Levi
Nine
Eighty thousand people. The World Cup final. And all I can think about is my woman.
Get your head in the game, Hendricks. This is literally the biggest moment of your career.
I know. I know. But every time I try to focus on tactics, formations, or the thousand other things I need to be thinking about, my brain keep replaying a reel of three nights ago…
Lina in my lap, her lush thighs gripping my hips, her face when she came on my fingers, gasping my name…
Fuck.
I adjust my stance, grateful for the suit jacket hiding what’s happening below the belt.
You are on international TV. There are children watching. STOP.
Xavier Price, our rising star forward, joins my side. “You good, Coach? You look… intense.”
I give him a death glare. “It’s the final. I’m supposed to look intense.”
The idiot grins. “Yeah, but this is like…” He squints at me. “Scary intense. Serial killer intense.”
“Focus on the damn game, X.”
“I’m just saying, maybe dial it down to ‘fearless leader’ instead of ‘psycho killer.’”
I cut him another murderous look, and he holds up his hands and backs away, still grinning. Idiot.
Deep breath, Lev’. You can do this. Ninety minutes. Win the game. Then you get the girl. After. She promised.
The referee blows his whistle.
Let’s fucking go.
The first half is a fucking nightmare. They score in the twelfth minute. Our defense is wide open. We should have caught that ball, but now we’re down 1-0 in the World Cup final.
Shit.
The stadium goes quiet, at least most of it. The other side erupts.
I pace the technical area, mind racing. We need to adjust. Push higher. Get more bodies in the box. I make substitutions at halftime. Change the formation. Give the talk of my fucking life about passion, belief, all the shit that somehow still carries truth.
“We didn’t come this far to lose,” I yell in the locker room. “This is our house! Our World Cup! Now go out there and fucking take it!”
They nod, fucking fired up.
God, I hope I’m right.
The second half starts better. We’re pressing harder, creating chances.
The momentum shifts. I can feel it, that crackling energy in a stadium when something big’s about to happen.
Then, in the 63rd minute, it fucking happens.
A corner kick. The ball bounces off Tyler Brooks, our veteran defender’s shin, then Andy Yoon’s head, and then it’s in the net.
1-1. I damn near lose my mind. I’m screaming, pumping my fist, hugging Danny so hard I probably crack a rib.
The stadium is deafeningly loud, with thousands of people on their feet, chanting and fucking roaring.
We’re back, baby! We’re still in the fucking race.
I look up at Lina’s box. I can’t see her face, but I imagine she’s on her feet too. Cheering. Hoping.
Win this for her.
Three minutes left in the game. We’re pushing everything we got. All-out attack. It’s reckless, dangerous, but it’s our only option. A long ball goes over the top, and X chases it, outpacing the other team’s defender. Then he’s one-on-one with the keeper.
Please, please, please…
He shoots. The keeper dives. The ball hits the post, and bounces in! 2-1.
OH MY GOD.
The stadium fucking explodes! I drop to my knees on the sideline, hands over my face.
We’re winning the World Cup. We’re actually winning the World Cup.
The guys tackle me. The whole bench piles on. I’m at the bottom of a heap of screaming coaches and players, and I’m laughing and crying, and this is the greatest moment of my professional life.
* * *
We’re in the last three minutes of additional time. And it feels like the longest three minutes in history. I pace. I pray… Then the whistle blows…
WE WON! We fucking won the fucking world cup!!
The next hour is complete chaos. Between the trophy ceremony. Goddamn confetti every fucking where. My players lifting the Cup while fireworks explode over our heads. Interviews where I somehow manage to put together a couple of coherent sentences.
“Coach Hendricks, how does it feel to bring the first World Cup home?”
“Incredible. This team, these players, they’ve worked so hard. This is for them. For the country. For everyone who believed in us. Thank you.”
But the whole time, there’s only one thought in my head. Where is she?!! I scan the crowd, the field, the boxes. But there are too many fucking people. Too much chaos. Then my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, heart slamming.
‘Congratulations, World Cup Champ.’ And then, a second message: ‘Plaza Hotel. Presidential Suite.’
I stare at the screen for a full five seconds. Is all of this really happening?
Then I shake myself and text back two words. ‘Leaving now.’
Her reply is instant. ‘I’ll be waiting.’
There are more interviews to give, celebrations happening, hands to shake, and photos to take. And I couldn’t give the first fuck about any of it.
“Danny.” I grab his arm. “You’re in charge.”
“What? Where are you…”
I squeeze his shoulder, grinning like a lovesick fool. “I got somewhere to be.”
He stares at me. Then his eyes widen.
“Oh shit. Is this… are you…”
“Don’t ask questions I can’t answer, Danny. Handle the press. I’ll be back.”
“When?”
I’m already walking away.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?!”
I don’t answer. I’m moving through the crowd toward the exit. Some people try to stop me for photos, interviews, some bullshit obligations, but I shake them all off.
“Sorry. Family emergency.”
And it’s not entirely a lie. Lina feels like family. She feels like fucking home. And I’m done waiting.
The car ride to the Plaza takes seventeen minutes. My knee bounces. My fingers drum on my thigh. I’m still in my dress shirt and suit pants, with grass stains on my shoes, because I didn’t take time to change. I probably look like a mess. I don’t care.
She’s waiting for me. Right now. In a hotel room.
My phone buzzes.
‘Are you close?’
‘Five minutes.’
‘I had them clear the floor. Private elevator. Agent Torres will meet you in the parking garage.’
‘You’re incredible.’
‘I’m impatient. Hurry up!’
I grin at my phone like an idiot.
‘Yes ma’am.’
Agent Torres meets me at the garage entrance, face as blank as ever.
“Coach Hendricks. Congratulations on the win.”
I grin, slap his shoulder. “Thanks, man.”
He nods, his face relaxing into a microscopic smile. “This way.”
He leads me to a service elevator. No cameras. No witnesses. Just him, me, and the weight of what’s about to happen. The elevator rises. My heart pounds. Torres presses the button for the top floor. The doors close.
“Torres.”
“Sir?”
“Thank you. For… all of this.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch.
“I have no idea what you’re referring to, sir.”
I chuckle. Then the elevator dings, the doors open, and there she is. Lina’s standing at the end of the hallway, wearing a robe. A thin layer of ivory silk, loosely tied at the waist. And nothing else, from what I can tell…
Oh God.
My feet carry me to her without conscious thought. Torres disappeared somewhere behind me without me even noticing. All I can fucking see is her.
“Hi,” she says softly, smiling.
“Hi, sweetheart.” I’m smiling too.
We stare at each other.
“You won,” she whispers then bites her lower lip.
“We did.”
“World Cup Champion. How does it feel?”
I’m standing in front of her. Close enough to touch. Close enough to smell her perfume, see the flutter of her pulse at her throat.
“Ask me again tomorrow,” I say. “Tonight, I have other priorities.”
She lets out a short, breathy laugh.
“Do you now?”
“Mm-hmm.” I reach out, tracing a finger along her exposed collarbone. “I was promised a full night. No interruptions. Just us.”
She runs her hands over my chest. “Um, that does sound familiar.”
My finger dips lower, tracing the curve of her breast. “I intend to collect.”
Lina shivers.
“Then stop talking, Coach.” Her hands fist in my shirt.