Page 65 of Off the Pitch

“It’s okay to be nervous,” he said. “This is a big moment for us.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s just nerves,” I said, secretly pleased that Hugo had given me a cover for my behavior. “I just want us to do well.”

“We will.” Hugo smiled and put his hand on my shoulder. “Have faith. We’ve beaten them before, and we can do it again.”

I really wanted to believe him. I just wasn’t sure I could.

Something inside me was breaking apart, threatening to unleash years of repressed emotion and fear, like a volcano just waiting to erupt. And this time I wasn’t sure how much further down I could push my feelings.

Not that I had time to consider it.

Soon we were lining up in the tunnel with our opposition before walking out onto the brightly lit pitch surrounded by thousands of cheering fans. As my feet touched the pitch, my heart sang. I could do this. No matter the emotional war raging inside me, this was where I belonged. This was something I could do. Football was my life, my heart, my very soul. It made me feel alive.

As alive as with David?a little voice whispered, but I swatted it away. I had no time for that now. That was a question for later.

The whistle blew, and we were off.

From the first touch of the ball, I knew this was going to be a match like no other. Our opposition had come to fight, and they weren’t going to let us get anything past them. We’d surprised them in Germany—a first-time club, small and insignificant to them. But now, we’d upset them, and they were out for revenge.

Our defence had to work hard. Liam, Toby, and Jamal were running back and forth across the pitch, working into their gaps and sticking to their attackers like glue, while Paulo paced back and forth in goal, waiting and watching.

I nipped in where I could, tackling and breaking away, but their defence was a wall of iron.

As we neared the end of the first half, I could feel a tiny glimmer of relief that we’d made it this far without breaking. But I spoke too soon, and suddenly they found a way through, curling the ball past Paulo and into the bottom corner of the net.

The crowd groaned.

Two minutes later, the whistle went for half-time, and we retreated to the dressing room to regroup.

Trossero’s speech was short and to the point—we were playing well, but we had to stop them from scoring any more. We would still go through if the score line stayed the same because we had two away goals to their one, but there was no more room for mistakes.

I sipped my energy drink and let his words sink in.

We had to find a way through their defence. We needed to score a goal of our own to have any hope of surviving.

Unfortunately, the second half did not begin well when we gave away a stupid penalty and had to watch with sinking hearts as their star striker put it away with ease. We were down two-nil and three-two down on aggregate. The time for action was now.

I could see Trossero prowling along the touchline, shouting instructions and gesturing. We pressed forward, trying to find a way through their impenetrable defence. Now that they’d scored their goals and were currently through to the semifinals, they’d pulled back and shored up their back line.

Time was running out. There were barely ten minutes left on the clock. It was now or never. We drew them forward, waiting to see if there was a gap, some tiny chance for us to score. Then I saw it, and it was time to put my speed to use.

With a slick pass from Micah, the ball was at my feet, and I set off down the pitch. I could see their defence closing in on me, but Hugo was off to my right, and with a quick tap the ball was speeding across to him.

I raced across the turf, moving into space, making myself available. Hugo saw, and the ball was soaring towards me and into my control. This was what I relished—the adrenaline firing through my blood as we fought for our survival. Back and forward we passed, moving as fast as we could, weaving in and out of their defenders in a glorious pattern. I could see our teammates closing in, shutting their defence down and creating space for us. The goal was ahead, and I knew we could do it.

Hugo crossed the line into the box, the ball easily in his control. This was our chance.

Then there was a sickening crunch that echoed in my ears as one of their defenders plowed into him, sending Hugo sprawling.

“Hugo!” I raced up to him, noticing with panic that he was lying on the floor, arm over his face and lip pinched between his teeth, his right leg at a horrifying angle.

Fuck.

“Hugo?”

“I think… I’m alive?” he spat out, his words heavily accented as he fought through the obvious pain.

There was a crowd around us now, and the referee called for a medic, who took one look at Hugo before waving to someone in the stands and summoning a stretcher.

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