Page 67 of There's No Us Without You
Coach grabs my arm on my way past him. “De Silva, you good?”
“I’m fine,” I say for the second time in fifteen minutes.
What the fuck do these people want from me?
“Doesn’t seem like it,” Coach says, folding his arms over his chest, making his biceps bulge in his tight white polo shirt.
I stand there biting my tongue until the familiar taste of blood fills my mouth. “We done here?”
Coach scrutinises my face, his own a bright red, dark eyes narrowed while he holds in everything he wants to say to me. He’s pissed—the telltale tensing of his jaw letting me know just how much—but I don’t care.
I’ve got this covered.
Rubbing his eyes, he finally waves me off. “Get back out there. And get your goddamn head in the game. Jesus, maybe I shouldn’t have stopped you having sex—you’re a damn pain in my arse.”
Whatever, arsehole. Not having sex isn’t my issue.
The crowd roars when my team hits the field again, and Carter soaks it up, throwing his arms up and down to rile up the crowd even more while he slides sideways across the field to his position.
Any other day, I’d love his enthusiasm. Today, not so much. If we don’t win this game, we go into third position, which means no free ride straight to the semi-finals.
And I need a fucking week off.
I’m shaking out my legs—the need to rub my knee overbearing—while the rest of the boys get into position.
The stadium is packed—almost a full house—and the floodlights in the corners of the field light up the area as though it’s daytime.
We have forty-five minutes—plus extra stoppage time—to score two goals and keep the other team from putting any morepoints on that scoreboard. The number of times my coach has repeated the wordsyou win games with defenceplays on my mind until the referee blows the whistle to start the second half, forcing the other team to kick off and sending my boys further back into their defending half, me included.
I scan my surroundings, looking for a hole in the defensive line. One of Melbourne’s centre backs—Tristan Fogherty—is a couple years older than me, so he’s a little more experienced. That means nothing. He might be quick, but his footwork could do with a little tightening up. The other centre—Bryce Northman—has just returned from three weeks of injury, so he’s not in top form.
I’m faster than both, so why the fuck haven’t I put the ball into the net at least once? Twice it’s gone straight over the top, once too far to the left. Twice again... not even fucking close to the goals.
It’s as though I’ve forgotten how to aim.
After twenty minutes, we still aren’t on the board, and my throat now burns, my voice rough from the amount of yelling needed to keep these arseholes in formation. I love them, but fuck . . .
If the lot of them just listened to me, I could have scored twenty fucking goals by now. But no, it’s just pass after pass that goes nowhere, then the ball ends up in our defensive end to start all over again.
I’m shaking my head for the millionth time tonight, when Cooper makes a break up the right side. This is it. Fuck, this is it. It has to be. My eyes don’t leave the ball as it moves up the field—Cooper to Terry to Carter.
Carter glances up quickly, looking for an opening, and just as we practice session after session, I’m in the perfect position, darting between the defenders stuck to me. Northman dropsan elbow to my ribs, and I grunt through the pain, sending a shoulder his way and shoving him off me.
He smirks, but I ignore him, my focus on the play-by-play.
Time slows down when Carter side-steps, takes a touch with the inside of his left boot, and fakes around the defending player. At first it looks like he has overshot the mark, but then he throws his right leg out, his boot connecting with the runaway ball, and sends it skimming across the grass towards me.
Perfect play.
I sprint for it and take the first touch, settling my breathing, my focus now on shielding the ball from Fogherty coming straight for me. He drops his hip to the ground, his legs out in front of him as he goes in for a slide tackle.
This is the same play that injured me two weeks ago, so I tap the ball with the side of my right boot, pushing off with my left. My knee ignites, the sharpest pain yet shooting all the way up my thigh and into my groin. I grunt through the pain, too focused to let it ruin this chance at a goal.
The ball skims across the grass, and I jump over Fogherty, his feet narrowly missing my ankle. My boots dig into the soft grass when I land, and I take another touch.
Two touches.
Positioning myself, I swing my right leg back, then send it flying towards the ball with everything I have. The connection is perfect, the ball lifting off the ground with a loud crack off my boot and soaring through the air.
