43. Robbie
ROBBIE
I tug my socks up over my shins, flexing my leg out in front of me gently. There’s a slight twinge that will likely be nothing more than a muscle strain, but I find myself running through a stretch just to ensure I have full range of motion.
“You good, King?” Santi asks from beside me, taking a sip from his water.
I nod once, my jaw tightly clenched. The urge to check my phone pulls at me, but apart from the occasional messages from Lucas and my family, I’ve been avoiding looking at it completely. It doesn’t help my game, and I need to focus.
My knee twinges as I extend it, and I release a breath through my gritted teeth. I refuse to let it to fuck me up today. There’s no way my career ends in fucking North Carolina.
I shake my head. My knee is not going to blow today. The team is called back to the tunnel, and I adjust my sock as soon as I’m out of sight of the crowd and cameras. I pull the sock higher letting my hands feel around my scar, gently massaging the puckered skin.
“Robbie,” Paul calls just before I step back out into the sunshine. “Leg okay?”
I grimace and keep my head down. “It’s fine. I just want to make sure it stays that way.”
“Alright.” Paul nods. “Let me know if it becomes a problem.”
He claps me on the shoulder and as I cross to my starting position, I can feel eyes on me from the crowd.
It’s not unfamiliar. I’ve had eyes on my every move since the first day I stepped on a pitch.
The crowd has never bothered me mostly. Usually, it emboldens me.
A tricky foul from the opposition team followed by an ear shattering chant from the fans pretty much guarantees a goal from me.
Knowing that people want me to do well, knowing that they’re here to watch me do what I do best, it’s usually a great motivator.
But today, the eyes prickle the back of my neck.
I should keep my head down, focus on the game and my knee—which is NOT going to blow—but I can’t help but watch the jumbotron as it pans across the players. It usually pans to the box. I know she’s not there. She didn’t travel for games before, so I don’t know why I’d expect her to be there.
Even if she is up there, it won’t be for me.
I glance at the screen once before the camera pans away. The box is empty. Fine.
I clench my jaw as I shift in place, letting my weight fall on my good leg. A combination of relief and anger war in my gut, and I take another breath through my clenched teeth. This is just not the way I need to start a game. Fucking tense.
I barely register the whistle blowing before I’m running for the ball. Santi’s got it covered on the other half of the pitch, but I jog over anyway. I let my weight fall heavy on my left leg, hardly putting any pressure on my other one.
I take possession and barely extend my leg as I dribble it towards the goal. I could lob it down the pitch, hit them with enough power to escape the North Carolina team’s defense, but instead I keep my movements small, not wanting to over-extend more than absolutely necessary.
Despite my hesitation, I keep the ball near the North Carolina goal, especially as their defender keeps trying to steal it out from under me.
“Scared of a little aggression?” he chirps in my ear as our boots scuff off the ball.
I would roll my eyes if I wasn’t so focused on getting the ball out from under him.
I finally pull it away from him on the breakaway and make a run for the goal, the defender's funny little remark ringing in my ear as I hit the ball and it soars into the top corner.
My teammates pile on me, but all I can think about is my leg. I test it for a few steps. The tiny twinge hasn’t gotten any worse since the start of the game, but I still extended it more than I maybe should have.
I bounce on it experimentally and it seems fine, so I shake off the lasting doubt.
Finally the score is tied and we have a chance to clamber back to a fucking win. It’s what I need. I need to walk off this pitch with a win under my belt and my knee steady beneath me, and I need to stop fucking thinking about Cassie. She left. It’s over. She made the decision.
The clock is counting down and it’s a mad clamber for a last second goal.
Their defense is strong but we’ve kept applying the pressure.
The ball rolls out of play awarding us a corner kick and cheers rise through the stadium at our opportunity to score.
One of the midfielders takes his position by the flag and I hover near the goal, knowing the ball will head my way soon.
I’m so focussed on the ball as it arches through the air and my fucked up knee, that I don’t see the North Carolina player’s boot until it connects with my head.
And everything goes black.