Page 41 of The Striker
It’s a hard win when you walk onto the pitch, knowing they’ve already handed you a L.
In the locker room, Coach gives us his version of a pep talk. He reminds us that we’ve beaten the Hawks before, though he glosses over the number of years it’s been since we managed it.
We played against CPU during the pre season but we didn’t win. They didn’t either. The score ended up one to one and after getting extra time, neither of us was able to score. It was a draw. This time around, the game is leaning in their favor.
“We’re changing the line-up for the second half,” Coach says. Julio stands beside him, his expression grim. I get the feeling that whatever changes Coach decided to make, Julio isn’t a fan of them. Either that or he assumes the rest of the team won’t be and he’s bracing for the fallout.
“Holt, you’re subbing the second half. Hunt, you’re in. You’ll play midfield and we’ll see how it goes. Herrera?”
I rise to my feet.
“You play striker. You and Hunt had good chemistry during practice. I want to see that again on the field.”
My eyes widen, and I look at Julio. He dips his head and gives me a sly grin.
“Yes, sir.” This is what he stayed late to talk to Coach about. Fucking yes!
“Are you kidding me, Coach?” Holt demands, shoving to his feet. “This is bullshit.”
“Don’t take that tone with me. It’s not bullshit, it’s soccer. If you’d stop focusing on whatever problems you seem to have with Herrera and half of my goddamn team, and instead focus on the game, we might have a few more points on the board. As it is, you’re making rookie mistakes to avoid working with members of your own team. I’ve had enough.”
“You can’t do this?—”
“I’m in charge. I can do whatever the hell I want. Hunt, get your ass on the field.”
“Yes, sir,” Deacon says, and the rest of us follow him out.
The second half goes better than the first. Deacon and I find a rhythm Holt and I never could, and we race down the field, passing the ball back and forth to one another as we near the goal. The crowd’s anticipation hangs heavy in the air, a pulsating energy that feeds our determination. We need a score.
As we get closer to CPU’s penalty area, I feel their defenders closing in. The tension is palpable, but it’s as if Deacon and I share an unspoken connection. We’ve spent countless hours on the field this past week and more in our backyard practicing together, going over plays. Living in the same house has always made Felix, Julio, and I more in sync with one another, and it looks like the same can be said with Deacon.
With a deft flick of his cleats, Deacon sends the ball back to me just as a CPU defender lunges in. I control it with a graceful touch and, without a second thought, pass it right back to Deacon. His eyes lock onto mine, and I see the glint of determination mirrored in them. We’ve got this. Right here, this is our moment to shine.
We’re in perfect sync, two hearts beating as one on the pitch. The ball is stolen, but Hunt quickly recovers it and passes it back to me.
There’s no hesitation. I strike the ball with a powerhouse outside kick and it soars toward the goal. Not anticipating the move, CPU’s goalkeeper comes up short on his dive.
Time seems to slow as the ball finds the back of the net, and the crowd erupts with a deafening roar. The stands tremble with thecollective joy of our fans, and my teammates rush me, Deacon damn near taking me off my feet in his excitement.
“Fuck, yes!”
A wide smile splits my face, and I fist-pump the air.
“Again!” I shout, and we all get back into position.
We score once more, bringing the score up from three to one to three to three. There are only six minutes left in the game, and it’s our turn at the kickoff. None of us wants a draw against CPU again.
The pressure is on, but we’re all determined to win this.
With every one of my heartbeats, I can feel the adrenaline surging through my veins. We have one last chance to claim victory. To take home the win. My gaze flicks toward the stands, spotting Cecilia. She’s leaning forward, hands clasped together on her knees.
Does she feel it too? The energy that crackles in the air. Fuck. It’s invigorating.
As the referee blows the whistle to restart the game, Deacon and I exchange a determined look and I signal him with my hand.
One-two. Just like we practiced.
The ball is in play, and we move forward as a team, pushing it relentlessly toward CPU’s goal. The clock is ticking, and our fans are on the edge of their seats. Voices screaming through the air.
