Page 159 of Close Knit

My heart nearly collapses when Overton sees an opening.

Their winger launches a cross, a perfect arc soaring across the stadium’s night sky. I track it like a hawk.Be big.Time seems to slow.Be impenetrable. I watch the trajectory of the ball. I can predict where it will land. I spring into action, my heart pounding against my ribs, every muscle in my body coiled and ready.

“Right! Right!” I yell, my voice echoing into the defense line.

Omar darts at my command, cutting off the striker’s direct route to the goal as he turns into a human barricade.

Stay focused.

At the same time, Sven bodychecks Overton’s center-forward, disrupting his run.

No ball is getting past us.

Meanwhile, Ibrahim and Jung are forming a barrier in front of the net.

We’re not going to let the ball touch the net.

The ball hurtles toward the goal like a meteor on a collision course.

I suck in a deep breath, momentarily shutting out the noise of the crowd, the shouts of my teammates, the pounding of my heart.Focus.

My eyes track the spinning sphere of leather in the sky.

I fucking got it.

I launch myself at the ball. The world blurs around the edges. There’s a moment of weightlessness, of suspension, as I stretch out my gloved hand.

And then, a rush of sheer relief as my fingers connect with the rough surface of the ball and I slam it back into my chest.

I got it.

I land heavily on the ground, the ball clutched safely in my hands. I look up at the scoreboard, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.

We’ve done it. We’ve held them off.

We did it.

Lyndhurst FC is the winner of the Premier League for the second time in its history.

The moment the final whistle screeches, the stadium erupts. Our fans roar louder than lions as they pour from the stands, their faces painted in our team colors. Tears are flowing from even the most stoic among them.

My teammates are on me in seconds, faces shining with sweat and pure glee. In a blink, I’m weightless, suspended in a moment of absolute victory as they launch me into the air above them. I’m in the eye of a storm of celebration. The pulse in my veins sloshes in my ears. Fans flood the field. Purple and white confetti bursts from the sky like stars raining down on me, and my head spins.

Then I see her.

Daphne.

A flash of lavender right in the middle of this chaotic celebration. Next to her, Bea bolts to the left, probably spotting Ivan. Our eyes lock. The crowd continues pulsating around us, growing larger and larger, but she’s the only thing I can focus on. She fights her way through the sea of ecstatic fans to reach me.

Time seems to stretch out, and the world fades away until it’s just Daphne and this pull between us. Until it’s my girl running toward me.My number on her back.

When she finally reaches me, my teammates drop me back onto the field, and I yank her into my arms. Relief and joy surge through me. She fits against me like she was made for me.

“I’m so happy to see you,” I yell.

“Me too.” Her body vibrates, probably from the echoes of our victory. The team yells around us. Her cheeks are flushed, brighter than the stadium lights.And her eyes—those eyes that outshine any star—meet mine. I hoist her up, her laughter ringing in my ears. This laugh is the sweetest victory chant.

“I love you!” I shout. “I love you, Daphne Quinn. I love you, I love you—I am so down bad with love for you.”

---