Page 158 of Close Knit

It’s been a month since I last heard the echoing voices of my old coach and Charlie. The nightmares still come, sprout up without resolve, but I don’t feel so afraid anymore. I’m no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop, no longer expecting the worst.

After the press conference, more and more players have come forth about misconduct or spoken out about the importance of prioritizing mental health, both on the field andfor fans at home. Like Daphne, I’ve been trying to be outspoken about what I experienced, and it’s helped more than the year I spent hiding. Reporters have been requesting comments and quotes on the Birds of a Feather Foundation. Thankfully, my agent has been a rockstar at fielding them and only scheduling interviews with papers that matter, not those itching for a spell of gossip they can sensationalize.

Still, I know my name’s been lighting up the media circuit now that Charlie’s suspension is in place. But I’ve never cared less about what they have to say.

Over a year ago, I let myself believe that being strong meant being silent. My teammates and Daphne taught me the opposite. Now, I get to share that with others. I get to show my LA team, who are here watching the game, and my family the person I’ve become. The man I’m proud of.

From being battered to competing in the final game of the Premier League season.

The familiar chaos of pregame rituals buzzes around me—taping ankles, adjusting jerseys, muttering last-minute prayers. I tape my knuckles one hand at a time, the black tape tight but comforting. Left first, then right. Then I put on my gloves, feeling the familiar grip, and slather them in Vaseline, making them slick but resilient, a final touch to complete my personal rite. My heart hammers against my chest like it’s trying to escape, each beat syncing with the team’s collective bustle.

I glance around at my teammates.

My new family. My friends.

We’ve poured everything into this season—the bad and the good. I let them see my entire heart, all of me, and they’ve done the same tenfold, never looking back.

Every single one of us has bled, sweated, and cried for a shot at the Premier League title. Since we were little, with a dream and a football, this has been a goal of ours. Of any player. I’llget to carry the legacy of this game with me forever—my name memorialized alongside my teammates.

Lyndhurst FC has always been the underdog, never quite breaking through to the top two, but today feels different. Today, we’re brothers, bound by trust.

I force myself to stay present, joining the huddle of teammates bumping shoulders. Coach is gearing up for one of hisyou got thisspeeches, but my mind keeps drifting to Daphne. As we stand in a tight huddle, Coach surprises us with a simple, “Boys, you go out there and you fucking win.”

We glance at each other, sharing knowing smiles. We’re ready to give it our all.

“Hastings, send us out?” Tamu nods, dropping his hand in the center.

I slap my glove over his, and every single one of my teammates piles their palms on mine.

“Let’s fucking roar. Three, two, one,” I shout. “Lyndhurst!”

The locker room erupts in beastly roars as we roll out and onto the pitch. My heart swells with pride, soaking in the magnitude of the moment. We exchange quick hugs and slap each other’s asses. The air is thick with anticipation and the smell of sweaty socks.

“Let’s do this!” someone yells, and we all echo the sentiment with another determined roar.

I’m a fucking lion. A Lyndhurst Lion. And I’m going to do my team proud.

This is what we dreamed of as kids, kicking around tattered balls in empty fields. Now, under the blinding stadium lights, that dream is within our grasp. As we take our positions, I methodically tap the top left corner of the goal, then the top right, and finally look up at the stands. My eyes search the crowd until they find the familiar lavender hair—just as she said. Daphne’s here, watching the final game of the Premier League.A warmth spreads through me, though I keep my expression neutral. I lift my hand and form a small heart shape with my fingers, and she mirrors the gesture from the directors box.I’m going to give this everything I’ve got, I promise her and myself, before turning my attention back to the field.

This is it. The endgame. Lyndhurst FC versus Overton.

My past and my present.

The match teeterson the precipice of the final grueling stretch of overtime. The roar of the crowd at Overton Stadium blisters my eardrums. Our fans have been relentless. The thunderous vibrations of their cheering pulse under my cleats.

We can win this.

We’re neck and neck with Overton, squaring off for the winning points and championship title.

My legs burn. My muscles are scorched from so many dives.

The game’s final six minutes are imminent. We’re up 2-1.

The tension is thick. Overton’s attackers are a force to be reckoned with, ruthless and unyielding in their pursuit of victory. They’ve been on our side of the field, desperately seeking an opportunity.

A familiar weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders. The fate of the game is going to be determined by me and my defensive line—Sven, Omar, Ibrahim, and Jung. They’ve been an impenetrable wall of resistance against Overton’s fierce onslaught.

Sven has been shadowing Overton’s star striker, an echo to his every move. Omar is intercepting passes with an uncanny sense of anticipation. Ibrahim is our bulwark in the center, whileJung, the fleetest of us all, is thwarting any attempts down the flanks.

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