Chapter 9
Zac
Noah’s like a whole different person.
First, he tries to chat with me in the change rooms like we’re best mates—newsflash: we’re not. Then, he plays the game of his life, with clean slide tackles, well-timed passes, and he even sets up Mathers for a cracking header from a free kick.
Our second goal comes from Jasper’s corner, catching Macquarie’s keeper off guard. Kale whips in a brilliant cross to the back post, where our new striker, Blake Logan, is waiting to tap it home with ease.
By half time, we’re up two-nil, and the vibe in the change rooms is electric. Everyone is laughing and smiling, but I keep my excitement reined in. We still have forty-five minutes to play. Anything can happen.
Though Macquarie hasn’t scored yet, they’ve fought hard to get on the board. They’ve been peppering shots at me all night. My body aches, but in a good way.
“Keep this up, boys,” Noah calls over the noise, “and we might finally get our first win of the season.”
Our teammates cheer, but I scoff to myself and shake my head.
He’s a large part of why we’re winless so far.
Don’t get me wrong, there are others on the team who have had off games, myself included, but we owned our mistakes.
This arsehole was content to rag on the rest of us.
Mainly me, if I’m being honest. Now he’s had some sort of lobotomy, he’s going to play the hero.
Our fearless captain coming in to lead us to victory? Pfft, please.
“You’re like a ball magnet out there tonight,” he says, dropping onto the bench seat next to me and nudging my shoulder with his. The heat of his body sends a zap of electricity through me, but I block it out, hating how his dark features remind me of my shadow from the club.
I draw my gaze to his as I pull off my gloves and run a hand through my sweat-soaked hair, but I don’t say anything. Why should I, when he’s given me nothing but attitude since I earned my spot in the starting eleven?
Unperturbed by my silence, he keeps talking. “The way you kept your feet against Razzi in that last attempt to score, knocking him back three times then flying across the net to stop him scoring top bins. Impressive, man.”
“Thanks,” I grunt.
“Your reaction time is on point.”
Sick of whatever bullshit games he’s playing, I fix him with a glare. “Is there a reason you’re laying it on so thick?”
His brow furrows. “I’m giving credit where it’s due.”
“Bit rich after all your underhanded comments since I took over from Peters.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but Coach Johnson calls for our attention, and the room goes quiet.
“This is the fight we’ve been missing,” he says.
“You’re finally playing for each other, trusting your teammates.
We’re winning the ball and we’re using the space with purpose.
But the game isn’t done. Keep moving and breaking through their lines.
For the next forty-five, we attack the ball.
If we want the win, we have to take it.”
A cheer breaks out, and he waits for it to wane before continuing.
“Sport, like life, is all about body language. Believe you’re winners, walk out on the pitch like you’re winners, and from the kick off, you play like winners.” He taps his temples. “You control your thoughts, and you keep your thoughts positive. If you believe you can, you will.”
My stomach flips, adrenaline pumping through my veins. This is exactly the fire-up we need before the second half.
Then the arsehole sitting next to me speaks.
“Let’s lock in, boys. Get around each other and show Macquarie who they’re messing with.”
Coach Johnson grins as the team whoops and cheers again, jumping to their feet and slapping each other on the back as they gather around Coach Raynor while he goes through some plays. I remain seated, trying to get my head back in the game and off the Jekyll and Hyde performance of my centre-back.
“All good, Kincaid?” Coach Johnson stands in front of me, concern etched on his face.
“Fine, Coach,” I assure him, forcing a smile. “Just visualising that win.”
He gives a curt nod. “You’re doing well out there tonight. Keep up the good work.”
This time my smile is more genuine. “Thanks.”
“Razzi will be hungry to slot one past you,” he says, referring to the opposition striker. “There hasn’t been a game in the past two seasons where he hasn’t scored. Let’s make tonight the first.”
No pressure.
But the challenge has a spark flickering to life, like someone lit a match inside my chest. Razzi won the Golden Boot for the most goals scored in the league last year. He may score against everyone else, but not against me. Not tonight.
I follow my teammates onto the pitch and take up my post like a sentinel preparing for war. Warming up with a couple of tuck jumps, I catch a glimpse of Razzi in his team’s huddle, his eyes fixed on me. My lips tug into a smirk, and I lift my shoulders as if to say, bring it.
Satisfaction shoots through me when he scowls and looks away.
“Looks like you’re in his head,” Noah says, walking past me to get into his position.
But I won’t let him distract me.
This is my game.
I roll my shoulders, bouncing on the balls of my feet as I keep my eyes locked on the ball. Razzi caught a break with some fancy footwork to outturn Ritter, who’s scrambling to chase him down.
The crowd roars as the opposition striker charges towards me. We’re one-on-one, with only a couple of minutes left in the game. My knees bend as I watch him intently, looking for anything that will tell me where his shot will go.
Despite Ritter and Noah chasing him down, he dribbles the ball to the corner of the box. Noah’s player is wide open to my left, but Razzi has a point to prove. My gut tells me he won’t pass it off.
Noah reaches the striker a split second too late, using his body to try push him off the ball, but Razzi has already taken his shot.
It soars towards the left side of the net, and I dive, arms outstretched.
Time stands still as my body soars through the air.
The ball hits the tip of my gloves, and I hold my breath, unable to blink as I watch the ball ricochet.
It scrapes past the outside of the post and over the line for a corner.
My heart races as I scramble to my feet, shouting directions at my teammates.
This is the last play of the game. There’s no way I’m letting them score.
Casting a quick glance over my shoulder to the top of the box, I see Noah marking Razzi, and I return my full attention to Macquarie’s left wing, who’s jogging over to set the corner.
He lifts both arms in the air— he’s going back post, I know it—then he slices the ball, but I wait, knowing I need to time my jump perfectly. Players scramble for position around me, but I keep my eye on the ball.
Taking two steps to my right, I leap into the air, seeing Razzi coming at me. My gloves close around the ball, and I bring my arms down, cradling it to my chest as three sharp blasts of the ref’s whistle signal the end of the game.
Fuck yeah.
A clean sheet.
We just won our first game of the season four-nil—I didn’t concede a single goal.
Razzi and his teammates drop their heads, and I toss the ball into the air with a whoop. My team rushes in, and no one is more surprised than I am when our captain throws his arms around my waist, lifting me into the air.
My body pulses, thrumming to life everywhere he’s touching me. All my synapses fire at once, and I squirm out of his hold, thankful that the rest of my teammates gather around us, slapping me on the back and distracting me from the way my body responded to Noah’s.
No. Fucking. Way.
Not going there.