Page 1 of The Kiss of Deception

Chapter One

Miles

We are the champions!

The sharp sound of the whistle reverberates through the air an exact amount of three times. It cuts through loud chants and enthusiastic claps, signaling the end of the game—and our triumph.

In all its roaring grandness on game nights, the white-striped, green field is my quiet place.

Every time I step on a pitch, a bubble swallows me. From the first whistle to the final three, everything fades—the demanding fans dissolve into murmurs in the distance, life is on pause, its torments filed away for later.

It’s just me and the ball.

As the game ends, my bubble bursts. I finally look around to take in the crowded stands of the stadium, jubilant expressions painting the faces of those wearing navy-blue jerseys, arms thrown in the air and around one another, jumping up and down and waving enthusiastic scarves above their heads.

Like a mirror upside down, the other half of the arena is the polar opposite. Silent with salt-streaked faces and sunken shoulders.

In this game, like in life, happiness walks hand in hand with misery: someone’s victory is another’s loss. One cannot exist without the other.

Adrenaline and happiness warm every vein and vessel in my body, my cleats lighter as they pound the grass on my way towards my teammates. I join the cheerful offkey chanting as we hug and jump in a large, irregular circle.

From behind both nets and the corner arcs, cameras emerge to surround the new continental champions like hawks surrounding prey, eager to catch any content to feast on and dissect in the aftermath.

In the podium on the midfield, every player in blue shirts and white shorts receives a medal under the massive semicircular banner with bold golden letters that declare us “Winners: North America Champions League 2024”.

Confetti rains upon us when Davis, the team captain, lifts the trophy high in the air to the unmistakable voice of Freddie Mercury, half of the stadium ecstatically singing at the top of their lungs.

My gaze follows the trophy as it drifts from one pair of hands to another until it falls into mine. From its two arms hang white and navy blue ribbons, the colors of our tea, as the spotlights all around the stadium cast an ever-fleeting glint on the cold metal, playing with the sterling silver.

The greatest accomplishment of my career, so far, weighs 15 kilograms, shining and chilly in my hands.

One hand wrapped in each arm of the cup, my lips kiss the cold metal for just a second. Hearing the flashes of cameras, I smile, knowing my mother will make an entire photo album with each and every single angle for posterity.

This is the first trophy of my professional career: a tournament involving the continent, and only the best soccer teams from each top league. I’ve performed solid seasons, scoring goals that amounted to more wins than losses and unparalleled statistics. But they don’t mean much. In the end, immortality is made of kissed trophies.

Through the steel structure of the stadium, the sun has abandoned the view sometime in the second half, leaving behind remnants of reds and oranges and yellows dancing in spirals in the darkening, cloudless sky.

This is the moment for which I sacrificed so much. Nights out with friends and guilty food and times with my family. This is the moment that makes all those sacrifices worth it. Days like today, victories like this one, they make it all worth it.

So, I’m happy.

I’m proud.

I’m itching.

I’m still itching.

The distinct nagging feeling has been plaguing me for too long—and it prevails in the highest moment of my professional life.

I’m not sure when it started, but I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t there— an antsy itch just where my nails can’t reach, like little bugs under my skin murmuring a repetitive chorus in the back of my skull.

Something’s missing, something’s missing, something is missing.

Games, goals, and trophies haven’t been enough to quiet it. I wonder what will—or if anything can.

Forcing these thoughts away to scrutinize—or avoid—later, I focus on enjoying the moment. I tune out some less charming chants coming from the stands and follow the parade of team and trophy around the oval stadium to celebrate with the fans.

Despite the joy of the celebrations, the atmosphere somehow still feels numb, cold like the metal that surrounds us in the imposing stadium.

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