Page 95 of Close Knit

Indecision tumbles through me, and time is ticking. The play won’t work. I know it. Mohamed isn’t fast enough to get through Overton’s midfield and hand off the ball to our offense. But no, that can’t be right. Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe it will work. I shake my head, trying to clear the doubts, but they cling on stubbornly.

Sweat trickles down my face, and my grip on the ball tightens even more. I have to decide, and fast. But every option feels like a guaranteed mistake. My mind screams that I’m setting myself up for a bad play, but I push the thought away. It can’t be that bad, can it?

I have to make this call. Now.

We need to win this.

As I prepare to throw, my heart races. Adrenaline surges. My muscles tense. My mind is in fight-or-flight mode, and panic creeps in, but I push through the freeze. Clearing the fog of anxiety, I lock eyes with Mohamed, take a deep breath, and do what needs to be done.

With all my strength, I launch the ball toward Gustafsson, hoping it’ll reach him in time.

“Gustafsson!” I shout, my voice echoing across the field. His eyes widen in shock, but before he can react, Overton’s forward appears like an apparition and steals the ball swiftly. He outmaneuvers my center-backs and sprints toward me.

A sense of icy dread grips me.

Fuck.

The crowd holds their breath.

I know this guy. He goes right. He always goes right. I squat; every muscle in my body tenses in anticipation of the shot, and I dive. In a cruel twist of fate, at the very last moment, the ball swerves left. It barely grazes the tips of my outstretched gloves before it hurtles into the net behind me.

The sound of it swooshing past me is shattering.

My world comes crashing down.

1-0.

The cheers of Overton’s fans feel like a mocking slap. The groans from our side echo my internal turmoil.

Stay big!I scream into my mind.

Each sound is a piercing needle of humiliation stabbing at me.Pathetic.

Be impenetrable.

But the sinking feeling of worthlessness threatens to consume me.

The net behind me feels like a taunt.Break a sweat out there.

Stay focused.

“Get the Yankee off the field,” they chant as the referee blows his whistle, ending the first half.

“What the fuck, Hastings?” Tae-woo jogs across the field. “Omar was wide open.”

I shrug him off and storm into the locker room.

“Hastings!” Coach’s voice is a sharp command, stopping me dead in my tracks. His hand clamps onto my shoulder as I try to stride past him in the tunnel. “What was that out there?” I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth, can’t conjure up any justification for having seen a better play. “You’re really not going to say anything?” I grunt a response. “Really?” Coach examines my face, searching for something that must not be there. “Fine,” he barks and shoves me into the locker room. He swivels toward Matos. “Ivan, are you warmed up?”

“Yes, Coach,” he responds.

“Good. Hastings’s on the bench for the second half,” Coach declares.

The lights of the locker room are piercing. Each bulb is like a spotlight. My teammates’ voices grate on my nerves.

“Don’t do this,” I plead through gritted teeth.

“You don’t get to ask for that,” Coach snaps, his words slicing through my last shred of hope. “Frankly, Hastings, you don’t get to ask for anything. We’ve done that play a dozen times. Everyone on the pitch was calling it. I can’t afford a player who doesn’t trust or listen to the team. If I knew what was wrong,maybe I could help. But until then, you’re not stepping foot on that pitch.”

---