’ve been relaxing on the sideline for the entire game so far. But he’s never played with me before. Knows I’ve never played here before.
He passes to me. I trap it neatly and then start dribbling upfield.
The tackle comes out of nowhere.
I go down hard, my shoulder slamming into the grass. I’ve hammed up hits before. This time, it’s completely unnecessary. My groan is genuine, and so is the way I don’t immediately stand up.
There’s a flurry of German around me. Blue jerseys matching my own, not just Ludlin players. I can’t understand a fucking word that’s being said as I slowly climb to my feet. A Kluvberg trainer reaches me, his tone urgent as he peppers me with questions.
I repeat, “I’m fine,” over and over, more focused on the heated conversation between Beck and a couple of Ludlin players.
An official is standing between them, mediating.
Another yellow card gets pulled.
I shake my head and spit on the grass, trying to smother my irritation. That should’ve been a red card.
Everyone lines up for the direct kick. I catch a few concerned glances from my teammates, probably worried I’m going to miss.
I’m not.
My shoulder is throbbing. I’m pissed about the dirty tackle. He wasn’t even trying to avoid contact.
But I push it all away.
Tune out the entire world, even the loud shouts from the stands. Everything fades to a dull roar as I glance between the net and the ball, like I’ve done a thousand times before. Tap the outside of my thigh three times, like I’ve done a thousand times before. Then kick, like I’ve done a thousand times before.
Ludlin’s goalie lunges—too late.
The back of the net bulges from the impact of the ball’s momentum.
I grin. Glance over at the cluster of cameras.
