Chapter 36
Kyle
The final game of the season. As a fan, I haven’t enjoyed these days in years, hell, maybe since I was born.
Union used to be a super power in world football, but it has become the butt of so many jokes.
Today that changes. This season we have proved that we can go the distance, and we are back and hungry again.
Win today, and no matter what happens, we win the league.
Draw, and we have to hope that AJ’s City either draws or loses.
The pressure feels insurmountable. For some. I’m relishing it.
AJ and I said our goodbyes this morning and vowed to not let the result affect us. I did say to him that whatever happens, he’ll be happy, and he begrudgingly agreed with me.
Instead of hitting the training lodge first, I head into the city center, incognito—beanie hat and dark shades, because that doesn’t look sus at all—to soak up the atmosphere.
The early morning sun is bathing the city in gold, people are going about their day with either City or Union scarfs, and all of them have a pensive look on their face.
Some people say football is just a game, but they don’t see how deeply rooted it is to the fabric of everyday life.
A win and you’re walking on cloud nine. A championship win, and you’re getting your mates and family around to celebrate all weekend, and then the players have the open-top bus parade.
You want to soak up all the media and relive all the highlights.
But if you lose…and to your bitter rivals…
you do what I’ve done for the past decade, shut off all the media when they show them lifting the cup.
I used to use those images as fuel while I practiced in the park with AJ.
If City do win this year, though, I will look at the media photos, because I know it’ll be because of the man I love who has helped them win it.
Street vendors are selling half-and-half scarves, and the intrusive thoughts almost kick in and make me push the cart over.
That would not be good for my media image, despite being in disguise.
Later this afternoon, the currently sparse city center will be party central.
Drinks will be flowing, music will be blasting, and I, despite the result, will be at home because all of that sounds like a hellscape.
I will be at home with AJ, and we will console each other, depending on the result.
After spending an hour in the city center, I make my way to the training lodge, where I’m there before everyone else.
I get into my training gear and take a bag of balls out to the shooting range.
I practice taking free kicks and penalties.
The sun is warm against my back beneath a perfect blue sky.
“Glad to see you have your shooting boots on,” says my manager. His unmistakable soft, yet commanding voice calls out from behind me.
I turn to face him, feeling a little embarrassed, like I’ve been caught doing something bad—hello to my brain that is always trying to prove I must be the best and get rid of the ‘bought his way in’ tag. “Trying to cover every scenario and be ready.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” he says, moving closer to me. He watches my form as I take the shots.
“Keep that stance in the game and you’ll not miss. It’s how I used to take my shots.”
I know this, because I’ve studied every match of his, hung his posters on the wall, and emulated his celebration during every goal I scored at lunchtime in school.
I don’t tell him this as it would ruin my reputation as someone who doesn’t get swept up by anyone or anything, so instead I say, “Thank you. Appreciate the tip.” I might be playing it cool but I’m a ball of excitement inside.
He looks like he wants to say something else, and before I know it, he has his hand on my shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”
I am stunned into silence, and he can tell, so he says, “Look, I know we’ve had the discussion about who you are, and I wanted to reiterate that you are part of the Union family, and you can count on me personally for anything.”
Words are not forming. This is the moment that I should be thanking him and saying what an honor it is for him to say something like that, and yet nothing. To my absolute horror, and against my better judgment, I wrap my manager into a hug. To my shock, he hugs me back.
“Thank you,” I finally manage to say, albeit in a small voice.
He gives me a smile and then heads off again, leaving me to continue my solo practice until the rest of the team arrives.
AJ
The changing room is alive with music, banter, and defiance.
As far as my teammates are concerned, Union will choke, and we will once again reign supreme.
Kyle cheekily pointed out to me earlier that I will have a win-win situation on my hands, and I said to him that if City wins, I’ll make it up to him in other ways, which he seemed to like the sound of immensely.
Rohan, the resident DJ, is playing some dance/trance—whatever kind of music it’s called—and is psyching himself up in the corner with some very suspect dance moves.
McIntyre takes a different approach, he has his body in a yoga position, again.
I don’t know what it’s called, but his legs are crossed at a funny angle and his arms are folded.
He looks like a human pretzel. For as long as I’ve been in the locker room, he’s done this every game.
Everyone has their pre-match ritual, and I’m glad I’m not the only one. Mine is simple, I put my shirt on first before anything else. The shirt has always felt like my superhero cape. Whenever I wear it, I know I can accomplish anything on that pitch.
Gaffer comes in and gives us one hell of a team talk, which fires everyone up. Do or die. Stand or dive. Win or lose. At least I’m going home to Kyle.
We step out onto the pitch, and our fans feel like the “twelfth man.” I've never heard them so loud in my life, but they’re in full force this afternoon.
The sun is high in the sky, which is going to be a nightmare for defenders and keepers.
Perfect for me. As a youngster you’re trained to use the elements to your advantage, and I’ve done that ever since.
Across the city, Kyle’s team is kicking off too. In a little over ninety minutes, one of us will be champions of the league.
Kyle
Kick off. Our fans are in exceptional voice, as always.
Flags are flying, songs are being chanted, they’re making it feel like hell for the opposition.
The ball comes to me, and I lay it off to Jackson who sees the run of Timbers.
I weave into the box, expecting a cross from him, which he does.
Heart beating in my chest in anticipation, I rise to meet the ball with my head, but I’m clattered out of the way by the goalkeeper.
We press them into making a mistake with the ball, and we’re on the attack again.
The sound of the seats returning to their upright position fills the air as the whole ground stands with bated breath as the ball is passed to me, and I’m one on one with the keeper.
I fake to shoot, and he goes down, so I dink the ball over the top of his head and desperately outstretched hands.
1–0.
I race off to our fans, sliding on my knees and kiss the badge—the badge that represents my childhood—and a tear threatens to spill from my eyes. The game has only just started. I need to get a hold of my emotions. This is not like me, but events of the past few days have changed me.
AJ
The away fans start cheering, despite nothing happening in the game; it’s a gridlock in midfield.
Then they start chanting, “You’re not champions anymore,” which can only mean Union…
Kyle has scored. If the purpose of the chant was to put us off our game, it’s done the opposite as it’s only kicked us into another gear.
Smith plays the ball out from defense and shifts it to Rodrigo with an exceptional left-footed pass.
He then tries his luck from a tight angle, but the keeper is equal to it.
I intercept the pass from the goalkeeper, and pass it to our right winger, Collins.
He carries the ball tight to the line. I shout to him as I dart into the crowded box.
I use my size to make enough space for myself, chest the ball down, and catch it on the volley.
It whistles over the top of the bar, grazing it ever so slightly. I slap my knee in frustration.
The crowd groans in frustration as the time ticks by, now sixty-four minutes have elapsed according to the giant scoreboard in the top right-hand side of the stadium.
There’s another cheer from the away supporters, which means Union have scored again.
If that’s the case, no matter what happens now, we have lost the league.
Fuck. But also…I’m stoked for Kyle. I shift the thoughts out of my mind, and put in a decent tackle to retrieve the ball.
I ping it upfield and then chase onto the pass, nutmegging a defender and smashing my shot at the keeper. He parries it, but only back out to me, and I tap the ball into the back of the net. We celebrate the goal, but we know it’s hollow.
In the eighty-ninth minute, I grab another goal. This time my half-volley is on target and nestles into the bottom left-hand corner.
The final whistle blows, and we have confirmation that Union have won the league. My teammates fall to the ground in frustration, but I can’t help the smile on my face.
Kyle
We’ve done it. We’ve actually done it! The fans are going mad. Some of them have spilled onto the pitch and are hugging us and taking selfies.
A woman runs up to me and plants a kiss on my cheek.
She asks me to sign her shirt, holding out a pen.
I take it and sign on the back, where my name and number are.
“Good choice in shirt,” I tell her. She beams at me.
“You’re my favorite player, thank you so much,” she gushes before running off to more of my teammates.