Page 96 of Close Knit

“Nothing’s wrong,” I choke out.

“Until you can pull yourself together, you’re not playing,” Coach continues, his words relentless. “I’m done with this loner act, and so is the team. They’ve put themselves out there for you, tried to make you feel welcome. This isn’t about one bad call or a goal we definitely needed. You let down your teammates. You don’t belong on that field until that changes.”

He turns his back to me, a clear dismissal. Then he calls Okafor over to strategize.

At Overton, a benching could last weeks. Hell, a whole damn season.

My heart shatters in my chest, words scraping at my throat.

Please. Please let me fix this.

Nothing comes.

I messed up. Tomorrow’s headlines are already forming in my mind.

New American Keeper Old News Already?

Did Lyndhurst Manager Sir Millsbury Make A Mistake With The New Keeper?

Is Hastings’s New Girl The Reason For The Distraction On The Pitch?

My thoughts spiral. A whirlpool of doubt and fear. I can’t breathe. Everything I’ve worked for is gone. I’m suffocating.

Be fucking better, Hastings. Don’t be such a fucking loser. Do you even want to be in the Premier League?Rossi’s familiar barks pummel my mind.

My dreams are disintegrating into dust, and it’s all my fault.

Halftime passes in a breath before I’m sitting on the bench, watching the team. There’s no denying that they have chemistry on the field.

A unit that’s played together for years. Cohesive without my isolated presence.

Our captain is relentless with the offense and scores a goal in the first ten minutes, tying us. When the crowd cheers and my teammates revel in the glory, I feel nothing. Afterward, the second half of the game blurs by. Our defense stays tight as Overton attacks again and again.

I can’t be there. I can’t make this better. I can’t help the team. My teammates. I’ve let them all down.

All my stubborn pride and refusal to trust have led to this utter failure. Getting benched mid-game as a keeper is pathetic.

I’ve made an effort to bond with them; I’ve tried. But I’m not capable of being the player I used to be back in LA. I can’t tell my teammates what Charlie did, how he hurt me, or how my old coach’s words sear my mind, making me question every decision. I can’t admit that I acted emotionally when I should’ve had my head in the game.

I could have forced Lyndhurst into a draw or, worse, a loss. I pushed them away only to lose everything—the chance to play, redeem myself, and win the Premier League.

My heart pounds. My hands are hands clammy, and my legs are tingling as I watch Matos stand slightly off the goal line, eyes sharp and alert, ready to react to any incoming shot. His voice echoes across the field as he directs the defenders, orchestrating their every move.

The center-backs form an impenetrable barrier just in front of him. Gustafsson is locked in a physical duel with Overton’s main striker, using every ounce of strength to limit his opponent’s movement. Kamara positions himself to intercept any through balls or crosses that might dare venture into their territory.

Okafor lingers near the halfway line, poised like a predator waiting for the right moment to pounce.

On the flank, Tae-woo stays tight and closely marks the opposing wingers. Overton breaks past him and bullets for a chance at another goal. Matos reacts fast, signaling toward Mohamed.

My heart collapses into my gut.

The clock ticks down.

Overton presses forward, their winger attempting a cross into the box. Mohamed intercepts the ball with a decisive tackle. Without hesitation, he launches the ball to a midfielder with a short, sharp pass.

Surveying the field, our midfielder spots Okafor making a run down the right flank. With precision, he delivers a pinpoint pass that finds Okafor’s feet. Our captain sprints toward the opposing half and draws the defenders toward him as he tears down the wing. Then, with a flash of brilliance, he sends a low cross into the box.

It’s the play we’ve been practicing for weeks, executed to perfection.

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