Page 68 of There's No Us Without You
A hush falls over the crowd, the silence held like a breath. The whooshing sound of my blood rushes through my ears, my heart pumping hard and fast as I watch the ball. Time slows, then speeds up with a rush as the ball sinks into the back of the net to an eruption of cheers and whistles filling the stadium.
All the air rushes from my lungs.
Fuck yes.
If that isn’t enough to get me in a good mood, I don’t know what is.
Seconds later, I’m being hauled into the air, the crowd’s roar deafening, and I can’t wipe the smile from my face.
“There we go,” Terry says, roughing my hair up. “Do that again, de Silva, and we’re in.”
“Fuck yeah, Cap,” Carter says, pumping his arms above his head while performing his victory dance. “You and me, baby. You and me.”
I slap Cooper on the back, but he just glares at me. “Let’s run that play again,” I say. “They won’t expect it again so soon. You up to it, Hale?”
Cooper smirks. “Whatever you say,Captain.”
Fuck, he’s an arsehole. He’s also one hell of a centre midfielder—his ability to set up plays is unrivalled by any other player I’ve come across.
Carter pulls a face at Cooper, one that sayseat shit. Cooper shrugs it off as the guys scramble, setting themselves back into position as the other team starts the next play. The ball ends up in our defensive end until Aidan—one of our centre backs—boots the ball three-quarters of the way down the field to Cooper.
My heart is racing, my body so amped up I could run this field—without injury—a hundred times and still not tire. Cooper takes a touch, then a second one, spins to shield the ball, and gets it off to Carter for a second time.
I’m jumped by Fogherty and Northman—they’ve caught on to what we’re doing—and sandwiched between them. I shoulder my way out before Carter passes the ball to me again. It doesn’t come directly to me, so I race to reach it, the two defenders on my heels, but then I hit the ground hard, the wind getting knocked out of me as everything goes black. I’m struggling to take a deep breath, each one sending a shooting pain through my ribs.
Goddamn it.
With five minutes left on the clock, I’ve potentially just sent us into overtime. But my fears evaporate when the referee blows the whistle and yellow-cards Northman.
Fucking prick. Serves him right, the dirty sonofabitch.
The ref calls a free kick for an intentional foul inside the penalty box.
This means it’s just me and the goalie.
My favourite kind of play.
Juggling the ball from hand to hand, I pace the field in front of the goal area, looking for the perfect position. I can’t fuck this up, so when I place the ball down on the ground, I take a deep breath and centre myself.
Top left corner.
Top left corner.
Top left corner.
Another hush falls over the crowd when I get into position behind the ball. I place a hand over the centre of my chest and perform my pre-kick ritual by tapping my fingers twice over my breastbone.
It’s weird, I know, but every player has their own thing. Mine came about because I’d get so worked up when taking penalty kicks that my heart rate would skyrocket, and I’d almost pass out. My father showed me that by placing my hand on my chest, I could slow my breathing.
Close your eyes, take two taps.
With one last glance, I send the ball soaring through the air. My breathing stops momentarily as the ball heads exactly where I wanted it, straight for the top left corner of the net.
The goalie jumps for it, reaching out with both hands, his body seemingly suspended in the air.
He’s got me here. I’ve ruined everything.
When the ball skims past the goalie’s gloved hands, just nipping at his fingertips, and hits the corner of the net before falling to the ground, there’s another eruption from the crowd.
