Page 105 of Sweeper
A sweeper is supposed to be a leader, but how am I to lead when the one man who taught me how to lead is fucking gone?
I’m playing the game of my fucking life today, but for who? What do seven saves and a launched pass up to Roan DeWalt from the back half of the field for him to drive in an epic goal mean anymore? Who is even watching?
Is my dad watching? Does he regret dying without telling me the truth? Is he heartbroken I discovered the truth on my own? How do I fucking know when he’s not here to ask?
Booker rushes over to me to celebrate my pass, but I brush him off, my face stony serious as I refuse the bro fives and fake hugs.
“Zander, that was a brilliant pass!” he exclaims, his face twisted in confusion at my lack of enthusiasm as we walk back toward our end of the pitch.
I say nothing in response as I get back into position.
“You best get your attitude in check, mate,” Booker seethes from behind me, but I don’t look back. I don’t give him a response because the truth is, if I blink for even a fucking second right now, I might fall apart.
The game continues, and I feel as though I’m watching myself play from the stands. It doesn’t even feel like me. I’m faster than I’ve ever been before. My touches are quicker. I’m burning strikers left and right, and my movements feel as if I’ve entered into another dimension of my abilities that I’ve never tapped into before.
I scramble with a Man City striker and manage to achieve possession. I dribble the ball quickly up the field, bypassing Knight, who’s open in the midfield, and push beyond.
I’m in the final third of the pitch, and both Roan and Billy are flanked on the sides, moving to shake off their defenders. There are opportunities for me to pass. I can give it to them and get back to my position on defense. I can play it safe.
But I don’t want to be safe. I am in command of this field right now, and I want this shot.
I launch a long, left-footed bomber down the grass toward the left side of the goal post. The keeper is out of position and lays out in a diving leap with his hands stretched to the max. It sails in just out of his reach, and the stadium roars to life as it hits the net to bump Bethnal Green’s lead by two.
I turn around and jog back to my position, ignoring my teammates who swarm me for celebrations. Knight approaches and attempts to put an arm around me, but I shake him off. He knows why but the rest of my team is looking at me like I’m a freak show. I do my best to block those looks from my mind so I can stay focused and on task.
Tanner Harris calls out to me from the sidelines. I give him a quick glance to ensure I’m not missing a call. When I see that he too is attempting to congratulate me on the score, my focus snaps back to the game at hand. No time for celebrations.
Three minutes are left in the game, and the Man City’s strikers are fucking over me. They’ve been taking cheap shots, tugging on my jersey, and cursing up a storm every time I come at them. I can’t blame them. I’m like a demon, possessed.
I steal the ball from their star striker, and I’m just about to pass it out to my center-back when the other striker takes a diving shot right at my feet. His cleat catches the inside of my calf, forcing my ankle to roll. I hear a faint pop as I crash on top of him to the ground.
The crowd is thundering as I roll onto my back, clutching my leg to my chest. Booker rushes over, and I shake him off, hopping up onto my feet and trying to walk it off. The ref is giving the striker a yellow card as he too lays on the ground writhing in pain.That’s karma for you, asshole, I think as I attempt to shake off the bone-chilling ache that throbs through my left ankle. I’ve had injuries like this before. They’re bad but not career-defining. I can walk this off. I’m okay.
Medics rush out to the field to help Man City’s striker and I frown when I notice movement on the sidelines of my team. Tanner is talking to the fourth referee between the two team’s benches. He makes a motion, and I assume he’s about to substitute another player, but then his eyes lock on me as he waves me over.
I wave back at him and yell out, “I’m fine!”
“You’re coming out,” Tanner bellows back, his hand cupped around his bearded jaw. The assistant ref holds up my number, and I see Finney standing beside him, jumping up and down like a fucking bean to warm up.
I shake my head firmly. “I’m good. It’s just tweaked.”
I catch sight of Vaughn Harris as he walks over to stand by Tanner. He motions for me to exit the field, confirming what I thought was a sick fucking joke.
Seriously? One bad foul, and they’re pulling me? I’m carrying this damn team right now! There are only two minutes left on the clock. I do high knees to show them I’m okay, but they don’t seem to care. The main ref waves me over to begin the substitution.
Fiery rage sizzles in my belly as I stomp over to the sidelines where Finney, Tanner, and Vaughn are standing. Tanner steps forward first, reaching out his hand to me, but I slap it away.
“I said I was fucking fine,” I roar, my teeth cracking from how hard I’m clenching them.
“Oi, watch the tone!” Tanner barks back.
Coach Zion steps into my space next and puts a hand on my chest. “You played a hell of a game. Go let Indie check your ankle and take a rest. You earned it, lad.” He reaches his hand out to me, and I stare at it, refusing yet another congratulations.
It’s poor sportsmanship not to slap the hand of your coach after coming off the field, but this is complete bullshit. I earned the right to finish this fucking game.
My shoulder hits Coach Z’s as I move past him, and then I find myself face-to-face with Vaughn Harris himself.
“Lose the attitude, Zander. We need you well for the next game, and we’re up two-nil. This is for your own good.” His eyes are glacial on me as his nostrils flare. He’s trying to put me in my place.
