Chapter 38 #3
Getting me to run with him will come back to bite him in the ass. I catch up with him and put my body in the way just as he’s about to shoot. He blasts the ball into my dick, and I go down in a clump. My insides want to become outsides.
“Shit! Sorry,” he says. I fall to the floor, and the ball rolls out for a throw-in. The game is stopped, though, and my medical team rushes over to me. Kyle hovers over me and mouths another apology.
“It’s fine,” I manage to say and stand up with the support of the medical team. They treat me off the pitch by putting an ice pack on my groin. I try to wave them off, but the coldness is actually a welcome relief. I want to get back on the pitch, though.
I put the ice back down and watch the play continue. My gaffer screams at the ref to wave me back on, and after what feels like an eternity, he does. But it’s the last action of the half. He blows his whistle.
Penalties.
It seems as though Kyle’s and my whole reunion has revolved around them. At least this time, it’s not because people think I’ve dived to get one.
Say the word penalty to most people who support England, and they’ll run in fear. The pressure is immense. I can already feel it pushing its weight down on my chest.
There’s a coin toss between the two captains to determine which end the penalties will take place. Union’s captain wins and chooses to shoot at the goal where their fans are. Shit.
“Fall in,” Gaffer says, and we huddle around him.
“I know we have a list of penalty takes, but is there anyone who does not feel confident in taking one? No shame in it. I want confidence. I want no mistakes. We are not letting this slip now.” My name is on that list. I raise my hand.
Gaffer looks at me, puzzled. “You want to take your name off?”
“No. I want to go first.” He smiles at my confidence, and I’m glad I’m exuding it, because inside I’m shitting it like a duck that’s eaten a laxative.
The ref blows the whistle, and I'm given the ball. The walk from the halfway line to the penalty spot is long and agonizing, but I walk with confidence.
The Union fans shower me with boos and wanker hand gestures.
I don’t let it sting me. In a moment I’ll make them frustrated by blasting the ball into the back of the net.
I place the ball down. Take a deep breath and visualize the moment.
The keeper does his best to put me off by jumping and smacking his hands on the bar, making it shake.
I take two steps back, keep my head low, and smack the ball. There’s a thunderous cheer. But not from the Union fans. I pump my fists and jog back to my teammates on the halfway line. I’ve done my bit, now I have to hope my team can do the rest.
The adrenaline leaves my body, and I fall to my knees. Millers puts his hand on my shoulders, and my team say variations of “well done.” I stand up again as I see Kyle walking to the spot—because of course he does.
Kyle
The pressure is on. They’re a goal up thanks to AJ’s sweetly struck penalty kick. I place the ball down with confidence and stare the keeper down. He’s pissed me off all game, but I’ve still smashed two past him. Get a third and we’ll see who’s laughing then.
“Take all the time you want. You’re not scoring this,” he says to me.
There’s a warble in his voice, though, I know he’s not confident.
I’ve studied his penalty saves. He struggles to get down low and to his left.
But if I know that, he surely should have been working on them.
“Anytime, sweetheart,” he says again, and he might be the most annoying fuck trumpet I’ve ever played against.
I take one step back, give him the eyes, and smash my shot low and hard into the bottom left-hand corner. He had no chance. I walk past him and laugh. “Maybe next time, sweet cheeks,” I say before heading back to the halfway line, riding cloud nine. Job done.
I watch on as City scores their next penalty.
Timbers is next for us, and he misses his penalty, wildly smashing it high and wide into the stands.
The City fans are in full voice now, but they miss their next one.
It’s 2–1 as it stands for them. This is an awful way to conclude a game.
The Union fans behind the goal are willing Shippers on, literally trying to suck the ball into the back of the net. And it works.
Whitney gets a huge hand on the ball to stop the next one too. We are back in this. Before Jackson takes the long walk, I pull him to the side and say, “Shoot low and hard to the left. Trust me,” I add, because his face says he doesn’t trust me.
I watch with my hands covering my mouth, and my heart pounding in my chest as he takes three steps back before shooting low and hard to the bottom left. Their keeper gets nowhere near it, and we now lead. There’re thunderous cheers from the Union end now.
If City miss their next penalty and we score, we’ve won. Whitney makes another save and tips the shot around the post. This is unbelievable. No one usually expects keepers to save a penalty—the pressure is always on the kick taker—but he’s saved two of them now.
An unconfident Bradley comes up to me with the ball. I can see the fear in his eyes. “Where should I shoot? Bottom left again?”
“No. He’s going to expect it.” I mull it over. “It’s a risk, but I think you should aim down the middle. Make him dive,” as I’m saying the words, I want to take them back, but it’s too late, he’s already walking to the spot. If he manages to score, we win. It’s as simple as that.
The whole stadium holds its breath.
Bradley sends his shot down the middle.
Their keeper dives to the left.
We win.
WE WIN.
The Union fans behind the goal are going crazy. We’re going crazy with them. We rush over to Bradley and Whitney, the heroes of the shootout, and celebrate with them. I look over at the City players, and they are distraught.
AJ, in particular, looks dejected. He’s on the floor, knees hunched up on his chest and head in his hands. I want to comfort him, but Mr. Robins is clapping me on the back and congratulating me and the team.
“You’re history makers, lads. You’ve done it!” His words ring out, but we can hardly hear him through the noise being generated by the Union fans.
My thoughts turn to AJ, and not long now, we will be making a new piece of history.
History that is worth much more than silverware.
We run over to the fans, and they serenade us with songs.
Months ago I wouldn't like any of this, but now I’m lapping it up, and it’s all thanks to AJ giving me the confidence.
We lift the trophy to another set of fireworks. These seem grander somehow, and then we’re showered by streamers and confetti. We head back into the locker room, but I can’t enjoy the moment for long as I’m called into the media room where history beckons.