Page 110 of The Defender
One of their forwards cut inside from the right wing and sliced between our center-backs. I tracked back and intercepted, passing the ball to Stevens. He passed it on to Asher, who sprinted toward the goal but couldn’t make it past the other team’s defense.
The cycle continued as it had for the past eighty minutes, with our two teams trading possession of the ball but unable to score.
I sensed the mounting frustration both on the pitch and in the stands. A draw was better than a loss, but no one wanted to walk away with zero goals during our first holiday match.
The opposing striker broke past the midfield and sprinted down the left wing with the ball.
I didn’t think. I ran.
My muscles ached, but I pushed harder, my eyes locked on the ball as he lined up his shot. If he got the angle right, it was going in.
I couldn’t let that happen.
I slid in, timing it so my foot clipped the ball and sent it skidding away right as he kicked.
But before I could fully regain my balance, his knee collided with my ribs, knocking me backward. Sharp pain exploded up my side as I crashed onto the ground.
My teammates swarmed around me, but for once, they didn’t need to argue. The referee blew his whistle and quickly made his decision.
Foul. We were awarded a free kick.
The stadium erupted with cheers, and after a quick deliberation, my team decided I should take the free kick even though that usually fell on Asher or Gallagher.
However, I’d taken plenty of free kicks in my career, and thanks to Coach’s relentless conditioning over the break, I was still the freshest player on my team this late into the game.
I took a deep breath and lined up my shot. My stomach churned as I tried to drown out the noise.
“Let’s have it!”
“Make it count!”
“C’mon, DuBois!”
I’d played hundreds of matches at this point. I was used to performing on a public stage, but there were certain moments when the import of it really hit me. Seventy thousand pairs ofeyes, all on me, and that wasn’t counting the people watching from home.
The pressure to deliver clamped down on my chest. Every player felt that pressure, but as the captain, I carried an extra weight.
Everyone’s watching. Don’t fuck up.
You deserve to be here.
You don’t deserve to be here.
If you don’t make this goal, everyone will know you’re a fraud.
Voices crowded my head before I shoved them aside. This wasn’t the time to wallow in imposter syndrome.
I had a goal to make.
I forced another breath until the crowd’s shouts dulled to a muted roar beneath the heavy thumps of my heartbeat. A light breeze brushed my nape. My focus sharpened, locking in the angle, the curve, and the distance to the net.
My foot connected with the ball in a clean strike. It soared through the air in seeming slow motion, clearing the other team’s defensive wall and sailing toward the goalkeeper. He tried to stop it, but he only managed to graze the ball with his fingertips before it sank deep into the net.
There was a beat of silence before waves of deafening cheers shook the stadium. The static muffle from my concentration fell away, and the sound washed over me all at once as my ecstatic teammates crowded around me.
A smile spread across my face as the rush of my goal finally sank in.
I fucking did it.
