19. Liam
19
LIAM
The sun’s barely up, and we’re out on the practice field in Cary, prepping for the conference championships. This is it—the final stretch. Everything we’ve been grinding for since August comes down to these next few days.
I tap the ball lightly between my feet. Chase is across from me, stretching his quads, while a few of the guys are passing around to warm up. The grass is dewy, slick under our cleats, and all I can think about is how sticky and damp the air feels against my skin, like it’s clinging to me in all the wrong ways.
It’s the kind of sensation that sets my teeth on edge, makes me hyperaware of every shift in my jersey, every bead of sweat. Sensations that draw me out of the game and into my own head. Not a good place to be right now.
Chase catches my eye and smirks. “Donovan, you gonna feed me some decent service, or is that too much to ask?”
“You can fuck right off,” I shoot back, flicking the ball toward him. He traps it effortlessly, laughing, and passes it back with a spin that sends it skimming just past my shin. “Keep talking, and I’ll purposely shank every cross your way.”
Chase rolls his eyes. “Coach wouldn’t like that. I’m his golden boy.”
He’s all swagger, oozing confidence like he’s untouchable. But underneath that cocky grin, I can sense the pressure simmering. For both of us. For all of us.
It’s not just another game. This is the conference championship, and there’s more at stake here than bragging rights. There are scouts in the stands—MLS reps and agents, eyes dissecting every move, every pass, every miss.
I still have next year to prove myself, but Chase doesn’t. If he doesn’t secure the Adidas contract this year, then he’ll have to enter the draft as a senior, just like I plan to. It would be a gamble, I think, for him to take that route and risk not getting picked up.
I have a backup; Chase has staked his whole future on this.
I spin the ball with the side of my foot, letting my mind focus on its movement, on the rhythm that usually drowns out the noise. But today, it’s failing.
Not just because of the sensory hell that clings to me but because I’m caught up thinking about Birdie, too. About our kiss last Friday night. The way she fit against me, the softness of her lips, the quiet sound she made in the back of her throat when I—
“Hey, earth to Liam.” I blink, snapping out of it. Chase is staring at me, eyebrows raised. “You good, man? You’ve been kicking that ball around like it owes you money.”
I grin. “I’m thinking about Birdie, actually. We kissed just before I left, and her lips were soft as hell, like—”
Chase snorts a laugh. “Jesus, man. Did you know you can keep some things to yourself? A gentleman never kisses and tells.”
“You asked,” I say with a shrug. I’m not embarrassed that I’m thinking about her, missing her. So, why would I bother coming up with some bullshit response instead of just telling him the truth?
Coach’s whistle cuts through the air. “Bring it in, boys!”
We jog over, forming a loose huddle around him. Coach Harris has that no-nonsense look in his eye today—the one that says he expects nothing short of a dominant performance. One of our assistants, Coach Reilly, steps in with a clipboard, gesturing emphatically as Harris speaks.
“We’re up against UNC,” Coach says, his voice cutting through the chilly morning air. “They’re going to come at you hard, especially on the wings. Their midfield’s solid, so we’ve got to keep it tight and make them work for every inch.”
“They’ll be looking to isolate our defenders,” Reilly chimes in. “Don’t let them pick you apart. Stay compact, stay sharp.”
They’re right—UNC’s no joke. They’ve got some of the best talent in the conference, and they’re hungry for a win. But so are we. And right now, all that matters is what happens on this field today, not what they’ve done before or what anyone expects.
The coaches keep talking, laying out our strategy in precise, clipped tones, but my mind drifts. Not to Birdie this time but to everything riding on this game. There’s a scout from Orlando City up in the stands, and if I can show him what I’m made of, maybe this could be my shot at the MLS, too.
Chase elbows me, snapping me out of it. “You hear that? They’re going to try and cut through your side.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, “no shit.”
The whistle blows again, signaling the start of our pre-game drills. I fall into line, weaving through the cones, my feet moving on autopilot. Focus. Zone in. Tune out. It’s a mantra I repeat in my head, over and over, willing everything else—the noise, the pressure, the sticky jersey—into silence. Just the ball. Just the game.
As we transition into a scrimmage, I finally let myself get lost in it. The solid thud of the ball as it connects with my foot, the slap of cleats against the turf, the grunt of effort as I shoulder past a defender. It’s like music—the only kind I’ve ever really understood.
The rhythm of play takes over, washing out the static in my head and replacing it with something clear, something simple. But scrimmages don’t last forever.
When the game kicks off thirty minutes later, it’s at a breakneck pace. UNC isn’t messing around. They press hard, their midfielders controlling the tempo, trying to box us in. I’m sprinting up the wing, lungs burning, heart pounding.
Santi and Amir are holding the line in the back, and they’re a damn wall. Amir’s as solid as ever, shutting down any attackers who try to break through, while Santi is chirping nonstop, getting into the heads of their strikers.
I spot an opening and call for the ball. Chase nods, threading it through two defenders with a slick pass. I take off down the sideline, cutting in just as a defender lunges at me. I sidestep him, glance up, and Chase makes a run toward the far post.
“Hadden!” I yell, swinging my leg back. The cross flies off my foot, arcing over the heads of two UNC defenders, curving just enough to drop right in front of Chase. He traps it like it’s glued to his boot, takes one touch to steady himself, and then slams it past the keeper.
“One-nil, baby!” Chase yells, pumping his fist in the air. I sprint over, adrenaline coursing through me as I slap him on the back. The team swarms us, and for a second, I let myself get lost in it. But I know better than to relax now.
UNC comes back at us hard, like a wounded animal. Their midfielders are relentless, pinning us deep in our half, trying to claw their way back into the game. For a solid fifteen minutes, it’s all defense.
Finally, UNC breaks through. Their forward manages to squeeze past, latching onto a through ball, and slams it into the bottom corner. 1-1. The stadium roars to life, and it’s a whole new game.
The equalizer shakes us, but it’s like a jolt of electricity running through my veins. I steal the ball from one of their wingers, cutting him off before he can send it into the box, and sprint down the sideline. My legs are burning, but I push harder, faster.
I cut inside, dodging a defender, and suddenly, there’s open space ahead of me. Coach is barking orders at me, but I don’t need them. I know what to do. I drive forward, the goal coming into focus.
I cut past another defender, and the box opens up. I’ve got one chance. I take a deep breath, focus on the ball, and swing my leg back. The shot is clean, the kind you dream about. It rockets past the keeper’s outstretched hands and slams into the back of the net.
The stadium explodes. I barely have time to register what’s happening before Chase tackles me, nearly knocking me over. “Top bins, baby!” he shouts in my ear, laughing like a wild man.
But it’s not over yet. There’s still time on the clock, and UNC isn’t going down without a fight. They push back with everything they’ve got. Their forwards are throwing themselves at our defense, desperate to equalize again.
Amir blocks a shot with his chest, grunting as he absorbs the impact, while Marco, our left-back, clears the rebound with a powerful kick.
The pressure is relentless. I’m gasping for breath, every muscle in my body screaming for a break, but I can’t stop now. I won’t. Not when we’re this close.
There’s a corner kick for UNC in the final minute. The ball flies into the box, and it’s chaos—legs and elbows everywhere. But Amir rises above everyone, clearing it with a monster header. The ref’s whistle blows, and that’s it.
We’ve done it. 2-1. We’ve secured our bid for the NCAA tournament.
The guys are hugging, shouting, piling on top of each other. Coach is actually smiling—hell, I didn’t even know he could do that. I just stand there for a second, hands on my knees, letting it all sink in.
“Donovan!” Chase yells, dragging me into a bear hug. “We did it.”
“Fuck yeah, we did.”
“We shouldn’t have let that soft goal in.”
I huff, pulling away from him. “Can you just celebrate in peace for once?”
“No, no I cannot,” he says, grinning wide.
We make our way back to the locker room, and it’s pure chaos—guys spraying water bottles like they’re champagne, shouting victory chants, and slapping each other on the back. And I’m caught somewhere between exhilaration and exhaustion.
It would be nice to have a moment to just come down from it all, to breathe, to let the high ebb away on my own terms. Instead, it’s an overwhelming sort of frenzy, the noise and movement bouncing off the walls and hammering against my already worn-out senses.
The coaches finally corral us for a quick debrief, where Harris tries to look stern, but the gleam in his eyes gives him away. “We came here to get the job done, and you did just that. We’ve secured our spot in the tournament, boys.”
The locker room erupts again, guys pounding their lockers and shouting at the top of their lungs. I hang back, my body starting to feel the strain—aching legs, burning lungs. Part of me just wants to slip away to a quiet corner, close my eyes, and let the exhaustion hit me full force.
But there’s no escape yet. Once the debrief wraps, we pile back onto the bus to head to the hotel. The second we board, I make a beeline for the one and only lone seat at the back. I sink into it, hoping I’ll finally get a bit of peace.
But Chase has other plans.
“Hey, buddy!” His head pops over the back of my seat like an overexcited puppy. He rests his chin on my shoulder, grinning ear to ear. “You coming out with us tonight, or do I have to drag you along kicking and screaming?”
I lean my head back against the seat, groaning. “You realize I’m running on fumes, right? We’ve got a bus ride back to Dayton at the crack of dawn.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you can be a grumpy old man tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate. You owe us at least one round for that beauty of a goal.”
I sigh, rubbing my hands over my face. In truth, what I really want is to go back to the room, crawl into bed, maybe call Birdie. Hear her voice, tell her about the game, ask how she’s been. But the guys . . . they deserve this. They’ve worked just as hard as I have. And if celebrating with them means a few hours of pretending, then so be it.
“Fine,” I say, giving in. “I’ll go. But if I decide to rot in a corner, that’s on you.”
He slaps me on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit. We’ll get you some shots to wake you up.”
Once we’re back at the hotel, we drop our stuff and start to deflate. Coach gives us the usual speech about curfew. “Midnight, gentlemen. I don’t care where you are or what state you’re in—your asses better be on this bus tomorrow at 7:00 a.m. sharp.”
We’re dismissed, and the guys are already plotting which bar to hit up. I take a quick shower, change into a clean shirt, and before I know it, we’re piling into Ubers to hit up some local dive.
The bar is packed with a mix of locals and college kids. It’s not our territory, so the vibe is cautious at first. But there’s no confrontation, no territorial chest-thumping. This is soccer, not a Southern favorite like football, so we’re mostly ignored by the regulars.
It’s awkward at first, just the team clustered at the bar, but then, “To the conference champs!” someone yells, and the tension breaks.
Soon, we’re clinking glasses and laughing like we’re on top of the world.
It all becomes a blur pretty quickly. Every time I turn around, there’s another drink waiting for me—vodka, rum, something blue that Chase assures me is “the good stuff.” I’m trying to pace myself, but every time I manage to put my glass down, another one appears in my hand like magic.
“Donovan, you lightweight, catch up!” Santi yells, thrusting a beer toward me. I’m pretty sure he’s already slurring his words, but I grab it anyway, taking a long swig. The world’s starting to spin a little, but in a good way.
Everything’s warm and fuzzy, like I’m floating just above reality.
At some point, Chase pulls me onto the makeshift dance floor. I’ve got no rhythm left, my limbs flailing more than anything resembling dancing, but I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt. Someone starts a chant—“Don-o-van! Don-o-van!”—and it just makes me double over, nearly spilling my drink.
The lights are flashing, the music’s pounding, and everything’s moving in slow motion. By this point, I’ve lost track of time. I don’t even know if it’s before or after midnight, and I don’t care. Coach’s rules be damned.
“Chase!” I shout over the noise. “I think I’m about to lose all motor function if—” The rest of my sentence gets lost in a loud hiccup, and Chase doubles over, cackling like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
Eventually, I find myself slumped in a corner booth, my head resting against the back of the seat. The team’s still going strong, their laughter and shouts blending into a chaotic background hum, but I’m teetering on the edge of sleep. My body feels heavy, my thoughts slow and syrupy.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fumble for it, squinting at the screen through bleary eyes.
Birdie
congrats on the win, soccer star. miss ya over here
A dopey smile spreads across my face, and I try to type back a response, but the letters keep dancing around the screen, refusing to cooperate. Giving up, I snap a selfie—eyes half-closed, a lazy grin on my face—and hit Send.
“Don-o-van!” Chase’s voice booms as he materializes out of nowhere, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “You’re not done yet, are you?”
I blink up at him, the effort it takes to form words feeling monumental. “I think ... I might actually be ... done.”
He laughs, slapping my back. “Alright, Grandpa. Let’s get you back before you really embarrass yourself.”
The next thing I know, I’m being half dragged, half carried out of the bar, Chase’s laughter ringing in my ears. The cool night air hits me like a wall, sharp and sobering, and I stumble, almost face-planting on the sidewalk.
“Easy, tiger,” Amir says, appearing on my other side to grab my arm and steady me.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, leaning heavily on both of them as they haul me back toward the hotel. The world spins around me in a dizzying blur, but I don’t mind it so much.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I’m going to regret this in the morning—the pounding headache, the dry mouth, the vague embarrassment of a night half remembered. But right now? Right now, everything feels good.
The win, the team, the drinks, and Birdie’s text still buzzing in my pocket.
For tonight, I’ve got everything I need.